From Section I: Clean (on a 101 day fast) Each night I call my parents and ask them to describe what they are cooking for dinner, what they had for lunch and any snacks they might have enjoyed that day. I particularly like hearing about their cocktail hour - aperitivo at 6pm, neighbours over for a drink or two and some cheese, the table set outside, the mist from the Southern Ocean rolling in from the dunes. It seems healthy, civilised, a proper way to live - rather than drinking a mystery sludge three times a day, sleeping for eighteen hours and spitting food into bins. At first my parents are flattered by my interest in the minu¬tiae of their meals. I've never listened so keenly to them before, never showed such interest in their nutrition or dietary habits. Such keen, keen interest! As a child, I hid portions of vegetables in my sleeve or spat them out into napkins. But now I long for those childhood stems of steamed broccoli, the mashed pumpkin and potato. On the phone, Mum reels off every ingredient in the salad she has just prepared, Dad describes the different meats he is bar¬becuing.

I ring them after dinner too, just to see how their meal worked out - did they enjoy it? What did their guests think? What did their guests bring? What did they prefer - the lamb chop or the rump steak? Then one night they suddenly stop elaborating, sensing something off. They are terse: 'Yes, dinner was fine, thanks for asking. We had a barbecue.' There is something wrong with these long, lovely conversations about food, something unwhole¬some. I am like the panting man on a phone-sex call, begging for a detailed description of acts from which I was excluded and - far away, in a lonely bedroom - getting off on it.