We’ll Meet Again

So this is the last post for a wee while, I’m flying to Riga on Tuesday for our Baltic holiday. Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia here we come! And best of all I get to meet and hang out with a DG reader who lives in Tallinn. How cool is that?

Between now and Tuesday I will be catching up with my lovely boy. He came back from his motorcyle jaunt around France yesterday. He’d called me out of the blue on Sunday night, he was in the middle of a vineyard somewhere in Beaujolais and asked did I want to go out for dinner on Friday night? A little Italian place. I was so excited, we don’t do that kind of thing too often. All seemed wildly romantic! So of course I ran around cleaning my room and getting my brows waxed and cleaning the dirt from under my nails and deforesting the legs, all excited.

When he arrived last night I was so happy to see him I went all ridiculously quiet and shy. Then he said he had to call the restaurant coz he forget the Edinburgh Festival is on, normally you can just waltz into this place but the city’s populations is trebled at the moment. So he calls, and they’re booked out.

I am such a brat but I must admit I got pouty. I wanted ROMANCE. And I wanted ITALIAN. This brattiness was a combination of PMS and not seeing him for two weeks and knowing I’d be away another two weeks AND that day being my 17th Month Anniversary in the UK, meaning only 7 more months til I get evicted. I wanted to be Miss Pampered Princess for the night. I was all dressed up and wanted a big night out, DAMMIT. 

But instead it was that whole tiresome, "So what do you want to do instead?" "I dunno, what do you want to do?" thing that lasted about half an hour. I was being such a grumpy bastard.

But then he holding two different types of French cookies behind his back (all squashed up from carting them back all that way) and asking me to guess, "Brown wrapper is for is European cuisine, white one is for Asian". He looked so ridiculous I couldn’t help laughing. I picked his left hand. Asian.

"I meant MY left, not yours!" I grumped.

Finally we’re heading up the road for Indian. I am more like, stomping. "You don’t want Indian, do you?" he says.

"I don’t care!"

He smiles.

And of course then I realise I am acting like a PsychoBrat and I am just so relieved he made it back on that bloody bike and that meant more to me than some posh dinner.

We had a terrible seat in the restaurant, right next to the coffee machine with a giant stack of menus threating to topple over us. Our conversation was punctuated by the constant SSSCCCHHHH of frothing milk. But I just didn’t care. The food was great, the room was cosy and I loved how happy The Boy looked as he told me about his trip, and thought how funny it felt so be so happy for someone else, to know that someone elses happiness means so much you.

This has nothing to do with losing weight, just about realising what is important to you. Losing weight is important to me yes. But naan bread and lovely Scotsman rate pretty highly too.

Talk to ya all soon 🙂

Muffin Licker

I had left a few of The Muffins at home for my sister to eat. She’s a big fan of them and doesn’t have to take my All Or Nothing approach to lose weight. Last night after the gym I was ravenous, even after a generous dinner. I was in the kitchen doing the dishes, taking sneaky glances at the big red tin that I knew had a good three muffins inside it.

C’MON! OPEN ME! the tin was taunting me.

So I did. I just stared at them for about ten minutes thinking What Would Oprah Do? Well it was after 7pm so she wouldn’t eat carbs. Or would she? Is she still on that No Nocturnal Carbs thing? Or would she eat the freakin’ muffin and just get her Exercise Guru to bust her arse harder the next day?

So then I thought, What Would Michael Phelps Do? He would eat the muffin, coz his races were over and he had 6 gold medals and now chicks would want to sleep with him even though he’s not entirely good looking.

Then I thought, What Would Dr Gillian McKeith Do? She would throw the muffin at my head and make me one out of aduki beans and seaweed.

So What Did Dietgirl Do? I thought about how good I’d been and what a workout I’d had at the gym and how I ate muffins in the past and still lost weight and who knows how long it would before I’d have the opportunity to eat such a delicious muffin? But then I thought how I was on a roll and working hard to kick the sugar cravings and I was kidding myself to think I’d eat one muffin then not want six slices of buttered toast and a hot chocolate nightcap.

I decided what I would do was lick the muffin. I’d see if it was good as I remembered, and proceed from there.

Now that I read that sentence I realise how it ranks among the stupidest ideas I’ve ever had.

My hand was still dotted with detergent bubbles as I lifted up the smallest remaining muffin. I briefly swiped my tongue at the bottom. I felt the brief tickle of crumbs but couldn’t taste a thing.

You bloody idiot, I said aloud. I couldn’t believe I just licked a muffin! I didn’t want the muffin! There would be other muffins in my life. For now, I chose not to eat muffins.

So I sawed half an inch off the muffin stump and put the unlicked bit back in the tin.

Here is the recipe for those who asked.

Dietgirl’s Decidedly Non-Diet Choc Banana Muffins

Makes:  12 muffins
Calories:  8000 each (approx)

200g butter
100g brown sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 ripe medium-size bananas, mashed
400g plain (all-purpose) flour
2 teaspoons bicarb soda *
1 teaspoon salt **
1 cup chocolate bits ***

1.  Preheat oven to 180′ C (350′ F).
2.  Cream butter and sugar til light and fluffy.
3.  Add eggs and vanilla, stir til combined and even lighter and fluffier.
4.  In a separate bowl, sift flour, salt and bicarb together.
5.  Gradually fold flour mix into creamed mixture along with bananas and chocolate until JUST combined. Do not over mix otherwise your muffins will be tough and dry and you will not get that fleeting sense of validation that comes from giving people good muffins.
6.  Plop mixture into muffin tray that you have spritzed with cooking spray.
7.  Bake for 20 minutes. Leave in the tray for awhile to admire their clunky beauty then turn out to cool.

* That’s baking soda to you Americans

** I’ve always left out the salt and had no problems.

** My corner store is always sold out of choc bits so I usually get 2 x 100g blocks of Green & Blacks Darker Shade of Milk Chocolate. I smash one up into tiny pieces with a rolling pin (mental note: buy food processor) and just break the other into the usual squares, so you get a good mix of chocolate flecks throughout with the occasional hefty melty chunk.

**** Optional.

Chocolate Challenge

From the No Shit, Sherlock files: Clazza posts a link today to this BBC article that makes the starting revelation: Almost half of adults turn to food to stifle feelings, of boredom, loneliness and stress.

. . .

I think I have a wee masochistic streak.  I made a batch of my infamous Chocolate Banana Muffins for no other reason than to torture myself.  I wanted to see how serious I was about staying on track, so I went out and bought the bananas, the butter, the eggs, the flour, the vanilla, the deliciously caramelly brown sugar, the two 100g bars of chocolate.

I had never creamed butter and sugar together so beautifully. My arm ached from the stirring, but I was rewarded with the most gorgeous golden fluffiness. I wanted to stick my finger in to taste. Correction, I wanted to shove my whole face into the bowl and inhale the whole freakin thing. Then I would scoot around on the kitchen floor trying to get the bowl off my head with my tongue flapping madly, licking ever last drop.

I have these taunting conversations with myself, like Betcha can't resist. Betcha eat a big spoonful.  It's not that cliched "you useless fat chick" negative talk, it is simply me having a contest with myself, trying to see how strong my will is. Betcha can't open two blocks of chocolate and break into little chunks without eating it. Can so! Well ok, betcha can't help licking yer fingers! I washed em right away! In your FACE!

The house filled with the smell of slowly melting chocolate. It was sweet agony. The muffins looked scrumptious, I kinda swirled the batter after I poured it in to each case, so they rose in perfect little domes. I turned them out and just looked at all those chocolate chunks trapped in cake and let the dialogue rage in my head.

Then today I brought em to work and gave them to the blokes and laughed to their inane muffin jokes (your muffins are so moist, I could eat your muffins any time) and was all smug about not eating one myself.

I am constantly having these little competitions with myself, I don't know if it is a healthy way of motivating, but it is fun and ridiculous. Fun and ridiculous works for me.

. . .

Almost chucked a tantrum at the gym on Thursday night.  I hopped on the scale at it said 93.5 kilos. What? STILL? What the hell is going on? I actually STOMPED on the scale I was so annoyed.  But then I remembered:

  1. My last weigh-in, three weeks earlier, had been in the morning.
  2. Of those three weeks, I had only actually been Eating Beautifully for the past five days
  3. And before that I was eating a garbage load of chocolate and way too much toast

Again with the Denial issue.  How often have you got all indignant at the scale without really acknowledging what you've been putting in your gob? Sure there are weeks when you genuinely have been on fire and it doesn't show up, but there are times when you know deep down you've cut a few corners or slipped in a few choccies.

It's amusing to think I somehow thought that five days would have made a dramatic impact. But after  months and months of crapness I guess I thought I'd be rewarded for finally saying no to a few cakes. I thought my trackies would just scream MY GOD YOU'RE SO SKINNY and fall down right there in the middle of the gym as the scale swung round to 75 kilos.

Maybe next week then.

Hair of the Blob

I love getting my hair cut. I love the smell of shampoos and dye and clean hair gently roasting under a curling iron. I love the old magazines, the chhck chhck of the scissors and the idiotic banter. But most of all I love the attention.

When I was at my heaviest, I loved having that 45 minutes or so when I was made to feel like a beautiful princess instead of an invisible fat nobody. Sure, I was paying for the privelege, but it felt good nonetheless. I’d especially love it when they’d say Let’s try something different today. I’d watch closely as they snipped and coloured away and hoped for a miracle transformation.

Now that I look back, I don’t think I ever actually looked at my face during a haircut. I’d maybe glimpse at my eyebrows, but somehow managed to focus solely on the stylists and the hair itself. After it was over and they’d hold the mirror behind my head, I’d nod and grin and say That is a gorgeous cut, thank you so much.

It wasn’t until a few days later, at home and trying to recreate the style, that I realised while it was a great cut, it looked rather lost and ordinary when perched atop my great flabby face. I’d frown into the mirror, trying to rearrange my locks, adding pomades or lotions or sprays, scrunching or smoothing, trying to make it look right. But it never did.

Six weeks later I’d go back for another cut and hope again they’d Try Something Different. I had supershort. I had bangs. I had blonde highlights. I went brunette. I grew it out, I grew it long. I started over time and time again.

And then one day, late 2000 I think it was, I looked up at the stylist who had that glazed, faraway look of concentration. Then my eyes moved down to my eyebrows. Down my nose, over my rounded cheeks, to where my chins spilled over the top of the black plastic cape.

It finally dawned on me. No haircut in the world was going to make me look smaller.

The power of my own denial never ceases to amaze me. How can one tiny 45g Frys Peppermint Cream hurt me? It won’t, until you eat six in a week. And how can missing one Body Pump class do any harm? It can’t, until you miss ten on the trot. It’s so easy to block out the bigger picture, to ignore how over time your tiny little Just This Once incidents add up to extra pounds, bigger undies, additional chins.

I still use the hairdresser as a guage of my progress. The last five cuts or so, I’ve sat down in the chair and looked in the mirror and thought my face looked a little fuller. Nah, must be funny lighting, I’ve said. Or, My period’s due any day. But I’m happy to report I’m over that bullshit. It’s time to get honest with myself and change those cumulative bad habits into ongoing good ones.

But I will still keep doing crazy shit to my hair.

Return of The Hunger

I’ve started a wee blog about the Olympics. Basically it’s about me lusting after male athletes and making smutty remarks, but I am updating it a few times a day.  So if you’re one of those lovely people who like to write emails gently reminding me to update this blog, you will find plenty of action on Going for Gold.

And yes, that is a link to my non-fat blog on the sidebar.  What the hell, eh?  You can check that out if you get bored, but if you leave a comment please don’t say "HI DIETGIRL!" or similar 🙂 Hehe.

. . .

I am very scared and tentative to tell you all this, but I think I’ve got The Hunger back.  You know, the Week One mindless determination kind of feeling. That feeling when you are just aching to exercise and eat properly, coz you so badly want to do well and shift some serious lard.

This feeling has been missing for about ten months or so.  I haven’t stopped traveling/shagging/working to just take a break, slow down and look at what’s been going wrong.  It’s a simple matter of organisation and planning.  And just needing to remind myself that I want to lose more weight, that I am not as fit as I want to be.  I just haven’t had that hunger.

Writing here more frequently has helped.  So has the Food Journal.  I’ve also been reading heaps of diet blogs, which does wonders for the motivation.  I have subscribed to dozens via Bloglines.  This means I don’t leave many comments but to all you crazy kids in Blogland, thank you for your inspiration!

I felt good after our walk/run this morning.  I have to admit, after 5 weeks I still find it a slog and I don’t look forward to it like I do my gym classes.  It doesn’t give me the horn like a dance class or lifting weights.  I never wake up and go, "yay, running!".  I don’t sit staring at my diary trying to figure out where I can squeeze in more running, like the way I stare at the gym class timetable and wonder how to fit another classes into my schedule. 

However, once I am out there, it’s kinda nice.  I like the fresh air, I like the quality time with my sister, I like the emptiness of the park at 6AM.  Most of all I like how it’s just me and my body and I can make it go slightly further and longer with every passing week.

I ate breakfast at home today, for the first time in months.  I’ve been obsessed with getting to work earlier so I can leave earlier, and end up eating brekkie at my desk.  But I am tired of everyone going "ewww!" at the sight of my yogurt, fruit, muesli and seeds, so I made the time to eat at home.  It didn’t take long, having measured out the muesli and pumpkin seeds before our run, and it was rather relaxing.  And I didn’t walk to the bus stop feeling headachy, as I have been.  I think by waiting til I got to work meant I was setting myself up for overeating later on.

Getting The Hunger back is all about making sane decisions about food, not based on emotions and/or mindless chocolate purchases.  I am determined to continue and stay fired, even when I am away on my holiday.  Lordy, I hope the food ain’t too wacky in the Baltics.

72 Results

I have added a Search thingy to my sidebar.  Now you can see the disturbingly high number of times I have written the word ‘chocolate’. 

I’ve been working this weekend.  In fact I’m at work right now, bad Dietgirl.  11am – 7pm Saturday and Sunday.  Then back to my other job in the morning.  That’ll be 13 days in a row when I finally get my day off next Sunday.  I am planning to finish this weekend job at the end of September after I’ve earned enough to pay for our next trip, and it won’t come a moment too soon. 

I’ve just realised today the terrible toll it has taken on my health.  Tacking a couple of shifts onto the end of a normal Monday to Friday job really seems to screw up my body clock.  I didn’t get up til 9.30am yesterday, missing my schedule run, and then when I got home from work at 8pm I slumped down to watch the Olympics.  The only productive thing I did was to get my laundry done.  Today isn’t looking much better. Well I remembered to book in for my Body Pump class, that’s something!

After fantastic week of healthy choices, my eating has been ordinary this weekend.  We were out of salad ingredients and since I slept in I didn’t get time to replenish our supply. So it was ham on toast for lunch.  Not ideal.  And Thai takeaway for dinner, non-greasy but not the best choice.  I was so proud of myself for resisting the giant box of chocolate biscuits, but then had two tiny Cadbury Heroes chocolates.  I have been trying to take a Quality Not Quantity approach and only having sparing amounts of lovely dark choc, this was just being sloppy today.  And that led to me adding butter to my toast when I had my break, then eating an Aero Chocolate Mousse.  Someone had left a six-pack of them in the fridge with a sign, Please Take One.  I scoffed one then nearly had another, just because it was there.

This really disturbed me, how quickly one sliver of chocolate can lead to a series of poor choices.  But as a brilliant reader wrote to me yesterday, "If you bite it, you gotta write it".  So it all will go in the journal, and I will know that I cannot have one little Cadbury Hero without it triggering off that craving.  You gotta learn from these things.

I cannot bloody wait to reclaim my wekeends. I was gazing rather pathetically out the bus window last night, looking at all those carefree folks enjoying the Edinburgh Fringe and wondering why the bloody hell I wasn’t out there living it up. Roll on September…

Forgive me if I sound a little flat today, blame the sugar or the fact that my lovely Boy is off gallavanting across the countyside again.

It seems all we ever bloody do is skip the country.  You may remember me bawling in February when he went to Canada for two weeks.  Then I went away for a week around Scotland when my mum visited.  Then he went to Romania for a week for work.  Then I went to Russia for three weeks.  Now he is off to France on his motorbike for two weeks driving round the Alps and down to the Riviera.  After that, he is back for one day before I go to the Baltics (Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia) for two weeks.

(Btw, it may sound ridiculous and indulgent, all this travel.  But as you know I am here on a Working Holiday Visa, and the idea is to see Europe while you’re living on the right side of the world, hence my crazy working hours to pay for it. And he just bought his bike and is off with his mate to celebrate finally finishing his PhD.)

If you add all that up, that is almost three months apart out of the ten we’ve been together.  All this saying goodbye is exhausting.  This time I managed to hold my shit together, unlike when I left for Russia and cried for a good two hours. Hehe.

He just sent me a text message from the ferry to say he left his camera at home by mistake.  Which is *my* camera, incidentally.  How can you go on holiday without a camera?  He is so bloody disorganised.  And he just texted again to say, "Look out the window, the ferry is going past Edinburgh".  I cannae see you, dear, but hope you’re having fun…

What did I say about holding my shit together this time? Ummm…


I guess I am just all too aware that I only have 7.5 months til my visa expires.  What will become of us? O for shame! Star-cross’d lovers, and all that wank.  I still find it bloody amusing and baffling that I even have a boyfriend, let alone this whole Immigation Department Will Tear Us Apart palaver.

You Are What You Eat

There’s this show on Channel 4 called You Are What You Eat.  The basic premise is you get two fat people with disgusting eating habits and a bossy nutritionist tells them what they’re doing wrong.  She leaves them with an eating plan and returns 8 weeks later to find they’ve lost weight, and HURRAH! Two reformed fatties are released back into society!

This show simultaneously fascinates and appalls me.  They have scoured the British Isles to uncover the most truly extreme cases of poor eating.  Last week’s couple would put seven sugar cubes in each cup of tea, and had a separate freezer just for their ice cream supply.  The folk on the week before fried their eggs in two inches of oil and each drank two litres of Coke a day.  The week before that was a family who had processed meat and ketchup sandwiches for lunch and take out for every dinner.  Their cupboards were stuffed with chocolates, cookies, cakes and crisps.  It was truly horrifying.

Dr Gillian McKeith is the bossy nutritionist in question.  She barges into the houses of these apparent freaks, ransacks their pantries and expresses her shock and disapproval at the complete lack of nutrition in their diet.  Then they get a table and lay out the food these people have eaten in a week, so they can be visually shocked by their own gluttony.  One family had gone through four litres of oil in a week.

Now that the fatties have been thoroughly chastised, Dr G gets them to poke out their tongues so she can tell them they’re lacking in all sorts of vitamins and must have no sex drive and raging PMS. She then gets them on the floor, shirts lifted, so she can prod their towering bellies and tell them their digestive systems are in crisis.  Then she whisks them off to a clinic for a colonic irrigation, where each week we’re subjected to their pained expressions as their crumbly fecal matter whimpers down a tube.

And that’s just before the first commerical break.  When we come back we get a shot of the couple in their bathing suits, the camera on the floor looking up as to make their bodies look as wide as possible.  Then Dr G sits them down to tell them, "Your poos are terrible! I’ve never seen such terrible poos! You have no fibre in your diet!".  When the fat people look suitably ashamed, Dr G says, "When I’m finished with you, your poos will be so great you will gather your family round to look at them!".

Just when I am ready to vomit we get a beautiful shot of another table full of food, this time all the wholesome stuff they will be eating for the next two months.  It looks gorgeous, oodles of fresh fruit and vegies and lentils, seeds.  Many of the couples have been prescribed vegetarian diets, while some had chicken and fish included.  In another piece of champagne televison, they always have footage of the fatties being spoonfed some lentil mush or pureed quinoa and cabbage (whatever).  They and always they gag and moan and exclaim, "I ent gonnae eat tha’!".  Then you’ll see them wrinkling up their noses at Dr G’s menus, complaining about the exercise, whatever makes them look the most pathetic and ungrateful and a reinforces the stereotype of fat people being miserable lazy bastards.

(Observation – have you noticed how Fat Brits on television are always portayed as prickly and defensive?  Compare and contrast with our large friends across the Atlantic.  Fat Americans will break down and cry on the shoulder of a TV psychologist and say, Yes! I am fat and weak and I had a terrible childhood. I surrender, please help me! — whereas Fat Brits on telly tend to be cranky, proud of their beer/lard diet and full of hiss and crackle when Experts try to tell them what to do.)

Next up we have footage of the people muddling through the week and generally cocking it up, all accompanied by a smarmy, condescending, Hehe Get A Load Of These Hopeless Fatties voiceover.  Then Dr G pays a "surprise visit" to see how they’re doing and give them a patronizing lecture in her bossy Scots accent, "If you don’t do what I say, you will have no sex drive and/or YOU WILL DIIIIEEE!". 

So then they make a begrudging effort and find themselves actually quite enjoying their new diet.  There’s all of thirty seconds dedicated to this part of the process, then you get magic wand noise and voila, it’s Week 8, and look at them now! 

Dr G drops by to see how her minions are doing.  "Oh my GAWD!" she trills, "LOOK at you.  You’re a whole new PERSON!"

Cue the former fatties, awkwardly spinning round and grinning into the camera. They almost always seem to have lost two to three stone (about 30-40 lb) and look fantastic.  The makeover and new hairdo courtesy of Channel 4 certainly helps their cause.

"So Mrs and Mrs Fatty," chirps Dr G,  "Eight weeks ago you were staring death in the face.  But look at you now! Do you feel good?"
"Oh we feel GREAT.  We have SO much energy."
"And your sex drive?"
"Oh we fuck like rabbits, at least twice a day."
"And your poos?"
"Solid as a rock."

Dr G asks if they will continue with her regime and of course they chime in, "Yes Dr G".  Satisfied, she hops back onto her broomstick and disappears down the dingy suburban street in search of her next victim.  Roll credits.

Now like I said, I tune in every week.  And I like her diet plans, they are reasonable and full of delicious food.  They’re not extreme, they’re something you could follow for life.  I admire her attempt to try and help Brits eat better while simultaneously flogging her book.  I think her heart is in the right place.  I just worry about what happens to these people once Dr G is out of their lives.  Has she really taught them anything?  Has their mindset changed?  Do they know how to carry on this new lifestyle without her spontaneous checkups?

They look so pleased with themselves, all brimming with optimism and growing confidence, but they worry me.  When asked if they’d keep the new regime, one lady said, "Of course.  But not as strict, like Dr Gillian.  I’m really missing gravy…"

And another episode, where a fat family was apparently reformed, they asked the kids how they were coping.

"I miss McDonalds. And Burger King."
"And KFC," chimed in another kid.
"I think we should just have it once a month."
"Or once a week, maybe."
"Or maybe just once a day."

I worry what happens when the cameras have gone away.

I’m also troubled by the extreme cases they show.  When you see the list of what these people ate in a week scrolling down the screen (6 packets chocolate biscuits, 20 loaves white bread, 10 hamburgers, 12 litres soda), the average viewer at home is squealing, "Oh my god! That is disgusting! Well, at least I’m not that bad," then reaches for their own bag of chips.

By showing these extremes I think many people will think they’re off the hook.  I know I’ve done it myself. I know a lady who’s a bit of a serial dieter. She’s dumped Weight Watchers and now she’s on Atkins.  She was blabbing on about how Atkins really works and she can eat her roast peppers and beef for lunch and no carbs.  So I look at the "meat" she is eating and it is some processed schnitzel type thing, coated in some hodge podge of crumbs, sugar, spices and E numbers.  Carb free, my arse.

Of course, I am all smug there with my salad roll and thinking, "Well jeez, I’m not that bad," and ignoring the fact I ate half a block of chocolate the night before (albeit dark) and slept in and missed my Pump class.  It’s all very well to be horrifed by someone else’s eating habits, but one really needs to watch what you’re putting in your own gob and what it’s doing to you.

Raspberries and Bacon

Dietgirl Presents: A Week of Unfinished Blog Entries


Will need to come back to this day later. It was a biggun.



I did a Body Pump class this morning. I hadn’t been for a wee while. Okay, there was nothing wee about that while. I just checked my diary where I religiously write down every scrap of exercise. My last class was 31 May.

The class was at 6.30AM, it’s almost midday now and my muscles are still trembling. My forearms actually ache as I type. But it was so good! After such a long absence I had to put my weights down again (sigh) but I felt everything. My triceps burned right away, usually I have trouble nailing the triceps but today my form was excellent. The biceps were the same, and the lunges nearly killed me.

Oh but it’s all so good. Why did I ever stop? There’s nothing better than a Pump class, mindlessly lifting away while you mind is free to wander. Today I was thinking about raspberries. And bacon. Not together, though. Mostly I was thinking about exercise and the beautiful calm it gives me. Already I was plotting when I could come to another class, how I was going to fit it in with the running schedule.

I’m finding it difficult to schedule all this exercise in. Lovely Julia’s walk/run program is 4 sessions a week, but I need to fit in three gym visits a week in order for my hefty membership to be financially viable. Right now I don’t quite feel fit enough to do all that. Next week I will shoot for the Friday Pump class again and perhaps a Body Balance, I could do with a good stretch.


I can barely walk. I feel like my chest has been ripped open with those chest-rip-opener thingies they have on ER. But I today I managed to get through my entire Saturday shift without eating anything from the biscuit tin. The previous Sunday I ate four chocolate digestives and then read the label (hydrogenated vegetable oil, etc) and wept.


Bad, bad walk/run this morning. I normally eat half a banana and some water before heading out, but I woke up late so forgot to eat (6AM is the only time I could ever possibly *forget* to eat). I was so, so very weak and mostly walked the 50 minutes I was out. Energy level never caught up for the rest of the day. Will not do that again.


Here we are again, up to date. I am bored off my tits at work and looking at recipes on the BBC Food website. It’s not a good idea to look at recipes when you’re hungry. It’s the usual 3 o’clock munchies. I have eaten my stash of apples and dried apricots, and I am bored with pumpkin seeds and almonds. I deliberately left my wallet at home so I couldn’t raid the chocolate machine. But all I can think about it chocolate. Run me a bath of molten chocolate and I shall go splish splashing in it.

This entry makes no sense but is designed to let you know I am still alive!