It may have something to do with being excessively premenstrual and if you do not believe I can be excessively premenstrual then speak to my husband. This, providing he is still alive, of course, and I have not throttled him. Anyway, this may have something to do with why I am blogging about diets. Because, the absolute worst time to be on a diet is a few days before your period. I am at that point now and my desire for something sweet is so overwhelming that this morning I almost strangled the milkman when he said he did not have any orange juice on his cart. What once seemed a sweet caring smile on the face of Rosemary Conley, now rather resembles the devil incarnate. In fact if dear Rosemary should pop her head round my front door I am likely to punch her lights out.
I first started dieting in earnest about five years ago. I was then, and hold your breath, almost thirteen stone. I never saw myself as thirteen stone of course. I was one of those fat people with anorexia in reverse. I never saw myself as fat.
I progressed from Marks and Spencer to Evans in a flash and thought absolutely nothing of it. Evans have much nicer clothes, I remember telling myself. In much the same way I progressed from a size 16 to a size 24 and still thought nothing of it. I consumed a curry, a pot of ice cream two bags of toffee popcorn and chocolate on a Friday night without a seconds thought. God, I was happy in those days! I mean who wouldn’t be happy eating whatever they like. Don’t you just hate the likes of Elizabeth Hurley who claim they watch what they eat but basically eat what they like, without gaining weight as they have some kind of special metabolism? Doesn’t it just make you want to throw up into your ‘Primark’ handbag? Or those other celebs such as Gwyneth, who kick box, do aerobics and Pilates and of course we must not forget the tantric sex. Okay, maybe it isn’t Gwyneth, but hey let her sue me. After all a celeb is a celeb after all. Don’t they just make you want to have a ‘Hello’ magazine burning party? All those, ‘You can look like’’ articles. Yes, I am sure we could easily look like them. All we need is a personal trainer, our own personal make up assistant, at least a million in the bank, a housekeeper, a full time nanny, a cook and five holidays a year on Branson’s yacht. Indeed, I feel quite convinced that after two months of that, along with the tantric sex of course, we must not forget that. I am certain, totally convinced in fact that I would look and feel twenty years younger and would probably have to trade Andrew in for a younger model. As it is at the moment, I rely on Boots protect and perfect, for keeping me young and rather think a twenty year old stud may not give me the time of day. Such is the price of obscurity.
So, it was in sheer contentment that I moved into our lovely little village and our lovely little cottage five years ago only to be asked by three of the villagers.
‘When is the baby due?’
Mortified and embarrassed. In my case hugely mortified, I decided to diet. No, I lie. It was after a lovely elderly gentleman offered me a seat on the train. He must have been all of eighty and I must have looked all of eight months pregnant! My stepdaughter was marrying in Egypt so I chose that occasion to aim for a slimmer me. I chose weight watchers at home. In a year I lost three stone and became a size 14. Andrew was delighted and there lies my problem. In a word, Andrew, whose favourite quote is.
‘No one likes a fat person.’
You heard right. He doesn’t use the quote. ‘I love you just the way you are.’
Oh no! Those types of quotes are only heard in ‘Bridget Jones’ films and certainly not in real life, at least not real life in this house. Correct me if I am wrong. On second thoughts, don’t correct me. I really couldn’t face another divorce.
This time around I am only a few pounds overweight. Easier to shift I thought. How wrong could I be? It is sheer torture. I sent for Rosemary Conley at home. When my parcel arrived I became quite excited. I assure you those initial feelings have well and truly gone down the drain with the mincemeat’s excess fat. Her magic measure has been agitatedly thrown to the back of a drawer and her measuring cups are scowled upon every morning. The one thing that is still lovingly stroked is the pot of Rosemary Conley firming cream. The only thing I seem to have lost is my sense of humour and on occasions my temper. I managed to break one pair of weighing scales and spend endless hours staring at my naked body in the bathroom mirror trying to see where the weight has come off. My jaw hurts from chomping on raw carrot and I am beginning to crave more than a drop of honey in my yogurt to satisfy my sweet tooth. But I persevere. After several weeks of this I try on the pair of trousers that have been so resistant the past few months. I hold my breath and pull them on. I grasp the button hole and pull them across. Guess what? They still don’t blooming fit! How can this be? After weeks of starvation and glugging down litres of water, not to mention humongous amounts of peeing, how can no weight have been lost? Is this some kind of cruel joke? But hold on…
‘You’ve lost weight, I can see it,’ says Andrew.
Well, that is good enough for me.
Ooh, must run, I have ‘Hello’ on the phone. My secret, you ask. I don’t really have one. I don’t need to watch my weight. Why? Because Andrew does it for me.