Freaky Friday

It's unreasonable to be as delighted as I am that it's Friday. You see, I've got this in-built Joy-o-meter that goes off every Friday morning. I've always had it and it came with some really great free extras: the silly-mood-matix and the get-stuff-done-fastermabob. Unfortunately the Joy-o-meter has also got a good-god-girl-get-control-of-what-you're-eating dial which, in my experience, has a nasty habit of falling off.

And that's what happened this morning. Things started to go horribly wrong at breakfast. Mr Slimma was quietly eating his toast and butter and I'd already enjoyed my Weetabix when all of a sudden the room went all kind of hazy and slow motion.

Next thing I knew I was hovering vulture-like over the bread bin and Inner Bitch was standing in the door-way rubbing her hands together with glee.

'That's it, why not enjoy two big fat slices of bread and jam! It's Friday. You know you want to!'

By the time Inner Goddess appeared (says she got caught in traffic – those pesky trams!) and got me out of IB's clutches I was one slice down and wearing so much jam round my gob I could have been mistaken for a deranged Paloma Picasso.

'Thanks IG. But what am I going to do about this missing dial? I'll never get through the weekend if I don't find it!'

'Oh for heaven's sake, you're a smart girl, be resourceful! I can't always be here to save the day – and besides, I don't look good in dungarees!'

And with that she was off.

Bummer. What am I going to do now? It'd be easier if it was a boiler. You can get a plumber out for that. But, no, no, there's doesn't seem to be a listing for Joy-o-meter Maintenance in the Yellow Pages.

So you know what that means (cue horror film music)…DIY!

Will let you know how I get on on Monday!

Shop till you drop!

Watch out Edinburgh. Inner Goddess is dragging me out shopping today.
It's likely to go something like this…

Me: Don't know why you're bothering. NOTHING EVER FITS RIGHT!

IG: You haven't even got off the bus yet so how about you drop the attitude and give it a chance?

Me (sulking): Fine, but I don't see why today will be any different. When I die and they come to carry out my corpse, I'll probably still be wearing my jeans and this b****y blue anorak. 'Wow,' they'll be saying, 'cool vintage outfit! She should be in a museum!'

IG: Stop exaggerating. There's lots of nice clothes out there, even for you! I'm confident we'll find you something.

Me: Prove it!

IG (determined): You're on!

4 hours and 15 fitting rooms later…

IG (exasperated): Now that IS lovely. No, it doesn't make you look like an explosion in a sausage factory. No, your bum is not going to black out the sun, and NO I don't think the colour could best be described as one shade lighter than slurry . Honestly, I despair. I give up. You win! Let's go home.

Me: OK, but there's just one more place I'd like to try first.

Back on the bus...

Me (vindicated!): Told you it was a total waste of time!

IG (resigned!): Not entirely. I'm just LOVING the new anorak.

If I could turn back time...

Today is my 9^th wedding anniversary and it's got me all wistful.

I felt a million dollars that day. I had a great dress, Jennifer Aniston would have died to have my hair, Mr Slimma didn't forget to turn up, my Dad actually danced to Prince and, miracle of miracles for Scotland, the sun shone all day so I was spared the fashion faux-pas of wearing wellies with my dress at our al fresco reception.

When friends talk about the day, there are always two other things that get a mention:

My new boss' stylish freeform dancing that led to a woman being carted away by the paramedics!

AND

The cake!

I was having none of that fruitcake nonsense. My cake (notice, it wasn't OUR cake!) was going to be a veritable orgy of chocolate and strawberries.

And it really was! It was so delicious in fact that the top layer actually got stolen, foiling my plan to gobble the rest of it for breakfast the next day. Never did find the culprit.

Anyway, looking back, perhaps my waistline was destined for disaster even then. Perhaps I should've incorporated an extra line into my vows. Maybe something along the lines of...

'I promise that you will not wake up one day to discover that your wife has been hijacked and replaced by a tellytubby.'

Hindsight, it's a wonderful thing!

Why now?

I was ambushed on my 40th birthday last year. Instead of a lovely gift, 13lb of spare tyre and love handle parachuted in sneakily and set up camp around my middle.

'You are now 15 stone. Happy Birthday Tubster!' read the card.

Up till then the flab assault had been a bit more gradual and, while I knew it was happening, I was frankly 'doing an ostrich'.

From time to time I'd rally and have a stab at a new diet plan. The F2 (the windy diet!), Low-carb (death by steak) and a handful of others. Sure, they all did what they said on the tin, but nothing was sustainable – for me. I'd lose a few pounds, get bored or depressed with the effort of it all and eventually chuck it in.

'Oh well, I guess it's just in my genes,' I'd moan, as another chocolate cake hopped into my shopping basket. All the while, though, the certain knowledge that the elves would eventually launch a midnight fat-raid and I'd wake up slim and gorgeous kept me sane.

Fortunately, two weeks ago, Inner Goddess intervened. And uh-oh, she was wearing her Wonder Woman outfit so I KNEW she meant business.

'Don't know about it being in your genes, dear, but it's certainly in your jeans. Look at you - you're going to burst and the blast is gonna wipe out entire continents. Not even Morgan Freeman will be able to save us. For the last time, there is no delta force of fat stealing elves SO GET A GRIP!'

It was a cruel blow.

'Bbbbut the fresh deserts counter is always going to sing to me like a Siren, I'm never going to love the gym and I have the attention span of a gnat when it comes to dieting. How will I ever succeed?' I simpered.

'You will dig deep young woman!' boomed IG, whirling around scarily in her stars and stripes pants and lassoing me into submission. 'HENCEFORTH YOU WILL QUIT YOUR EXCUSES, START A HEALTHY EATING PROGRAMME, MOVE YOUR LARDY BUM OFF THAT SOFA… AND YOU WILL BLOG EVERY WEEKDAY UNTIL YOU ARE SLIM, GOT THAT????'

'Yes, ok, I will, promise, yup, made your point. I'll do anything you say, just please remove your lasso - it's burning my bingo wings.'

That's why!

It's Play-a-weigh!

Are scales a slimmer's best friend or should every set on the planet be rounded up and crushed?

If you'd asked me that at the beginning of my weight loss adventure two weeks ago, I'd have personally chauffeur driven Chardonnay, my sarcastic, smarmy set, to the tip and pulled the crusher lever myself.

But oh what a difference two weeks makes.

Tip-toeing on for my weekly weigh-in this morning (because of course you're gonna be lighter when you do that!), imagine my surprise when instead of, 'Oi mammoth, get off, you're gonna break me!" Chardonnay piped up with, 'Greetings Goddess, MY how beautiful you look this fine morning, and oh, how fabulous, you've lost another 3lb! Well done!', followed by a quick rendition of Cliff Richards' 'Congratulations'.

'THAT's more like it, Chardonnay!' I chirped. 'You'll need to work on your musical repertoire, but that was a big improvement. Keep this up and I'll let you stay.'

Pause.

"Thank you Ma'am, and may I just add how particularly lovely you hair looks with those sunbeams bouncing off it. Like pure gold - a little piece of heaven. Quite exquisite in fact..."

'OK, Chardonnay, I see what you're up to. Don't push it.'

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And just in case any of you have NOT seen this...it made my weekend! Enjoy!

Will you survive the weekend?

It's a war zone out there!

Picture it...you've been 'good' all week, eating healthily, keeping an eye on the alcohol consumption. Suddenly it's FRIDAY! You head to the pub straight from work with the best intentions of 'just having one'. Boom, next thing you know it's noon on Saturday, your frontal-lobe is begging for mercy and the ONLY thing you can possibly do now to pacify the troups is break out the bacon.

Well, you might as well, you've already consumed an extra week's calories in one night anyway, right?

No? Lucky you!

But even if you've not been out spreading your particular brand of joy to the world on a Friday night, you'll certainly be aware of the work of some of the other guerilla squads that are out to break you before Monday: the pizza guzzling husband, the tubby friends who arrive at your door all smiles and packets of Pringles; and my particular nemesis: restaurants that don't do 'healthy' anything.

So what's a girl to do? Stay in, eat carrots and hunker down till Monday with a tub of cottage cheese? God no! I'm going to do what any good general would do. PLAN, TOOL UP, and FIGHT BACK!

As Mr T would say: ' I pity the fool that messes with my healthy weekend!'

See you Monday, when my scales await!

Size 18 Drama Queen

Dare I?

Dare I try on my size 18 trousers?

Hmmm. It's only been a week and a half since I started my flab-fighting crusade. Can I really expect miracles so soon? Maybe I'll just stick with my trusty size 20 fatpants for another week.

'Oh go on! Try them,' goaded Inner Bitch, losing an accusing forefinger in the blancmange that is my belly and clearly hoping to revel in my certain failure.

But I'm feeling so chipper these days, not even IB has enough negativity to dampen my enthusiasm. SO I DARED - slowly!

"Woooo-hoooo, would you look at that!'

Size 18 waistband nonchalantly passed through Checkpoint Charlie (my hips) without the slightest hint of torture or interrogation and took a police escort (sirens and everything!) all the way up to my belly button. Once there, not even that usually cruel sartorial thug, the zip, put up a fight. Bingo, the eagle had landed!

IB was NOT a happy bunny.

'Well, that'll just be fluid retention you've lost. It's a fluke, a fluke I tell you! You'll be back in your fatpants within a week, mark my words!'

'Oh bog off IB. You are the weakest link, goodbye!'

With the Bitch in retreat, there I was, resplendent in my size 18s in front of the mirror, brimming with pride - welling up, even.

'I'd like to thank everyone who has supported me on this gargantuan weight loss journey; my agent, Mr Slimma, George Clooney..'

Inner Goddess was applauding. 'Now THAT's what I call an Oscar winning performance! Move over Gwyneth and Halle!'

I was just getting into my stride, you know, when you're thanking everyone from God to the garden gnomes in B&Q that you are SURE winked wickedly in your direction last week, when all of a sudden...

KA -BOOM!

IG hit the deck. 'What was THAT?', she whimpered. 'The boiler, An earthquake? Your stomach?'

'Nah, it's just Shakespeare there falling back down to earth,' scoffed Inner Bitch.

'Oh, shut it, the pair of you. I'm off!

And with that I flounced off to my desk - maybe with just a teeny-weeny extra wee bit of a wiggle!

Return of the Saint

Why is it sometimes SO hard to get up in the morning?

To be fair it's not usually my problem. I was hardwired as an early bird at birth, which usually makes mornings a breeze and afternoons a chore. My brain normally starts overheating at about 3pm, steam can be seen appearing from my ears by about 5, and I've had complete grey-matter malfunction by bedtime. So if I'm going to do anything productive I KNOW I had better get up early and steal a march.

But as I stuck a big toe out from under the duvet this morning, Inner Sloth grabbed it and stuck it firmly back in.

'Why are you such a goody-goody? What use is working at home if you can't slack off now and again. Breakfast can wait, your work can wait, and that daft blog of yours can certainly wait. Take a load off!'

No flies on me. I can only surmise that Inner Bitch, raw from her beating yesterday, had sent Inner Sloth to do her bidding instead.

'As tempting as that sounds,' I retorted, 'I know where that leads. It leads to 4 more chapters of the book I'm currently hooked on, a mid-day fry-up (well, it's brunch then, isn't it, need to catch up by eating more!) and the deeply unsatisfactory feeling that I have turned into Hilda Ogden, so if you don't mind, I'll give the lie-in a miss, thanks.'

'Have it your way,' sighed Inner Sloth, sloping back into the wardrobe (no idea what she finds to do in there all day), 'but I'LL BE BACK.'

'I don't doubt it,' I yawned.

So I got up, had a nice hot shower, big mug of coffee and the now ceremonial bowl of Weetabix, and I'm at my desk blogging nonsense already. Even done a spot of work and it's only 11am! What's more, I've got some trampolining and walking built into my schedule today too.

'So stick that in your wrinkly stockings Inner Sloth!'

I know, it's such a little victory - so why does it feel so darn good?

Ding dong the Bitch is dead!

I haven't seen myself 'properly' in a mirror less than fully dressed for years. Myopia can be a real plus! Sure I've always been 'aware' of my wobbly bits, but that's not the same as actually SEEING them. But as I needed to take some body measurements to chart my progress through this odyssey, I thought I'd better put my specs on and do the job properly.

I had just got the tape measure round my waist when suddenly I heard HER.

'Good grief, who let the elephant in?'

It was Inner Bitch.

Unlike Inner Goddess, who can rile me but usually means well, Inner Bitch (a disturbing blend of Isadora from Bewitched and Anne Robinson) KNOWS when I'm vulnerable and can't wait to put the boot in.

'You've got so much extra flab, why don't you just donate it to science, or Paris Hilton or something. You really shouldn't be so greedy. And you'll never succeed with this blogging crusade of yours. Who ever heard of anything as stupid as blogging yourself slim. What a loser.'

Now on a bad day this might have had me heading for the Tunnocks tea cakes, but not today. I was ready for her this time. I'd brought reinforcements, allies! I'd brought... Paul McKenna!

'Don't listen to her Slimma. She's got a bad red wig and terrible clothes. YOU HAVE A BEAUTIFUL BODY! YOU FEEL CONFIDENT! NOW, I WANT YOU TO IMAGINE YOURSELF AT YOUR IDEAL WEIGHT AND STEP INTO THAT IMAGE NOW!'

'OK Paul, if you say so!. Here goes...'

'Wow! Hello there. Where did you come from? I know for a fact that my M&S knickers never looked that good on me before.'

Cyndi Crawford stared back. The Bitch was gone.

'Cheers Paul! And for your next trick?'

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Meanwhile, talking of transformations, look what happens when you drink 8 glasses of Evian a day!...

Anti-social soup

I'm issuing an ASBO on the veg and bean soup recipe I tried out at the weekend.

Don't get me wrong, it was delicious and brimming with nutrients, but blimey, they can give up lobbying for wind farms and just plug me into the grid instead because today I could single-handedly power the nation.

(It's ok people, I work at home. You're safe! )

But what's it all about? Isn't weight loss hard enough without the very foods that are meant to be good for you trying to ruin the party? I can't look at a cabbage now without hearing it sneer, "EAT ME FATTY AND I'LL MAKE YOU PAY!"

What's more, why should we expect kids to grow up liking vegetables that can make them deeply unpopular? Hmm, come to think of it, maybe that's the real reason Jamie's School Dinners haven't taken off. Kids instinctively know something we adults have been far too stupid to realise: Veg =social suicide!

Well, I'm not having it. I won't be beaten into submission by a callous kidney bean or an over-superior Savoy cabbage. I will have my veg and eat it! But if I don't want to be confined to quarters for the rest of my days, I'm going to have to get a lot more strategic about who gets to party in the pot together in future.

In the meantime, as the Pythons' would say, always look on the bright side... Got any tyres that need inflated?

Strictly Gone Bonkers

Oooh, that hit a nerve.

I've just heard that Arlene Phillips (super talented choreographer and all round dance wizzard) has been axed from the judging panel on Strictly Come Dancing, to be replaced by... Alicia Dixon.

Has the world gone mad?

Sure, singer Alicia Dixon can shake her booty fabulously and was a very popular ex-winner of the show, but she's no Arlene Phillips. It looks like a clear-cut case of beauty and youth trumping age and experience, no doubt in a greedy attempt to boost ratings by stealing a few more younger viewers from the X-factor. What a shallow world we live in! And blow me down, it doesn't really seem to affect men, does it? What's Brucey got that Arlene doesn't? OK don't answer that!

And while I'm having a rant, call me a fuddy-duddy (pass the Werthers), but is anyone else as perplexed as I am by our national obsession with CELEBS? You can't even get your hair cut without them invading your personal space these days. ENOUGH! I wish Kerry Katona would just take a one-way ticket to Iceland and be done with it, that Posh and Becks would split if only so we wouldn't have to hear any more about the jealousy, sarongs, nannies, yadayadayada. Becks is a great footballer - focus on that. Posh is a great coat hanger - fantastic! Kerry is...actually I've no idea what Kerry is, and I couldn't care less.

But I'm going to take an uncharacteristic break from my celebrity ennui and take a stand on this one:
Arlene Philips is a brilliant choreographer and judge on Strictly.
Leave her be!

And breathe...

Still there? Wondering what that rant has to do with my weight loss journey?

Simple. I rather like dancing. I used to do quite a lot of it when I was wee. And while I was far too troll-like to be good at ballet I still have my pre-Bronze medal in tap dancing, and have been known to shimmy around the living room, hairbrush in hand, with the best of 'em. So while I wait longingly for the next series, the Arlene debacle has inspired me to get off my lardy bum and seek out a salsa club. It'll help shift the pounds and, who knows, I might even get good at it.

Watch your back Alicia!

I said I'd stick with it but this is ridiculous

I'm embracing my Inner Goddess again. Poor girl, she's been hideously neglected lately. I'd even heard rumours that she'd been mugged by my inner sloth, but I'm happy to report that she's back, and she's looking pretty darned impressive.

Two nights ago she gamely declared that we were having risotto funghi for tea and would I mind doing the honours.

Not at all, I declared. (I was even wearing an apron - seriously, it was that amazing!).

I have to say, I was a little apprehensive. Risotto recipes have often been my culinary Waterloo. I blame Jamie Oliver for burning one of my good pans, and I almost always seem to run out of stock long before the rice has softened.

But IG was confident. 'This time you have nothing to fear. This recipe's foolproof. Even you can't stuff up with this one.'

OK, less of the condescension, let's just get on with it, shall we?

But to be fair, IG was right. It was so good, Mr Slimma had to be banned from seconds so that we'd have enough for another night.

BIG mistake!

Last night as IG peered into the tupperware of fridge leftovers I could tell we had a situation.

'Call the fire brigade, your risotto is trapped!'

Trapped?

'Yes... look!'

Sure enough, over night my Italian masterpiece had welded itself to the sides and was clinging on for dear life.

To cut a long story short let's just say that power tools were not required but it took ages to get it into the pan. And even then it didn't yield to the flame (or my swearing).

Oh no, now the miserable Italian blob fought back, smothering my wooden spoon and morphing into what could only kindly be described as, well... GLUE!

As I said, it's my Waterloo.

Chinese, anyone?

I'm on the rebound

Ha! Got you! You thought I was going to confess that I'd messed up already, didn't you?

No sireee, it's day 3 and I'm eating Weetabix like a pro, have broken with previously ingrained protocol by giving FRUIT a look-in before noon, and I'm learning to love tap water.

And Mr Slimma's still here, so I'm not on that kind of rebound either.

No, today I'm talking 'rebounding'. That's mini-trampolining to you and me. I bought one when dinosaurs last roamed the earth and after an initial burst of enthusiasic bouncing it's been fossilizing in the garage ever since.

But according to NASA I really can burn 'gazillions' of calories by attempting to defy gravity on one of these babies. So this morning I dusted it down and was preparing for launch... you know, doing all the usual stuff like...

1. Prepare suitable indoor launchpad (you didn't really think I was going to let anyone watch did you?) with high enough ceiling. Check.

2. Strap into a boulder-holder sturdy enough to prevent eye injuries. Check.

3. Dig out some inspirational music for lift off. Check.

4. Notify next of kin. Check.

So I climbed aboard, found my balance and was just about to 'go-for-launch' when a little voice inside screamed: 'Abort! Abort!'

Perhaps best let the Weetabix and fruit digest first, eh?

Saboteur 1: The hungry husband?

Is it just me, or does anyone else blame their other half for their weight gain?

I know, I know, it's not 'really' a valid excuse as we are each responsible for what we put in our mouths, but as mr slimma devoured half a loaf of bread before dinner last night - a common occurrence - I noticed it wasn't half making me ravenous.

By the time dinner was ready (healthy tacos, if anyone's interested) a pack of half starved wolves couldn't have devoured it faster than I did.

But unfortunately by the time 9pm came along and I was sitting down to enjoy the delectable Simon Baker in The Mentalist, I felt ravenous again. (Yes, I know, Simon Baker is enough to make any woman with a pulse ravenous, but I digress).

So what did I do? Did I head to the fridge to track down some cheese, raid the biscuit tin, or hover in front of the fridge until soggy celery miraculously became appetising? No, dear reader, I did not! I thought about it for a moment and realised that I was just acting on impulse. I wasn't really hungry. In the end a cup of peppermint tea did the trick.

So I have to conclude that my husband really isn't to blame. It's not his fault that he can eat for Britain (and a few other generously sized islands) without putting on an ounce.

It's down to me to stop and THINK about what I'm eating; to consider whether or not I'm actually hungry or if I'm just overeating on autopilot.

Hang on, let me check my CV. Yes, there it is...

Skills: Autopilot eating expert.

Hmm. Definitely time for a rethink.

I'm sick, tired, and fed up of the spare tyres, the aching back and the fitting room rage. So....THIS IS IT! (apologies, Michael Jackson). Let the weight loss commence.

This morning after a year's absence, I hopped onto the scales. After cleaning my glasses to make sure I was seeing the numbers clearly, shaking the scales vigorously and double checking the batteries (just in case) I have to accept that I AM 15st 13lb.

As I jumped off, I'm sure I even heard them laugh at me.

Well I'm not laughing. I'm 40 and I've spent a decade talking with my (also tubby) best friend about how great it will be 'when we lose weight'. Since then, we've probably both fit every size ranging from a 12 to a 20, experiencing the joy of the slim times and passing each other the cake in commiseration during the tubby times.

Well, THIS IS IT. Yes, really. This blog is my journey. First target? 1 stone in 6 weeks.

I am slimma, hear me ROAR!