Tag Archives: blowing the budget

What Is This Thing Called Moderation?

So most of my on-line shopping from the weekend landed today, and I spent a delicious hour after work opening bags and boxes, and trying stuff on for size. Happily everything fitted and I love it all, so although my credit card is severely winded and may take some time to catch its breath, fuck it, right? Life is short, and if I can’t eat the cake at least I can indulge myself in other ways. Although today I ate the cake too, which I appreciate is taking liberties.

I’ve got to be honest, it’s not been a great week where food has been concerned. I’d like to say I’m struggling but technically I’m not struggling. I’m just not behaving, which is a different thing altogether. I feel a bit out of control on a number of fronts actually…you don’t even want to know how much of a battering my finances have taken in the last week. I didn’t mean to go quite so wild, but this is me all over.

It all started when I got a voucher code through the post for 25% off one of the on-line clothes retailers that I’ve used before, and sniffing a bargain I went onto their website ‘just for a look’. Yeah well that didn’t end well did it….seeing nothing I fancied but with my shopping head on, I wandered onto my favourite clothes website and burned a bloody fortune. No discount voucher, and apparently no self-control either.

If there’s anything to be said for life as a very very fat lady, it’s this; it was cheaper. I mean sure, I used to spend a fortune on cheese balls but I hardly ever bought any new clothes. It would be fair to say I’m making up for lost time.

In the same way I go for ages being really good on my food plan before blowing my food budget in a spectacular fall from grace, I have a tendency to do the same thing with spending money and buying clothes. It’s a while since I bought anything outside my budget, but this weekend I behaved like fucking Rockefeller and almost melted my plastic.

Don’t get me wrong, I really love the stuff I’ve bought but I’m already feeling guilty at my lack of self control, and I’m dreading the sound of my card statement thudding onto the doormat. The postman may just get a hernia as he carries it to my door and the poor parcel man definitely did.

I think we’ve established that moderation is something I’m just not very good at. I’m okay at it for a while, and then BAM, all of a sudden I find myself careering off down the wrong path without any warning. It’s like I need the exhilaration of that ride, where in the moment, nothing matters except the adrenaline rush. What does that make me? A hedonist? Or maybe just a dickhead. I’m thinking that one.

However, I will be the best dressed dickhead in town. Every cloud…  🙂


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Running Out Of Noughts

Well, I first of all have to say thank you to everyone who took the time to write to me after Friday’s post. As the day went on, my shoulders got squarer, and I definitely felt less guilty about the three bowls of pasta consumed by that lady which, according to y’all, were not my fault. You might remember a blog post back in the early days called The Sorry See-Saw. I was weighing down the heavy end again and watching all the sorry roll towards me when it really wasn’t my fault, but you lot are definitely my voice of reason.

I hope she doesn’t check out my Shitbird page this week, that’s all I can say. She’ll be apoplectic and probably chucking stuff at the screen if she does, because last week wasn’t pretty and of course it’s reflected in the number. I’d about got myself back in the zone by the end of the week but it’s all gone to shit again over the weekend.

I got a call in the early hours of Saturday morning to say mum was on her way to hospital, and I mean it was the full blue-flashing-lights job. She’s had a nasty chest infection over the last week which has seen her feeling a bit grim, but she took another tumble on Friday evening which shook her up and she was struggling to breathe. I shot out of bed as soon as I got the call, pulled my pants on – backwards as it turns out – and almost beat the ambulance to the ER.

We were there all night. She got admitted, and has been hooked up to oxygen and I.V. antibiotics ever since. She’s responding quite well, and thankfully the CAT scan ruled out anything sinister as a reason for yet another fall but they diagnosed pneumonia, and we all know how that can turn out when it grabs a hold of a frail octogenarian whose tank is already running on empty. She’s had a really crap few months.

When I finally headed home on Saturday after mum was settled and sleeping, the need to eat a mountain of crap was overwhelming. I drove home via the supermarket and all I could think about was going home to bed with a box of double caramel Magnums. The Asshole voice was screaming at me that things were too serious for just one box so I bought two and I ate the whole fucking lot in one sitting.

I headed back to the hospital later on, sat and held mum’s hand for a while then went and cleared my head with a swim before ordering Chinese food and eating till I almost popped.

Yesterday was supposed to be better, only it wasn’t. We spent time at the hospital with mum, and she seemed a little bit better, but she’s so tiny and frail in the midst of this big nosy ward. She’s very hard of hearing, and it’s a strange environment with no familiar faces so she’s scared and a bit confused and it’s heartbreaking leaving her there, but we’re not allowed to stay. Turning straight to my drug of choice seemed like the only way to get through the rest of the day and I pretty much ran out of noughts on the calculator when I tried to tot up the number of calories I’d consumed by the time I stopped eating. Shit.

Sundays are nearly always good days because they’re my ground zero, you know? The start of a new week and an opportunity to start a clean untainted sheet. Well, this week’s sheet already looks like the dog threw up on it, and it’s only minutes into Monday.

I’m going to try and reset again…it’s all I can do. My focus has to be on my mum, with a little bit left over for me. I’m going to try and find an hour somewhere in this day to take solace in the pool instead of the food cupboard. I just keep reminding myself that this too shall pass.


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License To Mess About.

This week was always going to be a challenge. I travelled a couple of hours south on Monday afternoon to meet one of the teams I support for a working dinner and overnight stay followed by a full day’s training course. After a night in my own bed last night I’m away again today and overnight this evening for another working dinner, and this whole day will be catered in the same way yesterday was catered. A tasty hotel finger buffet with an un-specified take-your-best-guess calorie content.

So, fertile ground for head fuckery, right? Especially as I appear to have scored the biggest own goal ever by shouting from the rooftops on Monday that I’m cool with averaging half a pound a month weight-loss because it’s all tickety-boo and going in the right direction. Somehow, between then and now, my Asshole Voice has interpreted that as having a licence to mess about.

I started the week with fabulous intentions following a great weigh-in on Sunday. I got up at stupid o’clock on Monday morning so I could fit in my hour swimming before most people had eaten their cornflakes because I knew I was travelling later and didn’t want to miss my work-out. I ate a carefully planned breakfast and a carefully planned lunch, then drove down to a hotel in the Midlands to meet my colleagues for a carefully planned dinner…that’s where it all went a bit tits up.

I’d preserved enough calories for a decent dinner, having checked out the menu ahead of time on-line. I was enjoying a small pre-dinner glass of Merlot in the bar, when some bright spark suggested eating out instead of eating in the hotel, and the whole team jumped on it like it was the best idea ever. Shit. I hadn’t planned for that…oh well, panic not. I can adapt my plan. It’ll be fine.

We ended up in a restaurant with mainly burgers, pizza and pasta on the menu. I was the lone fat-girl in a sea of middle-aged men, and I was caught in that no-man’s land between despair and actual fucking excitement that genuinely I might have to say knickers to the diet because really, what choice did I have? I tried to be sensible and order a diet coke, which turned out to be diet Pepsi and I can’t stand Pepsi, so I opened my mouth to ask for a glass of water instead but it somehow came out as a large glass of red wine please.

I passed on the appetiser, but my colleagues ordered a bunch of sharing platters and before I knew it, two beer-battered cheese sticks and a loaded potato skin had joined the large glass of red wine in front of me.

I’d ordered the least calorie-loaded option that I could find on the menu – it was chicken, or at least I think there was chicken somewhere inside those deep-fried breadcrumbs loaded with ham and cheese and served with a side of fries. The thing is, after my third red wine of the evening it didn’t seem too terrible, you know? I mean I’d lost three and a half pounds last week, and we’ve already established that my average is half a pound a month so I’m seven times ahead of myself already…fuck it, on that basis I can relax a bit, right? So I’ll tell you what, let’s have all that and dessert too.

I woke up yesterday morning with indigestion and a heavy heart…I mean come on. So obviously I had a lean breakfast and stayed away from the lunch buffet…oh no that’s right I didn’t do either of those things. I ate bacon and eggs for breakfast followed at lunchtime by two mini cheese and onion pies, some divine onion bhajis and a plate of roasted vegetables which were slathered in oil, plus two cookies and a handful of wrapped sweets.

What is wrong with me? I wrote a fucking blog post on Monday bemoaning the fact that for every two steps forward I take one step backwards, and the ink’s not even dry on the page before I’m undoing all the good work of a three and a half pound weight loss by nose-diving straight into the first temptation I can find. I’m genuinely speechless.

I did make amends with myself when I got home last night and took myself off to the pool. I swam for an hour and chuntered to myself the whole time as I swam back and forth about what a dickhead I can be sometimes.

Today is a new day. But it’s another fully catered one with a big dinner this evening, and I’ll have no opportunity this time to out-swim my fork so I’m going to white-knuckle through on a wing and a prayer because I’m worth more than half a poxy pound.

Come on, focus 🙂

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Stepping Off, Chilling Ma Boots

I didn’t mean to worry y’all by going AWOL on Friday. I’m touched by the number of emails I had over the weekend asking if I was okay…I’m fine thanks, I promise. I spent the whole of last week feeling knackered and slightly disorientated after immersing myself in the writer’s workshop over a long weekend, before going right back to work on Monday, and then having to co-facilitate a two-day workshop which required me to stay away from home mid-week.

I staggered home on Thursday and cobbled together a post for Friday which didn’t pass muster at all when I read it back the next morning, so I had a mini-meltdown and binned it. I can give you a brief summary if you like…I was mainly trying to justify an unfortunate incident with a plate of garlic bread which one of my colleagues had ordered ‘for the table’ during a working dinner last Wednesday evening, and most of it ended up being eaten by yours truly…yeah I know. Don’t say a word. 

I was trying to justify it to all of you and myself on the basis that I’d been away last weekend and therefore hadn’t had time to go do a food shop, so I’d already ruined my dieting day by eating the stodgy catered lunch instead of taking stuff with me.

Then at dinner, the garlic bread got plonked in front of me without a rightful owner, and it smelled all kinds of awesome. And because I’d had a dodgy lunch – not to mention the three glasses of Rioja I’d drunk before dinner which were undoubtedly influencing my decision-making – I decided I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. So I ate the garlic bread followed by a juicy rib-eye steak..uhuh.

Now, I was pushed for time last week, my schedule was crazy. However, we all know that the whole fucking supermarket is just a click away these days, and judging by the number of parcels Amazon deliver to my door  I clearly know my way around an on-line shopping cart, so not having the time to do a food shop and using that as the reason for my wobble was a totally made up bollocksy excuse.

On reflection, I think I was just tired. And I know my thought process can turn to shit and my willpower can take a direct hit when I’m tired. I looked around the table and saw everyone tucking into garlic bread and I got an earful of the Asshole voice with his puffed-up outraged sense of entitlement that every fucker else was having it so why couldn’t I, you know?

Apart from that one incident last week I put in a textbook performance, but the garlic bread cost me dear when I crossed paths with the Shitbird Scale yesterday…just one pound off. I deserved it, and there is no excuse. It might’ve been a two pound plus week if I’d not eaten my own bodyweight in something I shouldn’t have gone anywhere near.

Still, I parked it the very next day and I’ve been on it like a car bonnet again ever since. Thankfully, garlic bread isn’t a trigger food for me, it just happened to be delicious and there. Sometimes it feels a lot like I’m taking two steps forward and one step backwards, but I guess that’s just life, right?

I didn’t have the energy – or the time – to start from scratch on Friday, so I had to step off. This weekend has mainly been spent chilling ma boots and recharging my batteries, in between walking a bit and swimming. I even hit the gym – not the Kingdom of Pain, I’m not signed back there yet by the physio – to do some hardcore physio on my knee, which is getting stronger all the time.

This week, I shall mainly be staying away from garlic bread 🙂


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Has Anyone Seen My Spear?

I’m still in the hole.

On Sunday I managed to reset, and I went to bed feeling like a food survivor. I was pre-occupied with the thought of food all day but although I succumbed to the trifle, I trod carefully and acted like I had mud stripes on my forehead and a spear in my hand…I was a warrior, digging in and ready to fight one food battle at a time.

Monday was going to be my sugar-free ground zero, remember? It was a great plan, only I accepted a piece of apple cake at my Godmother’s wake, which had been baked by one of her good friends. Her friend’s need to find comfort through feeding people fitted hand-in-glove with my need to seek comfort in eating what she’d baked. The scones were good too, in case you’re wondering.

At that point I dropped my spear, and it was all downhill from there. As if the apple cake and the scone hadn’t done enough damage, my boy and I had promised to take mum out for lunch afterwards, and although I’d deliberately suggested eating at a great restaurant which has one of my favourite healthy menus, I went and ordered a dirty great gourmet burger with sweet potato fries, which wasn’t helpful.

I had a word with myself, and agreed to forgive the false start on the basis that Monday had been a particularly emotional and difficult day, and maybe I’d expected too much of myself under the circumstances. I made a new plan to start over on Tuesday.

Which I did. And it was all going really well until I hit lunchtime, when the wheels came off again. I allowed myself to be seduced by the idea of eating the same as the girls in the office who were visiting a local deli to pick up something good, and I almost broke my neck to join in. That, together with the five cookies I ate mid-afternoon meant I hit suppertime with barely any calories left in the bank, and bang on cue another fuck it moment happened when I went all out and cooked a calorie-laden supper for me and my boy.

Followed by ice-cream.

I’m going through the motions of saying I’ll reset again today. Except already I can hear the Asshole in my head pissing himself laughing at my intention to win back the upper hand. Whatever, whatever, whateverlet’s see you try, bitch.

I know where the booby traps are. I have to travel up to Scotland this afternoon on business. Three hours each way on a train with a trolly service and a buffet car, and I’m overnighting in a hotel with a room service menu. It’s got fucking disaster written all over it and I feel massively, helplessly out of control.

I’m home late tomorrow and then…then I’ll have a golden window of opportunity to reset the dial properly, since I’m going to be forced down the road of nil-by-mouth from twelve o’clock midnight.

My knee surgery happens on Friday morning. I imagine when I wake up afterwards I’ll feel as rough as toast due to the anaesthetic, which usually knocks me sick and I won’t feel much like eating. Nor will I be able to drive, so hobbling to the shops to buy Haagen Dazs isn’t going to be one of my options. So, here’s the plan.

When I get back tomorrow evening I’ll do a healthy food shop, which I’ll be stuck with until I’m mobile again. And that might take a while. There’s no point in asking my boy to bring me naughties since I have already formally appointed him as the fun police and no matter what tactics I might wheel out he’ll point blank refuse to help me wrap my chops around anything I shouldn’t be eating.

This isn’t me giving myself licence to throw caution to the wind for the next forty eight hours by the way…if I can find my spear, I’ll crack on with the business of being a warrior. All I’m saying is, if I can’t there’s a plan B.

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