The Diet

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........

The End

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