If gut health was a religion, it’s fair to say I grew up among devout believers. Homemade sourdough, sauerkraut and – the sourest of them all – the giant gelatinous kombucha pellicle bubbling away on the kitchen shelf were my toast and tea growing up. A saintly diet was not my priority when I flew the nest but the frivolity was disappointingly short-lived. Within a year my energy plummeted to alarmingly lethargic, and a painful eczema cracked the skin on my hands with such ferocity that I couldn’t hold a pen to take lecture notes. I was eventually declared
