Thank you to the kind folks who enquired about my whereabouts! Which excuse for not writing would you like first?
ONE – The cricket!
It’s the final Ashes test, people. I used to say I hated cricket, just like I used to say I hated olives. Then I actually tried an olive and discovered it was salty, sharp and delicious. Likewise, I actually started watching cricket this year and now I love it. I think it’s only because I am away from home and seeing Aussies on the telly makes me feel all fuzzy inside.
TWO – The illness!
I’ve been off work with the flu. I’ve been weak as a dishrag, coughing up green stuff, and moping about with such a bad fever that I didn’t want to eat. That’s right, I DIDN’T WANT ANY FOOD. I can’t believe it either. Sure, it was only about 12 hours before my appetite came back, but this must be some sort of record.
THREE – The writing!
I got a few story offers after the Sunday Mail and Grazia appearences. Mostly women’s magazines wanting to feature me in their Whoa Dudes, I Lost Some Crazy Weight! amazing transformation type of stories, where they fly you down to London and bouff your hair up and give you some funky clothes and do a photoshoot. I was tempted at first because the total amounted to a very nice new digital camera or maybe even some savings. But once I took away the dollar signs I realised the magazines were a little bit… well how do I say this politely? A bit shit. I mean there’s nothing wrong with them, per se; I am no snob and I am not rubbishing their readerships. But I didn’t want to be in a magazine I wouldn’t buy myself. Nor did I want to dilute the story by whoring it out all over town in publications with actual headlines like these:
"LIVING IN TERROR – The little girl who escaped from this baby faced MONSTER"
"The £2 bag that saved my life"
"My daughter helped heal my broken heart THEN BROKE IT IN TWO"
But in the end I was contacted by the lovely editor of an Australian women’s mag, and they actually wanted me to write a story instead of being a tubby little clotheshorse. So I snapped that up. At first I was over the moon but the day before the deadline I freaked out. An actual deadline for some Writing of Consequence! Help! You must understand I have had brain-dead jobs for the past 2.5 years so I am accustomed to having no real responsibility or pressure. It drudged up all the nightmare that was my journalism degree, the memory of bile and rot in your gut as the clock ticks away and your brain refuses to produce any words. I was a completely rubbish journalist, every moment of my internships filled me with terror. I don’t know how people do it for a living, the constant deadlines and doorknocking. I just couldn’t hack the pace, and years later I am still rubbish. I had to write just 1000 teeny weeny words on the simple topic of ME, and still I couldn’t bloody do it without jumping up and down on the bed yelling, "I caaan’t doooo thiiiiiis!" for a few hours until finally churning it out at the very very very last minute. Once I’d finally turned it in I felt so burned out I could barely write my own name, let alone an entry, so…
FOUR – The burnout!
To be honest, I have been bloody sick of talking about my fat. I needed to step back for awhile and remember that I have other interests aside from lard busting. I wanted to go to the gym and eat healthy because it’s just what I do, not because I was going to sift through it later for the bloggable bits.
FIVE – The unbearable excitement about going to Australia!
It’s two weeks today til we fly out home. Huzzah! To be honest, I really can’t think about anything else right now, I’m so excited I could spew. I can’t concentrate on work or writing or sleep. All I can do is pour over my intinerary, my budget spreadsheet, my folder of printouts of our hotels and flights and blah blah blah. I have lists too! Lists of Gifts To Purchase! Tours To Organise! Vows To Write! People To See After 2.5 Year Absence! Things To Pack! Things To Wax And Pluck!
And I still need to find a new stapless bra for my wedding dress. I have lost more weight since the Wedding II but it only seems to have come from the boobal area. My breasts are, as I described to my husband’s horror, "sloshing around like tea in a mug" in the all-in-one strapless bodysuit thingy I bought for Wedding I. Why do they have to keep shrinking? What about my goddamn thighs?
Anyway, so that’s what I’ve been up to. And I am behind on email too. I promise to write more soon and actually say something of substance. Hope you’re all well. Bon weekend!