On Sunday morning I was dispatched back into the real world armed with a bag of nuts and full of good intent. I know that many people think I'm quite mad - I'm not arguing - but after a six-day juice fast, twelve hours of yoga and eighteen hours of hiking, I'm three kilos lighter, fizzing with energy and feeling as pure as a bottle of spring water.
The first test came on the BA flight back to London, where I fought the urge for a gin and tonic or a glass of wine and asked for a tomato juice instead. The second was on Sunday afternoon when I went to Wholefoods (or Whole Drunk as it's known to one of my friends) in search of coconut oil - apparently it's the only fat that isn't carcinogenic when heated - and had to pass through the bakery, laden with all sorts of sugary temptations. I looked at them with new eyes, reminding myself that they would only cause the blood sugar to soar with all the hideous calorie-quaffing consequences.
Nor did I succumb to the seductive scent of coffee in Pret-a-Manger, where I stopped to buy some water. Caffeine, I sternly reminded myself, also causes the blood sugar to soar. But then I saw them, sitting on the counter: a box of Pret Bakewells. (Typical: usually when I'm looking for them, Pret don't have them; when I'm not looking for them, there they are, winking at me and practically whispering my name.) Unfortunately, I succumbed.
But that's the only lapse so far. Admittedly, it's only 24 hours since my release from the monastery, but now I'm back in France and planning to keep off the alcohol and caffeine for a while. It's going to be tough - tomorrow I'm going out to dinner in a restaurant with friends - but as far as those three kilos are concerned, from now on I'm going to be as rigorous as Ryanair when it comes to excess baggage.