Beyond the January Scales

Hide the peanuts, empty the biscuit tin, lock up the chocolates – I’m on a diet.  Well, at least I’m thinking about it.

Personally, I blame elasticated waistbands for most of my problems.  Plus a toaster parked invitingly beside the kettle, Marmite just within reach.  And chocolate-covered Brazils aren’t entirely without blame, either.

Sitting at a computer screen pretending to be a writer is terribly hard on the waistline, even though my writing desk is right next to a freely available (and in good working order) treadmill (oops!).

It helps that I have a dog to walk and beautiful Irish countryside nearby, otherwise I’d  be probably several  unflattering sizes bigger.

I’m the one in the white dress

When I got breathless taking down the Christmas tinsel from a wedding photograph, I decided action was called for. Was that really us beaming into the camera as we floated off in a hot air balloon at the start of our honeymoon?

Young, fresh-faced and well…slim.  We’d need a larger balloon basket now, joked the bride.  We’d need a bigger balloon to lift the extra weight, said the bridegroom.  We calculated that between us we’d gained the equivalent in excess poundage of another (small but significant) human being.

Three decades, two children and countless boxes of Heroes have taken their toll.  Baggy jumpers  and floaty tops can hide only so much.  But what to do?  Counting calories is a nightmare, especially when you’ve used up your daily allowance by 10am. Well, I guess I can dust off the treadmill and hide the Heroes for a start.

I need to stop baking, too…

Of course, deep down, I know it doesn’t matter if we have enough elastic in our waistbands; there’s more to life than cottage cheese and sticks of celery.

How do I know this?  Because I recall a day more than 20 years ago, when I was feeling particularly fat and frumpy.  I was wearing my most unflattering clothes, and my most expansive waistband was suffering from stretch fatigue, when my then four-year-old put his skinny arms around me (figuratively speaking) and declared: “I love you Mummy, because you’re beautiful.”

He was always a canny lad. “Really, Darling?” I gushed, putting aside my Weight Watchers cookery book. “Shall we have another chocolate biscuit?”

He grew up to become a bit of a foodie. You can connect with him here although I’m not sure any of his recipes are suitable for slimmers.

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