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!...