In July 2006 I went into hospital for surgery on my digestive system, expecting to be home after a couple of days. Two months later I woke up in the intensive care unit of a different hospital unable to move, speak or breathe without a noisy ventilator. I was lucky not to have died.

In order to keep me alive, the medical team had worked through the night to perform an emergency operation. It was a shock to learn what they had done to my insides: my oesophagus now no longer led into my stomach but finished in a dead end, meaning that anything I swallowed had nowhere to go. It would be at least six months before I could have another operation to reconnect my interior plumbing.

I spent four months in hospital, being fed intravenously at first, then through a tube into my intestines. I spent a great deal of time fantasising about fruit, meat (strange, as I was previously a vegetarian) and wine.

I was in a room by myself and the only reminder of what I was missing was the smell of the food trolley and the sound of nurses calling out orders for the other patients. The reality of not being able to eat did not sink in until I was home again; no more family meals, just me plugged into a machine that pumped food into me for 15 hours a day, while others ate in the next room. When friends came to visit, I had to get them to make their own drinks as I couldn't bring myself to do it for them.

Other people were sensitive to my predicament. Nobody ate or cooked in front of me. The kitchen was tidier than it had ever been, with all food hidden from sight. If I did see something edible it was hard to resist the urge to put it into my mouth; I once walked past a plate with two fish fingers on it, and couldn't stop thinking about them until they were safely out of sight. I couldn't suck a mint or chew gum. My mouth felt disgusting. I could clean my teeth, but the toothpaste tasted overpoweringly strong.

Without mealtimes, food shopping, cooking or washing-up my days stretched ahead. All my dietary needs were met by the beige food, delivered once a month by lorry - 30 liquid bags that I stored under my bed. I hated the sight of it.

I missed terribly the social aspect of eating. It's hard to think of an occasion that doesn't involve sharing food or drink. It's not possible to replicate the feelings of warmth and companionship and the easy conversation that having a meal together promotes.

I had to think hard about how to mark my 50th birthday. In the end I decided that since I couldn't have any birthday cake or champagne I would make the most of opening my presents. I had more cards than I have had in my life and a pleasant, low-key day with a few friends coming round for a cup of tea and my family together in the evening.

I became obsessed with reading recipes and watching cookery programmes on TV. I was able to appreciate the beauty of the ingredients and cooking process in a detached way. I missed the sight of food, like a lovely piece of salmon or a pineapple, and found myself searching for something to fill that gap. In the end I developed an interest in gardening and bought plants when I would have bought something nice to eat.

Almost exactly one year after my first operation I went back into hospital to have my digestive system reconstructed. I will never be able to eat like most people, but will manage on lots of small meals every day. People ask me what it was like having my first meal after so long - in fact, it was a bowl of Weetabix, which I don't particularly like, in a room by myself in hospital. It wasn't the wonderful taste sensation that I had been dreaming of and I remember being quite scared but then thrilled when the food went down as it was supposed to. The first time I went into a supermarket after my operation, I went mad, piling my trolley with more perishable stuff than I could possibly eat.

After my food-free year, my sense of taste seems unimpaired, although there have been small alterations in my appetites: I have gone off coffee and started eating meat again - these days if I fancy things I have them. I've also become obsessed with planning meals; as I write this I know what I am going to eat for the rest of the week. But the biggest change is that I now eat with other people as often as I can. I now understand that mealtimes are about more than just food.