Celebrities seem to love Ozempic, but I hate the thought of losing my precious appetite - Gaby Soutar

Earlier this week, I was preparing to consume a meteor-sized baked potato on my lunch break.

This Morning was bubbling away in the background. They concluded the fashion and food segments, which covered what jeans we should be wearing this January and how to make a lasagne in a frying pan, and segued on to the subject of Ozempic.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard about the type 2 diabetes drug.

My New Year algorithm seems to have decided that it’s something I urgently need to know about, even though it’s only available on prescription. I don't know why they won’t all let me enjoy my baked potatoes in peace.

Portrait of man with no appetite.

This medicine, which works by mimicking a chemical that regulates appetite, seems to have whittled celebrities, including Sharon Osborne, Oprah Winfrey and Amy Schumer, into mere skelfs. They don’t have diabetes, as far as I know.

Now there’s quite the black market forming in the UK.

In a failed effort to slim down, there was a woman on the telly programme’s sofa, who had bought it on Facebook, injected herself, then been hospitalised after it turned out she’d been sold insulin.

I can’t imagine actually shooting myself up with something that I’d bought on a social media platform, but that’s a different matter.

Dieting or not, I would never attempt to quash my hunger. For one thing, I’ve been responsible for the weekly restaurant reviews in The Scotsman Magazine for the past 17 years, so it’s my job to eat out.

I can’t imagine joylessly going to a lovely restaurant, without the anticipatory slow burn that builds in the hours before.

Also, if there’s any bodily function that indicates that you’re hale and hearty, it’s hunger.

I’m talking about the version that we’re lucky enough to experience in the knowledge that dinner is on its way, rather than the sort that won’t be satisfied, because, to paraphrase Robert Burns’ Selkirk Grace, you either can’t eat or can’t afford it.

That’s all the more the reason to be thankit, and I’m very fond of my currently bouncing appetite.

It’s my spirit animal. I think of it like a little lion. That seems apt when you discover that the hormone that stimulates appetite is called ghrelin, which sounds like a mash-up of goblin and gremlin, with a bit of Ghibli in the mix. Cute, and maybe a bit of a handful, like one of the naughty soot balls in Spirited Away.

It’s definitely a creature of sorts and seems to have a mind of its own.

In common with many, I’m slightly struggling to tame it, after the festive season, when it outgrew its cage. Also, I’m on a newish medication that has a side effect of stimulating it, so there is additional wrangling required. I

spend much of my days fantasising about cheese, bacon sandwiches, lasagne – including the stuff made in a frying pan – and all the half-price puds that are STILL in the shops. I have stockpiled a few, for Christmas 2024, or so I tell myself.

I’m having to remind the beast about delayed gratification, and that you can’t always have your cake AND eat it, along with a packet of Dairylea Dunkers. Choose one thing, my friend, just one.

Post-holiday, and we have to reintroduce ourselves to short periods of nil by mouth, such as the pause between breakfast and lunch. After all, there is an Italian phrase, l’appetito vien mangiando, which translates as ‘appetite comes with eating’. Indeed, it’s strange that hunger sometimes passes, and is revived again, like a watered pot plant, once you begin troughing.

But, still, I’m glad that it’s there, reminding me that I am alive.

Especially so, as my appetite can be capricious. There have been periods of my life when it has vanished, if I've been grieving, ill, away from home, busy, depressed or anxious. Some people overeat when they’re stressed, but I do the opposite.

You don’t really miss the sensation of hunger until it’s gone.

In the worst weeks of sickness, there’s been times when I haven’t been able to eat anything except the horrible nutritional drink, Complan, which was about all my granny could manage in her final days. There is nothing like the sensation of coming to the end of a period of convalescence, when the smell of toast hits you and has a positive mouth-watering effect.

You can almost feel the ghrelin, possessing you, as you think about how much butter you’re going to lather onto the bread. Only then do you know you’re fully recovered and can pick up where you left off.

I’ve heard stories of new mothers, having just given birth, and how the first slice of NHS toast afterwards is the best thing they’ve eaten in their lives. Or those who have a treat, like a Mars Bar, when they’re at the top of a Munro.

It’s the carrot on the end of a stick, and without that foodie push, life can feel aimless.

They do say that gut health is tied to brain health. I’m not sure about the mechanics, except we’re told that we should all eat a lot of kimchi, and I’m completely happy to oblige. However, I do think that the hunger drive seems to be tied in with other emotions. These include optimism, hope and joie de vivre. We should always look forward to eating, as long as we’re able to.

Remember that, when the celebrities are on their January Ozempic kick.