Free The Donut Diaries by Dermot Milligan

The broccoli mousse was about the most disgusting thing I’ve ever eaten. I made a joke about it being broccoli that had been pooped out of a moose (you know, an animal like a big, gormless deer).
    ‘You can ask my mum,’ I said, putting on my good little angel face.
    Doc Morlock stared at me. Then she said, ‘Let’s see, shall we? Just step on the scales.’
    I did. On tiptoes, which makes you a little bit lighter.
    Sixty-one kilograms.
    The first time it had been 61.5.

    I was actually quite pleased with that. My cutting down from four donuts a day was having some effect.
    But Doc Morlock was not impressed. ‘This won’t do,’ she said, shaking her scrawny head. ‘Won’t do at all.’
    ‘It could be that some of my fat has turned into muscle …’ I sort of trailed off as Morlock did her cat-bum mouth thing, then I added hopefully, ‘I’ve heard that muscle is, er, heavier than fat.’
    She looked at me in the same way a vulture would look at a dead wildebeest.
    ‘Do you have a secret desire to go to Camp Fatso?’ she asked, her voice eerily soft.
    I looked down – I couldn’t meet that cold, inhuman eye – and I shook my head.
    ‘All I’m asking for is for a little honesty. At the moment we’re living a lie, aren’t we, Dermot?’
    She was too strong for me. I nodded.
    ‘What will it be like, Dermot?’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Your stool.’
    ‘I don’t know.’ I was still looking down. I was in hell, I really was.
    ‘Show me on the chart, Dermot.’
    I stood up and moved over to the wall. I looked around for Doc Morlock’s special pointing stick but I couldn’t see it.
    ‘Just use your finger, Dermot.’
    Slowly I pointed to the Type 3 stool, the one that was labelled: like a sausage or snake, smooth and soft .
    ‘That’s what I’d like to see, Dermot. But if what I see is this’ – she leaped up and was suddenly right beside me, pointing at Type 1 – ‘if what I see is nasty little hard balls, then you know where you’re going, don’t you?’
    ‘Camp Fatso,’ I murmured.
    Then what she had said sank in. ‘See …?’
    ‘Yes, see ,’ she snapped and I recoiled, as if from a slap. ‘I need a stool sample.’
    ‘Stool …?’ Against all logic I still vaguely hoped that she might be referring to the thing you sit on.
    ‘Number twos,’ she said, rapping the chart with her knuckles. ‘One of these. I need to analyse exactly what you’ve been eating, and that’s the only way to get at the truth.’
    I felt suddenly very dizzy. And panicky. I actually sort of hoped I might faint, which would get me out of this INCREDIBLY EMBARRASSING SITUATION. But I stayed annoyingly conscious.
    ‘B-but I don’t think I could go now. I mean, I went this morning and …’
    ‘Not now , Dermot. When you next come in – I want to see you again in about two weeks. Use this.’ Doc Morlock rummaged in her desk and handed me a clear plastic bag, containing a small plastic tub.
    I don’t really know what happened in the rest of the session. The next thing I know is that I was staggering out of there. I probably burned my way straight through the wall using my red-hot face.
    DONUT COUNT:

    I know, I know . But what do you expect? From tomorrow I cut down. I have to.
    Feelings? Work it out for yourself.

Friday 29 September
    REALLY DON’T KNOW what to do about filling the little pot that Doc Morlock gave me. There are two problems. Number two problems, you’d call them if you were trying to be funny.
    The first was: how on earth were you supposed to get it into the pot? You’d have to have the aim of Robin Hood, plus the ability to stop at exactly the right moment, or else … Well, I’ll leave that up to your imagination. There were other ways, but they were even more disgusting. And if you’re imagining those, then I suggest you stop, right now. I did wonder if maybe they’d given me the wrong sort of container. One for little people. With little poos. What I needed was something bigger