I remember the moment exactly. It was 1st January, 10.17am when I noticed it.
Wallowing in a hot bath full of luxurious orange-scented bubbles, I casually lifted a leg to examine my toenails, carefully painted the day before in a fetching shade of Atomic (that's red to the uninitiated by the way). Horror of horrors, I saw it!
Right there! Right there on my thigh. Another mottled patch of cellulite! It was all dimpled, squidgy and right there for all to see (if I were an exhibitionist, which I hasten to add I am not).
Launching myself from the once relaxing depths and nearly causing a tsunami, I grabbed a warm towel from the rail and stepped, with much trepidation on the bathroom scales. WHAT?! That CANNOT be right! The scales must be faulty. I cannot have gained six, (I stepped off and on again) no, SEVEN pounds!
I blame all those flaky, fruity, icing sugar coated mince pies at Christmas. I blame the cinnamon scented, ruby redness of the steaming glass of mulled wine. I blame the succulent turkey breast, crispiest mini roast potatoes (though I only ate nine), the thick, flavoursome bread sauce, the two generous helpings of rich, gorgeous Christmas pudding with lashings of cointreau cream. I blame the half pound box of too tempting dark, chocolaty and minty After Eights, the snifters of brandy.
I blame them all - it's certainly not down to me! I have bulimia. That's it, I have bulimia, only without the vomiting.
Action must be taken! Efforts of willpower must be made. NO MORE FOOD. At all. Ever. I will exist on water and lemon juice and if I am very, very good, maybe the occasional raw crunchy carrot. And postively, definitely, no more alcohol. I will go to the gym every day. I will work, I will sweat, I will tone and I will stretch. I will rid myself of these rolls, this muffin-top........oooh muffins! NO. I will be strong!
Four weeks on and oh the misery! The grumpiness. The growling, demanding stomach.
From that day to this, I've been taunted and haunted everywhere I go. I look at the fridge. It looks back at me, grinning, beckoning. The biscuit tin leers as I reach for the low-fat, low sodium, low sugar and, naturally, low taste jar of pasta sauce at the back of the pantry.
The other day, I was in the supermarket passing, just passing, the bakery counter. I swear I only paused, for a milli-second. I didn't actually stop. I caught the eye of the softist, fluffiest blueberry-laced muffin and I swear to you it winked at me! But I was good, I resisted all offers and attempts to dissuade me from the path of virtue and my - newly purchased - size 10 (OK, OK! Size 12) jeans.
However, today - just this morning in fact - at 11.24am (I remember the moment exactly), with trepidation, I stepped on the scales again. I must have lost weight - two, three pounds at least. Maybe, hopefully, fingers crossed, even four?
Do you know what? Do you know what? Not one! Not one lousy pound have I lost! I have tried so hard, I've suffered, sweated and starved - and for what?! Nothing. NOT ONE THING.
That's it! I surrender! I give up! I need food. I need turkey and roast potatoes. I need wine. I need chocolate!
Hey you, give me that chocolate! Yes, that chocolate. Right now - or I will not be responsible for my actions!
Diets and suffering are out! Enjoyment is in........