An Open Letter to Darren Simpson

Dear Darren,

Oh dear. What were you thinking?

I used to think you were a bit of alright. You were one of the only schmucks chefs on Ready Steady Cook I could bear to watch. I will admit to being charmed by your accent (I'm a sucker for the pearl of the Green Isle) more than your food and I even thought you were a bit of a dish, if you'll pardon the pun.

But now, Dazza? Well I'm a bit surprised. You don't mind if I call you Dazza, do you? It seems fitting now that you've aligned yourself with such bogan cuisine (oxymoron FTW!).

Just so we're clear, I actually like KFC and I could care less that people align themselves with brands. All power to them, it doesn't automatically make them a sell out. But doesn't partnering with KFC to create a 'signature range' go against every thing you've publicly said about the value of good food?

The other day you defended yourself by saying that people were "quick to label fast food junk" and that you were surprised that there was criticism of your effort to "improve the quality of it".

Now I believe when people label it junk they're referring to nutritional value and calorie count. I fail to see how chucking a piece of deep fried, battered chicken on a sour dough bun and whacking on a bit of parmesan changes very much by those standards. It's still junk food.

Kudos for using free range chicken, but that alone does not a gourmet, non-junk burger make.

I have done what you have asked and tried your burgers before passing judgement. In your super fabulously appointed kitchen they may come out looking all food porn like this:

But they're a little less appetizing when they're put together by a pimply faced, angsty teen at my local KFC:

But wait!, I hear you say, it's all about the presentation. So, for your benefit, I "plated up".

Nup, it's still shit. Anaemic lettuce and bacon that I'm pretty sure wasn't cooked. And lemme just say even with the aid of an Instagram filter to give it a bit more colour, there is no way of telling what is bun, what is cheese and what is lettuce since they are all the same shade of off-white. Mmm beige, my favourite.

And that is what you've put your name to, Dazza. Not the fancy pants version you made, but the plain, ordinary, almost-one-third-of-daily-energy-requirement version that gets handed out every day. So if you're gonna say that what's in my picture is not junk food, then that, and not the money you made, makes you a sell out.

Yours in calories,

P.S. The chips were still good.

Cured

I've spent the last ten years in and out of therapy; like a submarine, I'd surface when things were going bad and find myself someone who would listen to me rant and rave, then, when it was all hunky-dory I'd go solo again.

I was evaluated for Post Natal Depression just after Tricky had his first operation and was found to have a high enough score on the little questionnaire thingy to get a stamp on my head that said "insane" diagnosis. I did a nine week group therapy course and found it really helpful but wanted to keep seeing a counsellor as I knew I had a few stressful events coming up (like Tricky's second round of surgery) that had the potential to bring me down a bit.

I was 'matched' with a therapist who did things differently to all my other previous therapists. After years of doing therapy one way I was more than happy to give something else a go.

Over four sessions I had to do some very interesting stuff like say what TV character I identified with or wanted to be when I was a kid (easy, Punky Brewster cos she was so cool and had a gorgeous dog), draw a picture of my boundaries (I even used coloured pencils in case it was being marked), write with my non-writing hand when answering some questions (which strangely gave me a massive sense of de ja vu) and some other talky-type stuff. On a scale of 1 - "That's some pretty deep shit" it rated only about a three, as evidenced by the fact that I only cried once.

Apparently, seeing her for four sessions is all I needed...
Those pesky counsellors of the past were just ripping me off by helping me work through my problems. Working through things is so last season.

Apparently, all these years I have battled with mental illness was because I'd just 'taken on too much responsibility'...
So the two years when I stayed at home all day, every day, sometimes unable to get out of bed, surviving on a disability pension, mustn't count then. My only responsibility then was to get to therapy so I'm pretty sure I wasn't taking on too much; and I was nuttier than a fruit cake!

Apparently I just need to reward myself more by going to the hairdresser...
If only I'd known that my split ends caused my depression, anxiety, social phobia and personality disorder! Here I was thinking that they were just a bit ugly and covered them up by rockin' a classic messy bun.

Apparently, now that I know this... I am cured. CURED I tells ya!

Don't let my sarcasm detract you from the fact that this is, of course, brilliant news.

Any of you reading this with mental health issues, quick, what was your favourite TV show? BAM! Cured! You're welcome.

Although I was in quite a state of shock at the end of today's session when she declared that we'd worked through a lot and identified all my issues, and therefore I didn't need to come back, I did manage to actually form words and ask her what she thought I should do if I wasn't coping?

"When you say "I'm not coping", that's just your opinion. You're judging yourself. Try not to do it."

Riiiiight. Thanks for that. I've come to you for help and you're gonna shrug your shoulders and say "try not to do that". Brilliant.

So my feelings of inadequacy as a mother will now be getting cosy with the dust bunnies because after that advice I'll be sweeping them under the carpet from now on.

Have you had a weird therapy experience? 

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