Magic measures and Tantric sex

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.

Me at just under thirteen stone

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.
Me today and loving it.

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I’ve won an Oscar. Ok, it just feels like it!

Ooh never been so excited! Learnt today that my friend Marcia at Nuggets and Pearls has given me the Leibster Blog award. I am thrilled! Thank you so much Marcia. It is very exciting, like getting a blogger’s Oscar 🙂
I am thrilled to pass this on to five bloggers.
Here’s what the award is all about:

The Liebster award (“Liebster” is the German word for friend or love) originated in Germany. The aim of the award is to bring more attention to blogs with fewer than 200 followers.

These are the rules in accepting this award.
1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them. right mouse click the image and paste it to your side bar.
2. Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Post the award on your blog.
4. Bask in the love from the most supportive people on the Internet – other writers.
5. And best of all – have fun and spread the karma!
These are my five faves but I love you all 🙂
Tracey, whose blog always makes me smile.
http://theramblingsoftracey.blogspot.com/
Helen, whose poetry inspires me
http://www.poetrypoem.com/helenspoetry
S, whose pain and sadness I can relate to.
http://infertilehell.blogspot.com/
Katie, whose artwork gives me hope
http://lookoutforhope.wordpress.com/home/
Saeed, who has opened my eyes
http://supportibrahim.com/

What is the hatter with me!!


Indeed what is the hatter with me? Of course, I realise we all say things back to front sometimes. I feel quite certain that I am not the only person who has run for a bus whilst wearing a boob tube only to come face to face, or in my case boob to face with the bus driver! I am certain that I am not the only woman to wander around searching for her glasses while having them on. Or am I? Is it a rarity to return your library books along with one of your own books? I know you will all tell me it is quite common. And just as I finally convinced myself that what happened to me last Friday was not in the least bit unusual, convincing myself, in fact, that it was all down to hormones. After all they have been leading me a merry dance hadn’t they? Then my lovely husband Andrew commented that he thought I was stark staring mad!
‘Mad, that’s what you are. Stark, staring, mad.’
OK, maybe he didn’t use those exact words but I knew what he meant. Of course, I headed straight for the fridge and felt better almost right away. Well, after consuming two toffee yogurts with some honey followed by a Marks and Spencer meringue and half a box of left-over chocolates. So, what happened last Friday? OK, seeing as you’re twisting my arm, I shall tell you. Now, where should I begin? It started off fine enough. I have had plenty of time at home to get most things done and have not felt in the least stressed. Heaven knows why I am saying all this. In my defense I should be thinking of some excuse at least.
Friday is a special day in the Cook household. All sorts of weird and wonderful things go on here. Don’t you just wish you were me? I pop to the supermarket to buy something special for dinner. It is the end of the week, after all. Then I drop into the local video hire shop and rent two DVDs for us to watch that evening. And of course, the Pièce de résistance, the special treat food. Chocolate biscuits, savoury crackers and wine. Oh, yes, we know how to live, do Andrew and I. This particular Friday I seemed to have more time than usual. I popped into the town library. I hadn’t been there for some time and was impressed at the improvements that had been made and browsed the DVDs on offer and then looked at the books. Finally I headed for the counter, except there wasn’t one. I mean, there used to be one but now there isn’t one any more. It had just gone. How can a library be a library if you can’t check your books out? Then, I spotted it. A self-service, checkout counter. Oh no! It isn’t that I hate using these things. I just hate using them for the first time, even more so today when I have a stack of books and not a clue how to now safely leave the library with them without setting off all kinds of alarms. Any thought I had of stealing them are quickly dismissed. Instead, I stand, trying to look incognito while studying the borrowers as they use the new-fangled dangled check out. I convince myself if an eighty year old can do it, so can I. Not so. After a considerable amount of embarrassed fumbling I get the eighty year old to assist me and vow never to return. Relieved to be out of there I head to the supermarket. At least I know how to check out my goods there. Everything goes very well and I take my purchases to the till, pay and leave. I quickly pack the bags into the car as I sense someone waiting for my space. I dutifully take my trolley back and drive home with the radio blaring. I have DVDs, a nice dinner, delicious treats and the sun is shining. Back home, Andrew helps me unpack the goods and I make some tea and begin preparing lunch.
‘Did you get my text?’ asks Andrew, innocently.
‘Oh, did you send me one?’ Asks me stupidly. Obviously he did, or he wouldn’t be asking me if I received it.
‘I’ll check my phone,’ I say confidently walking into the lounge to fetch my handbag which is NOT on the table. I lean lazily across the arm of the chair for it but it ISN’T there either.
‘Is my bag in the kitchen?’ I shout, unconcerned.
‘No,’ answers Andrew in a wary voice as he obviously awaits my explosion,
‘Stupid, I must have left it In the car,’ I say cheerfully, strolling outside.
It ISN’T there. Good heavens, it isn’t there! My hand bag has disappeared!
I rush inside.
‘Oh my god, I must have left my bag in the shopping trolley.’
Andrew stares at me.
‘But you brought the shopping home, how could you have left it in the trolley?’ he says accusingly and I immediately want the floor to open up and swallow me.
‘Well, I pack the shopping and leave the handbag in the trolley. So when I went to put the trolley back in the trolley park I must have left it in it.’
He looks at me stupidly.
‘But that is a crazy thing to do. Why would you do that?’
I grab the phone and beg him to look up the number on the internet.
He makes a huffing sound.
‘You’re mad you are.’ He states, walking upstairs to his computer. Meanwhile a nice man answers the phone at Sainsbury’s.
‘Oh, hello, I am so sorry. I think I must be losing the plot,’ I stammer, thinking if I sound helpless he will most certainly say.
‘Oh, that handbag, yes we have it.’
‘I think I left my handbag in a shopping trolley.’
He doesn’t laugh. Is that a good or bad sign?
‘What does it look like?’
Doesn’t he know what a shopping trolley looks like? There are enough of them. Oh, of course, he means the handbag.
My mind goes blank. Why can’t I remember what my handbag looks like? Why is it I can only think of the credit cards in there and my Blackberry and driving licence and oh god, a spare pair of knickers!
‘It’s black,’ I hear myself saying. Well, that narrows it down doesn’t it? NOT. He sighs,
‘Oh, oh,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘It has Harrods on it.’
Oh god, do I now sound snooty?
‘Ah, yes we have it.’
My heart leaps and my legs stop trembling.
‘You’ll need to bring some identification, obviously.’
Well, obviously!
‘A passport would be good.’
I hang up and fly upstairs to Andrew.
‘They have it. I have to go back. See you in twenty minutes.’
I dash to the car and drive off, music blaring, and thinking how honest people are. It is as I am very near that I realise that I had forgotten the passport. I curse and feel like crying. What is the hatter with me? I park the car and spot the letter I had received from the DVLA when receiving my tax disc. I grab it and march up to customer services and thrust it in the man’s face before he can speak.
‘I left my handbag in a trolley and inside is a matching card to this,’ I say holding up my arm and shoving my radio iodine tag in his face. He steps back horrified. At last, my radio iodine treatment comes into its own.
‘What’s that for?’ he squeals.
‘Oh. It’s nothing really. You are quite safe. I am just a little bit radioactive. Oh, yes that’s my bag.’ I say spotting it on the counter.
Thankfully he has forgotten about the passport ID and almost throws the bag at me. I rush outside checking it frantically and then let out a deep sigh. Everything is there. Nothing missing. If only the same could be said about my head.

“I’m entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are…”

Waiting for Jack Bauer (In the meantime making do with Andrew)

I never in my wildest dreams, and I have some wild dreams, I can tell you, imagined I would be frantic to find a Betterware catalogue. But a week or so after someone had pushed it through my letterbox I am desperate to trace it. Somewhere within the pages is an item I now cannot live without and no one else seems to sell it. The latter probably is not strictly true but the I can’t live without it part, most certainly is. Of course up until a week ago I really couldn’t have cared less if I had one. After all I had Andrew (my husband) then. Ah, yes, that has got you thinking and wanting to read more. What has Betterware got, you are thinking, that can replace a husband? You are now thinking, could you use one, in fact, you are probably wondering, if perhaps you may even need one. In my case it was a culmination of things really but throwing Andrew out of the bedroom is the primary reason it is needed. Good god, I hear you women cry as you reach for the Yellow pages to search for your local Betterware representative. Although, of course, in this day and age of Technology, you are probably reaching for your Blackberry’s and searching on Google to find the item that can replace a husband in the bedroom. Why is it though, when I do not want a Betterware catalogue or any of their goods do I continually fall over the damn thing until the rep finally collects it? But when I do want it, it miraculously disappears only to turn up in the most unlikely place? Anyway, I found it, and there on page five is the item I covert. Of course, none of this would be necessary if I had a perfectly good thyroid and no they don’t sell perfectly good thyroid’s at Betterware but they do sell the next best thing. So, you are wondering what my thyroid or lack of one has got to do with all of this.
Last Monday, I had a second dose of radio iodine therapy. This in very simple terms means I am radioactive for 12 days. The lovely lady who administered the dose, well, if you call handing me a capsule in a long tube, administering. I rather think I performed the dirty deed actually. Yes, come to think of it, I remember they had all legged it before I had even brought my head back up. Anyway, she was quite stern about all the precautions I needed to take. The worst part is that you feel perfectly fine for the first forty-eight hours while you are spewing radiation everywhere. The power is quite intoxicating. The temptation to walk into Tesco and shout, ‘Step away from the Mackerel’ is overwhelmingly tempting. But of course, I didn’t. Instead I went straight home to a very happy Bendy who purred around my legs.
‘Go away,’ I cried. ‘Shoo, go next door.’
Not the usual greeting he receives. Of course, he ignored all my efforts to keep him at bay and has done for the past week and for some odd reason he seems to be more in love with me while I am potentially killing him then he ever was before. I phoned Nuclear medicine three days later in a panic.
‘What is the procedure regarding pets. After all they are very small and I have had a double dose.’ Anyone overhearing me would probably wonder what kind of double dose I had contracted. Dear me, one dreads to think. Accept no one is likely to get close enough to overhear for fear of death by radiation.
‘There is no legal requirement regarding pets, so he is ok.’
I tried to absorb what she was saying.
‘But it was a double dose.’
‘There’s no legal requirement.’
What she means is, If I kill him, I will be quite safe. The RSPCA can’t touch me. I continue with my shoo shooing to no avail. I even go into a massive panic when the pigeons fly into the garden. I don’t want to be the cause of a mass pigeon slaughter. I struggle to keep my towel separate from Andrew’s but he keeps mixing them up. I shout at him when he gets closer than an arm’s length and order him to the spare room at bedtime. This may sound easy to most of you but in our case the spare room is not even in the house! And no, I haven’t banished him to a hotel. Our spare room over the past few years has slowly become an office. So, we built a good size summer-house which converts into a very nice spare room but it is in the garden! Every night, we say a miserable goodnight to each other over the phones intercom. Of course, for many women this might be a dream come true. However, take a few seconds to consider the usefulness of your man, apart from the obvious, which we won’t even go into, except to say that when you are radiating radiation, it puts something of a damper on your libido. In my case, he has reluctantly become the spider catcher. Just five seconds of me screaming hysterically, while standing on the bed, usually after knocking over a glass of water in my trembling frenzy, is enough to have him grabbing a pillow and squashing the thing to death. Why don’t you kill them with radiation, I hear you ask. Well, they are hardy little suckers, these spiders. But the big problem right now is that Andrew shows no signs of rapidly turning into Jack Bauer in the near future. By the time he answers my frantic intercom ring, gets dressed, comes into the house, climbs the stairs and leisurely enters the bedroom, of course, the damn monster has gone. I spend the night lying in bed a quivering wreck. So, the answer is the spider catcher. At five pounds fifty pence, it is a bargain. The question is will I be able to get close enough to catch the spider? Watch this space.