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?