There are a number of ways you can be awoken on a Sunday morning. With a nice cup of tea. Or a bacon roll. Or a vigorous shag. OR seeing your big mug inside the biggest tabloid newspaper in Scotland.
So there's me and my long-suffering husband on page 22 of today's Sunday Mail with the headline NET LOSS. I'd wondered if they'd go for the whole Fat Chick Loses Half Her Body Then Finds Love! angle, and they did. The article turned out nice, I met with the journalist last week and she was lovely and easy to talk to. It felt so weird to be blathering about my lard-busting adventures out loud, instead of sending text into the faceless coccoon of the internet. I was trying to drink a cup of tea and be articulate during the interview when I really wanted to spew from nerves. So thank you, Julia Hunt, for being so nice to a hapless amateur!
I have been running around our flat all morning in a grand panic, wondering if anyone at work reads the Sunday Mail. I am hoping they're more Herald or Observer people, so I don't get anyone coming up to me in the kitchen and saying, "Whoa! You were pretty lardy, eh?". Also one small inaccuracy in the article that will baffle anyone who knows me is that it says I'm a graphic designer, when I am actually just the secretary what types the letters and makes the tea. I told the journalist I'd done a graphic design course after my degree, then worked as web editor, so this where the confusion must have arose. So if anyone from work is reading, YES I am still your faithful admin monkey. I'm not designing brochures and business cards on the side or anything like that.
One thing I do do on the side is write, and as the article mentions I contributed to a book called Tales from the Scale. So if you came here via the article and want to read more, you can buy it Amazon right noo!
Meanwhile, my good ol husband is crying with laughter at the Before photo in the article. Now before you send him hate mail, he is not laughing at me per se, just the bizarre way they chopped me out from the background of the original shot, then wrapped the text around my bulbous disembodied form. I just sort of hovering there on the page, Jabba the Hut style. They chopped the birthday cake out of the picture too, leaving only the flaming sparklers on top, so it looks like my guts have exploded.
It's mortifying to see yourself floating there in a national newspaper, yet the more I stare at it the funnier it becomes. But I'm still going to punch him if he doesn't stop cackling soon.