Colour me happy

I'm not totally convinced about colour therapy, but I once visited the home of a Dublin author where it appeared to be in action. Having yellow and purple and turquoise walls, she said, affected her state of mind and warded off the blues.

I've felt pretty good about myself recently. Better, probably, than at any other time in my life. Considering I spent years in the self-esteem wilderness, beating myself with a metaphorical stick at every opportunity, feeling good is quite an achievement. And yet I am regularly reminded of the fragility of this sense of well-being. Of how thin the line is between feeling bad and feeling good. Sometimes I forget that I can't take this feeling for granted. I should probably paint the walls to stop myself going up them.

Late last year, on a train to Belfast, I admitted to myself that I wasn't well. I knew this because for a while I had been having trouble breathing. I am not asthmatic or anything like that, at least not according to my doctor, but my breath has become my health watchdog.

It works like this. When something is not right - and I never know what exactly this mysterious "not right" thing is - I become like a drowning person. I spend my days trying to gulp in air. The air goes in but doesn't always reach the parts it should. I am clearly breathing; I am just not doing it properly. I'll get one good breath, which goes right down to my toes; then the next five will be bad. Back when I smoked I thought my cigarettes were the reason. But then I stopped, and still, every so often, the bad breathing would come back.

So on this train journey, pressing my hands on my knees to try to force the air into my lungs, I thought I might try to figure out what was wrong with me instead of ignoring it, the way I usually did.

An acquaintance told me about a blood test that could identify foods my body found difficult to break down. Avoiding them would help, he said. I went along because I had nothing to lose and all the good breathing in the world to gain.

The upshot was that, as I have mentioned before, I gave up certain foods, including white bread, pasta, sugar and fruit. I also gave up alcohol. For a month. I felt great, was in much better form and had more energy. The best part was that my breathing returned to normal. Then Christmas came. And New Year. I drank alcohol, occasionally forgot about avoiding my banned foods, but all was not lost. I felt confident that I would be able to hoist myself back "on the bandwagon", as a former WeightWatchers tutor used to put it.

And perhaps I would have. But like the bad breathing, the bad feeling snuck up on me again. It was a very subtle shift. "You're looking well," said a friend who hadn't seen me for a while. But the compliment didn't make me feel good; instead, something shifted in me the way I'd forgotten it could. The feeling didn't register at the time, but I see now something inside me said: "Looking well? We'll soon see about that."

A few days later someone who is far away called who knew about my health regime. "I suppose you'll be like Twiggy by the time I get back," he joked. And like a terrible storm, that something inside me gathered even more energy.

So, here I am. Breathing badly, feeling squashed in clothes that, when I was doing what I needed to, felt comfortable. I'm eating white bread, not taking my vitamins, and drinking alcohol. Here I am, thinking I've gone and done it now, and if I am going to fall off the bandwagon I might as well fall off in style. Here I am, afraid to go back to the blood-test lady because I know she'll be disappointed. Not half as much as I am.

According to scientists in Cardiff who get paid to study these things, last Monday was the most depressing day of the year. What with all the failed resolutions, mounting credit-card debt and the fact that this month seems never to end, it was the day the January blues were expected to peak.

In London, the day before Misery Monday, I bought a scarf. It is coral-coloured velvet, intricately decorated, like something you'd buy in a souk. The scarf is embroidered with yellow and red and blue flowers with soft multicoloured woollen tassels. If that weren't enough, it is also dotted with shiny beading and silk bobbles. I can't work out if it's utterly beautiful or unwearably OTT. But I got it in the sales, and, all things considered, it's cheaper than painting the walls.