Monthly Archives: February 2016

Giving The Bill To Ron


Hands up who’s ever been tempted to whack something on a credit card because you wanted whatever it was in that moment, and figuring out how you were going to pay for it was a problem for Ron…as in later on…not just me then..? Years and years ago I got myself into a right old pickle doing that very thing, it was a hard lesson to learn. Much time was subsequently spent working my balls off to dig myself clear of the brown stuff, and I’m a bit more careful these days, although my halo has more than a few dinks in it and the odd bit of tarnish, if truth be told.

Yesterday, in discussion with the asshole voice, I found myself agreeing in principle to eating some of my lovely artisan crisp breads with tuna and mayo topping, for which I was planning to use exercise points that I hadn’t earned at that point.

Now, I’m still wearing my shocked face after the bitch in the bathroom delivered her verdict on the last week, and it’s fair to say that everything that passed my lips yesterday was scrutinised, weighed and regarded with suspicion until it had passed muster. I even drank water, which is unheard of given that it’s one of my I know I should but…things. Fortunately, just before I signed for my dieting bank loan I woke up to what I was doing and kicked the asshole voice back into the long grass.

I’ve flirted with that approach on and off over the last few weeks, and generally when I’ve front-loaded points I’ve followed through, you know, settled my debts. On the odd occasion I haven’t, I’ve got away with it which in the overall scheme of things probably hasn’t helped. And I’m not even saying that it’s never okay to do spend your food budget in that way, I mean we’ve got a life to live, right? You’ve got to have a bit of wriggle room to ensure it fits comfortably over the long term. But for me in the here and now, I’m pulling everything back to basics.

That means weighing, measuring and counting every morsel on a battery-powered thingamabob that doesn’t guess, or forget stuff. Earning extra points before I spend them. Re-committing to my hurt machine every single day that I’m home at night and making enough time for me in my busy life so I can do just that.

When the results are coming in on track it’s easy to fall into a bad habit here or there, and it doesn’t seem to matter much, you know? However, the minute you reach that tipping point where they grind to a halt, or worse start rolling backwards, damn straight it’s time to recalibrate.

And you know what, it feels good. It felt good last night to go to bed knowing that I’d stayed true to my goal by trying my very best and giving it one hundred percent effort. Today’s heading in the same direction. Nothing like dodging a bullet to focus the mind, right?

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Let’s Look At The Evidence…

dog scales

Hello newly gained pound…meet the rest of my body. I’d like to say you’re very welcome but at the risk of being rude, don’t unpack your bags because actually you’re not welcome here, in fact you can just fuck right off. I mean where did you even come from..?

Something tells me I need to do an autopsy on the week because this can’t happen, right? For the first time in six months I am fatter today than I was this time last week. I’m gutted…but having had a quick flick through the week maybe it’s a lesson learned. And to be fair I have to own it. I got complacent.

Last weekend I headed south for a visit with my best buddy, was treated to a lovely Sunday lunch out, and had a handful or two of snacks in the evening which I pointed and counted. When I say pointed and counted I mean sort of guessed. Snacks I hadn’t tried before, with nutritional info on the bag which I didn’t even look at so to my shame I can’t even try and blag an educated guess. Just a plain old common-or-garden guess.

On Monday I had no breakfast, but where I’d normally eat fruit or something mid-morning in the office, I just had a couple of latte coffees during the day whilst we were working and then dinner in my hotel. Sensible choice, chicken caesar salad and I asked for the dressing on the side, which came in a jug…going well so far. Quite a large jug if I’m honest and not only did I pour it all on, I seem to remember scraping out what was left with a piece of lettuce to make sure I didn’t miss any. I don’t imagine the duck pancakes appetiser helped my daily points total either, which for the second day running was a wild guess.

Tuesday, I tucked into a generous breakfast in my hotel, more confidently pointed since it was familiar food. But definitely generous, on the basis that we would be working through lunchtime. I ate a late afternoon snack, a wrap bought from the deli next door…only guessable in terms of points. Then three large glasses of red at the bloggy folk social, oh and let’s not forget two cheese balls.

The rest of the week wasn’t bad in terms of food choices, with the exception of the whole sleeve of Jaffa Cakes which I’ve already ‘fessed up about. Is this a good time to mention that I’ve not been near my hurt machine in over a week..? And yesterday was the first time I’ve been out walking for any real distance with Charlie dog.

It’s been a busy week but that doesn’t make it any different to most of my weeks so I’m not even going to try that excuse. Fact is, I have no excuse, and the days of trying to cobble one together are long gone. I got complacent, cocky, whatever you want to call it, and the bitch in the bathroom has given me a good kicking because of it. I got what I deserved based on the week I put in – sometimes you look at the number on the scale and life feels unfair because you tried so hard, right? Not this week. This week, much as it galls me, the bitch had a point.

I’ve talked before, a lot, about worrying that if I stepped out of the sweet spot I’d be terrified I wouldn’t get back in. That if I wasn’t perfect all the time I’d get jettisoned out into the bad lands of cheese balls and chocolate to fend for myself. But that’s not where I’m at, in fact nowhere near. I didn’t fall off the wagon, I just didn’t pay enough attention that’s all and the short sharp shock which this newly acquired pound of lard has served up today was my come to Jesus moment.

Bitch, I see your pound and raise you…rematch next Sunday and come prepared to eat dirt 🙂

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The Odd Rusty Nail

nailsI never cease to be amazed by the way that the inner workings of my head conspire sometimes to throw a rusty nail under the wheels of my momentum. It’s ridiculous and it just drives home to me how much of a work in progress I really am.

As the blog continues to grow and new people find us, and as my weight loss slowly becomes a bit more noticeable, I’ve enjoyed more than my fair share of genuine support and compliments lately, you know? But it’s probably fair to say that lovely as they are, they’ve lulled me into a false sense of security. This isn’t easy. And I don’t have it in the bag.

This week is a case in point. I clearly didn’t learn from the last time my subscription notifications were invaded by gremlins – nobody died, and eventually the issue got fixed after winding me right up for a couple of days. It works perfectly maybe three times out of five, so it needs constant attention, and this must be the third or fourth time it’s gone tits up completely but it always gets resolved eventually…nothing to get in a sweat about, right?

So how come last night, during a long and frustrating exchange of emails between me and the technical folk who host my blog, for whom English doesn’t seem to be their first language and who can’t seem to understand what the issue is, I thought that eating an entire sleeve of Jaffa Cakes would somehow help make the situation better?

Twenty four smart points – out of a daily allowance of 38 – spent on crap for no reason other than I was pissed off that I couldn’t get anyone to just bloody fix it. I couldn’t even go back and double-check in my weight watchers thingamabob that I had enough weekly points left to cover my wobble, because this false sense of security has seen me more and more often totting things up in my head instead of using the tools I have to hand.

The tools are there to keep right on top of what I’m eating. My head on the other hand has a very selective memory, ably assisted by the asshole and although I’m quite good at sums, I’m even better at forgetting what’s on the list of stuff I’ve eaten that needs to be added up. So I think I had enough weekly points left to get away with the Jaffa Cakes but it’s really twisting my melon that I won’t know for sure.

Just look at how many my buttons are available for pushing right now. Control, because I can’t make it work. Patience, as in I don’t have any and it’s been broken for three days now. Frustration, because I can’t make the clever blokes understand what’s wrong and they keep asking me the same questions and going round in a loop with the same answers which don’t bloody fix it, and most of all the fact that it’s not perfect is driving me bat-shit crazy.

So it turned me into a basket case and resulted in the unfortunate incident with a sleeve of Jaffa Cakes that I don’t especially even like, I mean they’re chewy and sweet and all that but have never been one of my go to foods. The dog, who was sitting on my knee as I sulked in the armchair and fed my face with one after the other watched closely but he wore a resigned look and didn’t even bother to drool, I mean his doggy intuition told him that none of them had his name on.

They weren’t worth it. And the fact that I’d vaporised a year’s supply just added to my very sour mood. Eating the Jaffa Cakes was never going to resolve the issue, and the sodding thing is indeed still on the blink. Me, I’ve kicked the rusty nail to the side of the path and today I’ll keep on moving forward.

More importantly I’ll keep on doing the work, because times like this show me exactly how far I still have to go 🙁

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Six Months And Counting…

6 months

Look what I went and did! I’ve been so busy and distracted this week with stuff, that the six month anniversary of our little community passed right under my nose without me even noticing.  So, happy six months and three days anniversary! My tardiness means it doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, but it’s a milestone I’m very proud of none the less.

You know, I didn’t really know what my website was going to look like when I started writing. I knew I didn’t want it to be a preachy teachy blog, and I didn’t want it to be a dear diary today I ate this kind of blog either. I didn’t want to write a blog which banged the drum for one particular type of food plan, and I definitely didn’t want annoying adverts plastered all over it. All things considered I think it’s fair to say I was more certain about what I didn’t want than what I did.

It just sort of found its own groove a couple of weeks in. When I look back over my first half dozen or so posts, I can’t help pulling a bit of a face…lets be honest they were a bit naff! I didn’t imagine at that point that many people would ever actually read them, and bad as they are, whilst it’s in my gift to do so, I somehow can’t bring myself to change them, or make them better. If I did, it wouldn’t be authentic…you’ve always been served up exactly what was in my head at any given point in time, and that sort of feels important to me. I’m just a bit more practiced at shaping it now that’s all.

There are 191 published posts and almost one hundred and twenty thousand words, and that’s just my words…add your words too, weaved in and out of the two thousand or so comments in the thought threads…it blows my mind. Look what we did!

What’s interesting now, is that I’m starting to get approached by folk who want me to endorse stuff. I mean seriously, I’m just a fat lass on a diet. I walk around with random shit in my head most of the time which I share with you willy nilly. I’m not sure that qualifies me to wave a banner and recommend stuff.

(Just on the off chance that the nice man from Chanel is looking, I’m a bit fond of your leather goods so you know, happy to oblige if you need a brand ambassador. I mean, even fat arms look awesome if they’re accessorised with a double C, right? What do you mean ‘what are fat arms’?)

I’ve almost come unstuck once or twice. You know how trusting I am…I got conned just before Christmas when that medical website in the US invited me to have you guys offer up your tips to stay safe over the holidays. Let’s swap tips they said…we’ll have some fun and post the best ones on social media…I thought GREAT! Sounds like fun…no, what they were really after was a free plug on here, and a link through to their website.

In fact, worse than that, I think they were secretly hoping you didn’t stay safe, and that you might remember if your leg was hanging by a thread that Dee from Break Out The Skinny Girl had mentioned a bunch of doctors who might be able to help sew it back on, for a modest fee. I didn’t cotton on at first, until I realised they didn’t have any social media. Cheeky knackers. So I’m a bit more careful now, and I’ve said no to everything else so far.

What do you mean am I open to bribery..? Duh, of course I bloody am.

I’d love to think that all of you are feeling a bit skinnier and maybe a bit healthier than you were at back in August when we started chatting, or at the very least have felt the support of this little community as you hop, skip and occasionally face plant through this rocky path to Skinny Town. I value your company and your chatter more than I can tell you, and I have to thank you for helping me every step of the way so far. I couldn’t have got this far without you, and I’m looking forward to continuing this journey with all of you 🙂

Oh and before you go…I must apologise to those of you who are signed up for the subscription email. The tech guys have been working on it since Wednesday, I swear it’s enough to drive me to the hob-nobs. After sending a second completely random notification on Wednesday night it’s remained stubbornly silent since and nothing I’ve done so far has coaxed it back into life. I’m hoping your daily email notification will be up and running again soon…sodding thing drives me crazy!

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Girl About Town


So after a lovely visit with my friend at the weekend which was over way too quickly, I headed off as you know to the big smoke. It’s been a while since I was in central London, and I’d forgotten how frantic the pace is.

I used to work out of Canary Wharf a couple of days a week in my old job, and I remember the utter misery I used to feel as I left the office to cross London on the tube so I could hook up with my train home. It was usually the busiest time, with commuters head down and keen to get out of the city and the tube was always packed.

I’d done the journey so many times I’d figured out the exact place to stand on the platform to get on the carriage which would spit me out right next to the escalator at the station where I needed to change trains, so I didn’t have to walk as far. From there, I knew to the nearest square inch where to wait for tube number 2 so as to minimise how far I’d need to walk once I got to London Kings Cross.

I used to draw furious looks from commuters since I took up twice as much space as everybody else in carriages packed tighter than sardines in a tin, and I’d get more red in the face and sweaty with every minute that passed. I desperately avoided eye contact with anyone in case some random polite stranger offered up their seat for a lady who looked fat and old and struggling because despite my body silently begging to sit down, the truth is I knew that my backside didn’t fit in the seats.

By the time I picked up my main train North I’d be exhausted. My ankles would be killing me, my feet would be swollen, and my knee and back would be giving me hell. I always tried to find a seat in the buffet car, because the aisles were too narrow for me to walk up and down easily without my arse knocking down everyone’s armrest, or sweeping stuff off their table as I lumbered by.

At least a seat in the buffet car meant I only needed to walk a few steps for emergency food if I was struck down by a hunger pang. Which I usually was, at least two or three times on the two and a half hour journey home.

This week in London has been different. It was still busy, and too hot on the tube, but I sat down tentatively when a seat came free, and I didn’t get wedged between the armrests…who knew that would ever happen again. When I arrived in the big smoke I was two tubes and a fifteen minute walk away from my hotel, and you know what, it was okay.

I mean I’m still carrying 117lbs in my pants that has no right to be there, so I’m still fat, in fact I’m still really fat. But I did a normal thing like a normal person. I lugged a work bag and an overnight bag and a tired old body up and down stairs, over bridges, on and off trains and on foot through the streets of London, and when I got to my hotel I felt no more tired than any other girl about town would feel after a long day’s graft.

I came very near to never being able to do that ever again. The fact that I can, again, is an awesome feeling.

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