Cheese please

I have a yearning for cheese. Lots of cheese. This will have to do.

Cunning, this thinking out of the box slimming, eh? eh?

See you next week.

Wrap up your troubles...

I've got the low-down-humphing-about-and-what-the-hell-is-going-on-with-the-weather-anyway-blues. One minute it's clammy, the next it's chilly. Seems like before I've even had the chance to parade about in my wide-leg-linen trousers, the boots and woollies will be out, and summer will once again feel a brief and disappointing fling.

And it's not just me who's giving in to a bit of seasonal moaning. Scotland's grannies are really going for it (shit, what does that say about me?). If I hear 'the nights are fair drawing in' one more time, I'm going to have to chime in with my best 'Aye, and we're all DOOMED, Captain Manwaring, DOOMED!'

No, that'll never do. In true Monty Python tradition, I will take the high road and look on the bright side (now wasn't that cliche-tastic!). After all, I'll be wheeling out my trusty blue anorak soon - that crumply practical burka that spits in the face of fashion and provides safe haven for my most disobedient wobbly bits. Thank heavens I never chucked it out in March in a premature fit of slimma-girl zeal!

Seems I'm not the only one longing for her winter wardrobe, either. One London dwelling pal is getting pant-wettingly excited about the prospect of her winter garb and, get this, wearing tights! Now is it just me, or is that plain wrong?

Oh well, no idea where I was going with this but I feel much better now. A weather winge shared is clearly a weather winge halved.

And to be fair, the nights ARE fair...

It's written in the stars!

I'm a sucker for astrology. Or ass-trology as someone I once knew referred to it. And you know, I never really realised what a deep and meaningful insight that was until today.

Always on the lookout for sensible ways to lose lard, I decided to consult the 'Oracle'. That's TheTimes' in-house astrologist Shelley von Strunckel, in case you've been orbiting blindfolded on an asteroid in the Delta quadrant for the past decade or so. After all, she was spot on about those w**ker bankers.

And Pluto be damned, turns out she really DOES know everything:

"Although the Virgo New Moon doesn't actually take place for two weeks, you've nothing to lose by meditating on certain persistent issues."

Persistent issue eh? Well, that can only mean my lardy posterior. It's pretty damn persistent. Meditate, you say, Shell? Hmm, I reckon I could do that.

Yes, indeed...

For two weeks I shall 'meditate' my ass off!

Back from the brink?

It's been a while. And there's a reason for that. I fell off the flabfighting wagon, and flew giant-bum-first into a lorry en-route to the Cadbury factory.

Being buried in several tons of giant chocolate buttons aint easy. It took 4 months and regaining loadsaweight to escape (no, I have not yet dared face the piercing mockery of Chardonnay, my trusty scales).

But I'm not back here begging for sympathy. What would be the point?

Instead, I've decided to tune back in to my groaning body and once and for all try to get to the bottom of my self-sabotaging behaviour. What I discover, I will share. Inner Bitch is already back on board with her usual barrage of criticism. Inner Goddess is currently nowhere in sight. So for now, blog, it's just you and me. Just you and me.

Of course, if any of you flabbusters are still out there, and still give a flying Frys chocolate cream about my waistband, lurk and (even better) comment at will!

More as it flows...

Lettuce anyone?

So that's what friends are for!

Happy Easter flabbusting fans.

I'm slightly annoyed to report that since Feb my weight loss mission has ground to a halt. I've just not been in the mood to blog, or even to think about weight in any way, let alone write about it. Fortunately I haven't gained any weight. I'm still a genrous 14stone 7lb. Small mercies and all that!

I'm really here because Tubby Best Friend (TBF) who, by the way, has been losing weight like a trouper and is a whole stone lighter now (yay!) , gave me a Paddington Bear hard stare and a bit of a talking to over Easter.

I'm not sure if it was troughing a family sized bag of dorritos (Chilli Heatwave, mmmm) without drawing breath or one of my subtler clues, like asking the waiter to outline the dimensions of the 'Banofee Tower' on the desert menu, or discovering that one can easily do justice to an easter egg and a chocolate cake in the space of an hour and a half, that tipped her off, but let's just say...

I've been rumbled!

It's not that she yells you out. She's MUCH more cunning than that. She just peers at your fry-up from the safety of her Special K, declines a second glass of wine, and glows with the pride that only a slimmer who can suddenly cross her thighs without chafing can ever know.

Yes, it's a fact. TBF is now the undisputed master of psychological slimming warfare.

So here I am. Shamed into submission, ready to step away from the easter eggs and get back onto some kind of non-dieting slimming track.

Once more into the breach TBF!

I'll aim for a blog a week, two if I'm on a roll. If you're stil here, thanks for reading. Please leave your comments. I sure could use the encouragement.