In the mirror, I don’t see myself. I see my plain face, worn eyes and body frame (Summer: tabloids bleating ‘beach body, beach body’. Pressure. Desperation. Hunger. Winter: recipe ideas that feed twelve guests. Temptation. Indulgence. Guilt.) But that’s not actually me. That self doesn’t exist in the mirror. In fact, I’m not even sure it exists at all anymore. I’ve been swallowed by a giant beast and squashed by everything else it consumes. I’m so far down that I can no longer see the light from its mouth. But perhaps there’s still a chance that something in here can help me. I should start searching.