Real Life Thinspiration

I stood staring at my laptop, mouth wide open in awe as I stared at the facebook photo my friend H had just posted.

When I first started at Bra Towers, I worked in the Customer Services department. The company was relocating to the midlands, and a group of around fifteen girls (myself included) had all been recruited as the company’s new Customer Service “Dream Team” based at the shiny new head office in Leamington Spa.

We all started as consultants, but before long it was obvious that we needed some team supervisors, and H was recruited as such, along with another colleague Emma. As the company expanded the management took advantage of the human resources degree that Emma had, and she moved on to head up our HR department...which essentially was just made up of her! I was promoted into Emma’s CS supervisor role alongside H, and over the course of a few years we formed a strong friendship, based around our jobs, our twenty a day fag habit, and generally just the fact that we found we shared the same daft sense of humour.

H has always been one of the most beautiful women I know. Striking even. With soft kind eyes, and calming nature, lustrous auburn hair (that could literally dazzle you it was always so glossy) and a mutley-like giggle that you couldn’t help but laugh at, she is just a genuinely beautiful person. Like myself though, H wasn’t a size zero. You didn’t notice it to be fair because despite carrying a few extra pounds, her curves always went in and out in the right places, and when she walked, it wasn’t with the clumsy heavy footedness of someone who was carrying any weight...in fact I often felt she needed to wear a bell round her neck so that you could hear her approaching, so light on her feet she was! When she left Bra Towers and started a family, naturally she gained more weight, and I know she won’t mind me saying that that extra weight finally started to take its toll.

I had seen comments on facebook about runs that she’d been doing recently. I watched as her recorded distances grew steadily longer and longer, but having not seen her for a couple of years I had no idea she’d decided to lose her weight...Until I saw the photo on facebook. What was staring back at me was my beautiful friend holding up a pair of size 22 jeans in front of her now teeny size 8 body. 7½ stone lost in under one year! Now like I say, I have always though H was stunning, but the look on her face in that photo screamed to the world “Look at me! Look what I can do!” and it literally brought a tear to my eye.

She popped into the office today to say hello, which gave me a little time to catch up properly and very gingerly hug her teeny tiny skinny-minny self (I was a little concerned if I squished too hard I may crush her), and naturally I asked her secret. “Pure and simple” she told me; it was weight watchers, not going into her additional 49 points allowance and cutting out the carbs wherever possible. That combined with exercise and being a busy mum, meant that ten months later she was 7½ stone lighter, and positively beaming as a result.

Now don’t get me wrong, a massive weight loss like that is inspirational enough, but what I found more inspirational was the way H was so meek about her achievements. She was so concerned that she’d sound like a fanatical weight watchers devotee, standing on her soap box and telling us all how she did it, that she became shy as she told us about the road she’d taken to lose the weight. It just showed me that her journey was a personal one. She knew the plan worked for her, but she also wasn’t going to pretend it had been easy.

When H was bigger, she never really complained about her weight, she wasn’t like me, moaning that I wasn’t blessed with a thin gene, or hankering for the days when I could fit my ass into a pair of size 10 jeans. Her feelings about her weight were kept under her hat. H never let her shape or size define who she was then...and in the very same way, she won’t let her weight loss define who she is now. Today she reminded me, that who we are, and what we can achieve when we put our minds to it, comes from our core. It’s not from how we look on the outside, nor is it controlled by our environment, or our peers. It’s our very essence, our core and our hearts that make us who we are, and how successful we’ll be in life. The minute we stop caring about what life, people or society expects, is the minute we’ll truly start to achieve our potential. Thank you for the reminder H (you gorgeous beautiful lady) It was exactly what I needed to help me refocus xx

False Advertising

Dear Mr Right (you know who you are),

Ref: My feelings with regards to the ridiculous distance you have put between us.

I’m writing to make you aware of my feelings with regards to the way our relationship has developed over the last year and a bit, so that you can fully understand the predicament I find myself in now.

Firstly I feel that on our first encounter, you falsely advertised yourself as a potential “Prince Charming” by being utterly gorgeous and wholly available (i.e. living just thirty minutes from me), when in fact you were in the process of packing up your castle, and riding your steed three hundred miles away, to what felt like the other side of the world.

I could have accepted that I had made an error, and that you weren’t actually supposed to be in my life, however despite the ridiculous distance, you have been able to hold my attention and I can only assume this is because of the following:

1) You speak to me and text me so regularly, that it’s kind of like having a boyfriend, but without the “sexy time”.
2) You call me at work (granted this is usually to try and embarrass me in front of my colleagues by arguing with me on the phone) but again, it then feels as though I actually have a “significant other” on the end of the line, who cares enough to call me.
3) You laugh at me when I say stupid things, but never make me feel stupid...even when I accidentally send you a text telling you about my most recent bikini wax appointment, that was clearly not meant for you!
4) You do sweet things like send me 51 (at the last count) messages one after the other, each containing a single kiss: one because it’s sweet and two, because you know that my phone will be having a dickie fit with all the “pings” and vibrate alerts that it will make me giggle.
5) When I was actually seeing a real life person (as opposed to you, who’s so far away I sometimes wonder if I’ve made you up) you were decent enough to refrain from flirting with me, but you kept our friendship strong by not losing touch with me.
6) You have a funny accent, which I adore.
7) You wear Superman pants...I mean...what girl could resist that?
8) You are one of just two people who tell me off (the other is my mother) that I struggle to argue with.
9) You’re the first man in the world that I’ve ever let get away with calling me “woman”, and I’m still not sure why I don’t mind when you do it?!
10) You don’t take my crazy ramblings too seriously, even though I do a pretty good impression of a complete lunatic at times.

Given all of the above, I have come to the conclusion that actually, I have been left no option other than to let myself become smitten with you, and this, I feel, is where you have let me down, because clearly this is not an option whilst you live a gazillion miles away. I therefore respectfully request, that as a form of compensation to me, you re-locate back up to the midlands. I don’t think this is an unreasonable request under the circumstances.

Yours sincerely

Miss (Always) Right

Man Talk

The other night I was delighted to see that ITV2 were showing The Witches Of Eastwick as their late night film. I love this movie. The first time I watched it I was probably about sixteen, and as a big fan of Cher in her capacity as an actress (ever since I was introduced to the film Mermaids as a youngster) I remember thinking it was dark, funny and just a little bit wicked.

My first TV was an old black and white portable and I was allowed to have this in my bedroom. My parents were quite strict though with regards to what I watched on TV, so the rule was that I wasn’t allowed to watch anything in my room, past the 9pm watershed. Naturally I ignored this rule completely as soon as I got my first TV set, and would sit watching late night films, perched on the end of my bed. I should state that I had to perch on the end of my bed, with the volume on at practically NOTHING, because the ancient TV set didn’t have a remote control, and my parent’s had the very annoying habit of coming to “check on me” before they retired for the evening. I therefore had to be at the ready to switch it off and jump back into bed and offer an Oscar winning “sleepy performance” with some fake snoring noises, should I hear their footsteps on the stairs.

I mean seriously – why do parents have to check on you like that? Where exactly do they think you’ll be when they go to bed? This isn’t the States! We don’t live in one story houses where climbing out of windows is a relatively easy affair! I lived in an urban area, and there were no giant trees outside my window that I could have used to climb in and out of my bedroom...besides...I was a good girl and to be fair have always loved my bed, so the chances of me getting out of it for any reason other than for food, were relatively slim.

Given that I’m currently back at mums house, when I saw the TV listings, I was filled with nostalgia, and decided to settle in for the night for my Jack Nicholson fix. Whilst watching it (now as an adult) a certain line in the film struck a chord with me. The three main characters (played by Cher, Susan Sarandon and Michelle Phieffer) are talking about what they want in a man...good looks, a kind heart, money, a big...e-hem (!)... After much deliberation they decide wishing for the perfect man is futile, and Cher’s character concludes that she doesn’t need a man to make her happy, at which point Susan’s character points out:

“Well why do we always end up talking about them?”

I couldn’t help but giggle to myself. My group of friends are a mixture of serial singletons, long term relationship-ee’s, and married women. All of them are strong and sometimes feisty women, good jobs, great social lives, outside interests and hobbies. All of them caring and compassionate women, who’s friends mean the world to them...and yet nine times out of ten, after half a bottle of White Zinfandel, the topic of conversation will have turned to men.

BLOODY MEN! And I’m one of the worst culprits. Do I feel like I need to be in a relationship? Nope. Do I rely on a man to do things for me or look after me? Nope. None of my friends do...and yet we always end up talking about them. My married friends complain about the lack of help they get in the home, or gush about the romantic things their husbands do for them, my friends in a relationship talk about whether they should be taking their relationship to the next level, or tell you excitedly about the surprise treat their boyfriend had for them when they got home yesterday. My single friends wonder when their Mr Right is going to walk through the door, or just entertain me with tales of their dating disasters, but despite this constant dialogue centred around the male of the species, we all maintain that we Do NOT Need A Man!

Clearly we all do, else they wouldn’t be our fall back conversation...surely??

I’ve recently stopped seeing CB, and have found myself back on the singles market (another one bites the dust). I know that when the time is right I shall revert back to my single mentality and continue the search for my Prince Charming, despite the fact that I’ve actually got far bigger and more important life ambitions to focus on at the moment. I’m not sure whether it’s coded into our genetic make-up that we should constantly be aware of the opposite sex, and always looking for the man that’s going to give us beautiful babies, and provide us with a safe environment within which to thrive. All I know is, that a group of women will always end up discussing what they don’t have, what they do have, and what they truly want, and it will always somehow come back to relationships. I guess it’s like they say – we’re all looking for true love, whether we realise it or not.

The Dinner Date

I've been working for the same company for ten years now, and in recognition of mine and a number of other colleagues length of service, the MD is very kindly treating us to a black tie dinner, with a night stop in a hotel for ourselves and a guest.

Naturally the girls will be taking their husbands and boyfriends, but I was in a bit of a quandary as to who to take, as although I have a new man in my life ...let's call him "CB" (it's the initials of his nickname) we haven't exactly upgraded our relationship to boyfriend/girlfriend status.

I thought about taking my bezzie boy mate...he's more than capable of charming the pants of both men and women, he'd thrive on chatting to everyone, and as a squaddie would relish the opportunity to get fed and watered on someone else's dollar. The only problem is, he knows way too much about me, and after a couple of glasses of wine, would undoubtedly be regaling my colleagues with embarrassing stories of me as a teenager, or me now as a drunken idiot on nights out...and well quite frankly, I don't think him telling my MD about the time he and his girlfriend had to put me to bed after I passed out on their floor following drinking games, is going to do much for my career in the long term.

So I got to thinking about CB, and whether he'd like to come. I didn't expect him to in all honesty. As a plasterer, ninety percent of the time you'll find him in combat shorts and a dusty t-shirt, and the other ten percent of the time he'll be in Jeans and a Leicester Tigers rugby shirt, so the idea of him doing the whole "black tie" DJ and dickie bow thing seemed a little off point for him.

He's a quiet man around people he doesn't know, but when he's warmed up with a beer he'll chat to anyone. He's also not at all serious...I mean not serious about anything...this is the man who high fived me after an energetic bedroom session because he wanted me to feel "appreciated"...I don't know what amused me more, the fact that he did it, or the fact that I instinctively returned the high five. (I have advised him that standard post coital procedures such as cuddling are to be followed in future and he seems to have learned his lesson)

Is it safe to take him? Actually I think it is, and not only is it safe, but at least I know we'll have a giggle together. Not least because when he get's his dancing shoes on he REALLY goes for it! I seriously haven't seen anyone else throw shapes on the dancefloor like CB does, so he'll keep all the girls happy just through his sheer entertainment value. Also, its more likely that at this early stage, my colleagues will be able to provide more embarrassing stories about me than he will, so no fear of having my P45 handed to me the following Monday!

Of course if he changes his mind and decides he doesn't want to get trussed up like a turkey at Christmas I'll just have to find another charismatic individual to join me. If you're interested in being put on the back-up list, please apply in writing to

Natz Needs A Date
PO BOX 123
Loserville

Right...well I suppose I better start internet shopping for a new cocktail dress. (Any excuse) so Ta-ta for now!

Inner "Zen"

People often speak about the benefits of a healthy body and a healthy mind. I have often listened to people rattle on about their “active” lifestyles (usually as I devour a Mars bar and a large glass of cabernet sauvignon) and whilst I have been curious about their ability to maintain such a lifestyle, I have never been drawn to it as such. This is something that strange “healthy” people do...not chubby girls addicted to wine and chocolate!

Recently however I have been pulled into this strange new world, and now find myself attending three fitness classes a week, and one gym session....more interesting however is the fact that I’ve now been doing this for about six weeks. (A record for me I’m sure).

My routine consists of a gym session, a full body work out session, a tums and bums session (I will have buns of steel God dammit) and a seventy five minute yoga session.

Now the cardio body workouts were always a concern to me, as they’re basically dance workouts with more squatting and more weights, and the fact is, that even though I’ve been doing shows since the tender age of 13, I literally have NO coordination. Ask any choreographer I’ve worked with, and they will tell you, that any kind of organised “routine” will leave me confused, and very often crumpled on the floor when my legs refuse to go in the direction my brain is telling them to go.

Trying to combine this fast paced choreography with a “Ministry Of Sound” inspired dance track will inevitably leave me looking like, well...let’s face it, a complete and utter twonk (Twonk...haven’t used that word in ages!!). It’s not graceful, elegant or particularly cool, so these kind of classes always make me feel a little uncomfortable to say the least!

I have however stuck with it, and I’m pleased to say that I am noticing that my fitness is improving! (Yay, go me!) The biggest surprise for me however has been Yoga. Years ago, a colleague (Lou Galland this is you) told me that Yoga was great, but that she had encountered the worst thing you could possibly imagine at her Yoga class....someone, whilst relaxing a little too much, had farted. I had (until this little revelation) quite liked the idea of Yoga. The fact of the matter is though, that I am too juvenile to be able to cope with someone farting in a class. I knew in my heart of hearts that I would have killed myself laughing, and that this would not really be appropriate in a class environment, not to mention the fact that my giggles would undoubtedly have made the culprit feel worse about their uncontrollable flatulence.

Many years down the line however, (older, wiser and more mature) I decided I wanted to give it a go. I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed these classes. It’s the one time of the week that I can genuinely let go of everything in my head, and have some real “Me” time. I am actively looking forward to my Monday night session (which after the stresses of Monday Trading in a retail work environment is actually crucial to help me maintain my sanity).

I walk away from those sessions with a feeling that I can only describe as similar to that light headed, fuzzy relaxed feeling you get after good sex...well usually I do anyway...this week however was a little different, as for the first time since my colleague’s warning, an old guy at the back of the class decided to drop his arse in the middle of the “Cat Pose”. His timing couldn’t have been better to be fair. It was deathly silent, even the whale music that the Yoga instructor plays on her iPod had paused while it moved to the next panpipes classic track. Obviously I haven’t matured as much as I would like to think over the years, as before I knew it, the chuckle was building in my throat. I thought I’d just about managed to control it as I repositioned myself into “Down Dog”, but with my head tucked under I was then confronted by the next weapon in his “arse”nal...which was the smell. God Damn! My chuckle turned into a choke, and there’s no doubt in my mind that everyone knew the reason behind my half giggle, half gag spluttering fit.

Embarrassing as this was I will continue with my classes...not just because they’re improving my flexibility, and not just because it’s funny watching myself and others try and bend themselves into completely unnatural positions, but because in spite of the flatulence, it’s the only time I get to connect with my inner Zen...and we all need a little Zen in our lives....stinky or not!

Treat Me Nice!

I'm not used to being spoilt. My parents never spoiled me. I always had to earn all of the nice things I had, through chores or through a Saturday job. My parents taught me that nothing comes for free and money doesn't grow on trees. (Judging by my credit card statement this month however it appears the latter lesson was somewhat wasted on me!!)

When I was about fifteen I had a boyfriend for about three months, who did indeed try to spoil me. I was in a show and when he came to see me in the show, he presented me with a (silk) red rose, and a silver ring he'd bought whilst on holiday in Devon. At the time I'd thought he was lush. He played the tuba in a local colliery band and I had images of him being my Ewan McGregor in Brassed Off. After his rather naff gift presentation I realised he was in fact just a gimp with an oversized trumpet and dumped him on the spot. Don't judge me! I was young and hadn't grown into my manners yet! (I still feel pretty awful about it now).

I met my ex husband a couple of years later, and he was the polar opposite. Not a "gifty" kind of person at all. In fact for the last three years of our relationship I didn't even get a birthday present. Promises of "I'll take you shopping for something you REALLY want" never materialised unfortunately. He claimed he didn't believe in Valentines Day, dubbing it "Hallmark Day" so my treat would consist of a card from the local Costcutter, brought at the end of the day on his way home from work. His best ever gift-faux-pas however was the Christmas where he thought a set of plastic cooking utensils from Woolworth's, would be an appropriate gift for me. He was lucky he didn't end up with a fish slice shoved up his poop chute. I spent all day thinking that my "real" present would be given to me at some point, only to find that alas...the man was a tool, and there was no "real" present.

So taking all the above into consideration, (and my inexperience with regards to men treating me) imagine my surprise and delight, when on Thursday last week, I had the most enormous bouquet of flowers delivered to my door! The new "bit of stuff" ;-) decided to treat me, and its not the first time either. He's really rather good at doing unexpected, genuinely lovely things. I'm not just talking about gifts and treats (which are sooooo lovely, don't get me wrong), but he's generous with his time, and has already spent time helping me move, helping me and my brother move a non road-worthy motorbike from here to Coventry, and just generally being there to indulge me when I need a bit of attention, be it in person or by text/phone.

Time is the most precious thing we have ladels and jellyspoons! I love being treated for once in my life, but time with someone who makes you giggle, be it friend, lover, sibling or spouse is the best way to be spoilt, and we should never take it for granted!

Mum's The Word!

Okay, so two weeks ago I did something I never thought I'd see myself doing. I moved back to my mums.

My nan is selling the house I rent from her, so I had two options. Find a little flat to rent...or go back to mums and save for somewhere to buy. I chose the latter, and don't mind admitting I was scared stiff!

Don't get me wrong, it means I can pay off those pesky credit cards, and get myself on an even footing again, but it's been 13 years since I left home! On top of that, mum has only been married to her hubbie for five minutes...talk about gatecrashing their honeymoon period!

Having been moved back now for two weeks I realise there wasn't much to be scared of really. We're pretty much ships that pass in the night, and I haven't felt claustrophobic or uncomfortable at all. My mum does have a habit of leaving messages for me on the fridge with magnetic letters...which would be fine if they weren't messages which the guy I'm seeing can read when he stops over...such as "practice safe sex Natz!" and such like, but that's mum and that's her sense of humour!

I'm starting to feel the obvious benefits of living cheaply which feels great and has allowed me to relax quite a bit, and that's no mean feat giving that my divorce is now going through so obviously that should normally be a stressful time, but the money I'm saving is going to help me afford it, which relieves some of the stress. I'm also reaping the benefits of having access to a free home gym and have shifted a good 4lbs since moving home (bonus!). Its not like being a kid all over again. I don't get my meals cooked for me, or my cleaning done for me, but its safe, comfortable, and for a little while at least...its home :)

Get Off Your Soap Box - No'one Asked For Your Opinion!

Twenty a day. I’ve been smoking since I was about thirteen, and I’ve smoked twenty a day for at least the last ten years – probably more. That means that in the last ten years I’ve spent over £16.5k on cigarettes. Insane.

I would love to give up smoking, and I’m reaching that point where I know I’m ready to give up. I can tell because I’m more conscious of the fact I can smell cigarettes on my clothes, and it offends my nostrils. Looking back over the years though, I’ve always defended my decision to smoke.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been approached by random strangers, who feel it’s appropriate to point out that I have “a filthy disgusting habit”. It’s always bothered me – the gall of some people. If you saw an overweight person walking out of Greggs with a sausage roll, you wouldn’t walk up to them and say;

“Oi! Fatty! Put down the sausage roll! One more of those and your arteries might give up for good!”

Yet anti smokers seem to think it’s completely okay to tell smokers that they shouldn’t be smoking. I remember one time a man walking up to me and asking me the most ridiculous question I think I’ve ever been asked. I was stood outside my office enjoying my first cigarette of the day. He walked towards me, stopped (literally inches from the end of my cigarette) and said;

“You know those will kill you, right?”

My response was simple.

“To be fair sir, out of the two of us I would suggest that you were closer to your death bed right now, owing to the fact you’ve broken the golden rule and pissed off a smoker before she’s had her morning nicotine fix.”

I mean really! What kind of a stupid question is that? I mean it’s not like smokers aren’t bombarded daily with statistics and facts about the health implications of their addiction. It’s not like we don’t see the adverts and the stop smoking campaigns. We watch as acupuncturists, hypnotherapists, life coaches and authors make a lot of money out of nicotine addicts through various quitting treatments, which in itself suggests there are reasons to give up. On top of that though, every time we purchase a pack of those evil little sticks, we’re confronted with images and government warnings about how our purchase will undoubtedly affect our health in a negative way.

What kind of a moron would I have to be to have missed all of this, and be unaware that cigarettes are bad for me?!

Anti smokers, are in my opinion, some of the biggest arseholes on the planet. I’m not talking about non smokers, or ex smokers. They two choose not to smoke. Ex smokers have taken the decision to change their habits for the better, and non smokers have chosen never to fall into the trap. These non smokers don’t have any particularly negative feelings towards smoking, other than the fact it’s not something they choose to do themselves. Anti smokers however, harbour over exaggerated feelings of contempt towards smokers, and their choice to smoke despite having no understanding of what it’s like to be trapped by an addiction.

Sometimes I can half understand, if their feelings of contempt are borne out of losing a loved one to a smoking related illness. It’s natural to resent those who continue to puff away with no apparent regard for the effect it could have on them, when someone you’ve cared about would have given anything to undo all the harm they did to themselves and their loved ones, when unfortunately it was simply too late. Having said this, nine times out of ten, anti smokers are usually just self important, up their own arses goody two shoes, who get a kick out of feeling as though they’re superior to the rest of us. They’re usually the people who “know their limits” with regards to alcohol, and can always go one better if you’re telling them about your latest achievement. They have to convince themselves of their superiority by belittling others around them, and unfortunately...that just doesn’t work for me.

We all have our flaws, whether we care to acknowledge them or not, and a blinkered perspective on life just makes you look like a tool. Instead of getting on your soap box, to preach about something that you have absolutely no understanding of, why not start looking a little more closely at yourself? If you really feel the need to tell everyone how amazing and perfect you are, doesn’t that suggest that you know people won’t ever see it unless you point it out to them? In which case...can you really be that perfect and virtuous?

I’m getting ready to give up smoking for good. Not for anyone else other than myself, and because in ten years time, £16.5k in my pocket could buy me some really pretty shoes! My life. My choices. My rules. My shoes.

Home Sweet Home

Nuneaton isn’t a small town. It’s actually a very large town! Chatting to a guy on a train recently, he mentioned that he’d never been to Nuneaton, but that it didn’t seem to matter where you were, there was usually a road sign mentioning it. Jasper Carrot has regularly abused Nuneaton in his stand up routines, along with many other comedians, so you would assume that in order for it to be mentioned, never mind ridiculed, it would have to be a pretty large town, probably with a wide and diverse multicultural population. Which it kind of is...but then if you speak to the neighbouring towns and cities such as Coventry, Tamworth, and Hinckley, they’ll all call Nuneaton the same thing.

Treacle Town.

The reason for this is the stereotypical view that people from Nuneaton are thick and slow. The thing with stereotypes is that they’re usually drawn from a number of people’s opinions of a shared encounter or view. Whilst I wouldn’t say that this stereotype is justified, the insinuation is, that the residents of this delightful mining town, are slow largely due to the high levels of inbreeding within the area. Very funny no? Chortle Chortle (note the sarcasm). Nuneaton’s 70’700 (ish) strong population probably disproves this theory somewhat, unless you’re happy to assume that a few families have been at it like freaking rabbits over the last few decades.

Despite its large town status however, Nuneaton has a small town mentality. It seems as though literally everyone knows everyone else’s business. When my seventeen year old cousin goes out and gets drunk, falls off her six inch stilettos and flashes the world her arse, I am guaranteed to know about it within approximately twelve hours. (Yes Hatty, don’t think I haven’t heard about your escapades missy!) Likewise, when I go out, get utterly gazeeboed and end up snogging some random, it’s pretty much a given that friends who up until four minutes and forty-five seconds ago had been enjoying a drink in a different pub/club, half a mile down the road, will descend to drag me away and prevent the humiliation of me discovering in my morning-after-the-night-before state that I actually copped off with the elephant man.

You know exactly what’s going on in everyone’s love life, home life and work life, and the jungle drums beat loud and furiously whenever there is gossip to be shared. Some people love this. Me...I’d never really let it concern me. My mum is Nuneaton born and bred, and I have always been used to walking through the town on a Saturday and bumping into people who knew me because of her. I moved here when I was eleven, so regularly bump into people I was at school or college with. It’s only now, that it begins to bother me. Every time I go out now, I spend the evenings amongst friends and acquaintances, which is great...but if you’re already friends with everyone, how are you ever going to meet someone who could be more than a friend?

The man-pool hasn’t been diluted by relatives, as our neighbouring towns would like to insinuate, it’s been diluted by friends!...or the brother of a friend...or the cousin of a friend...or the ex boyfriend of friend (and thus the golden friendship rule states you NEVER go there) or even just the random guy who has carnal knowledge of the friend of a friend, which means you can’t go there because it will make your friends relationship with her friend a little tense!!!

What I wouldn’t give to live in a large city, where the population is mixed with so many millions of people that no’one knows me, or knows anyone I know. Maybe then the odds of finding Mr Right won’t be completely stacked against me!! Failing that of course, I could always move abroad... maybe a wider man-pool and a sunkissed tan will help my spinster status??? Best start packing....Oz, here I come!

The House

This house has seen more things than she can bare to imagine.

The house doesn’t forget the two lovers, who spent lazy mornings wrapped up in each other. The walls hear what he says to her now, but they saw it for themselves, and they know he lies to protect her feelings. They saw the way he held the one before her, and heard how he whispered his love for her, just as he does with her now. Each wall in each room witnessed their intimacy, every stolen kiss, every passionate embrace, every time they made love.

She knows what the walls have seen, and hates that there was someone here before her. It doesn’t matter what she does, both she and the walls know, that his heart belonged to someone else before her. So she paints the ugly walls, hoping that she’ll paint over the images in her mind. The thought of their bodies tangled together, the realisation that if there’s been one before her, there could be one after. So she paints and makes the house hers. She stakes her claim on this life...on this home.

But new paint fades. It becomes tired and cracks over time, showing the truth written there on the bare plaster.

She knows that eventually, the walls will tell their story again. But what breaks her heart is that she knows it won’t be told to her.

The Dreaded Scales!

Why is it that when you’re dieting, all foods, even those you wouldn’t usually pick off a menu, appear ridiculously appealing? I’m currently watching the cookery channel and practically salivating over the idea of sprouts. I hate sprouts???!

This week saw myself and two friends (Laura and Gaga) returning to Fat Club. Whilst I was secretly rather pleased that I’d only put on 2lbs over Christmas, getting on the scales was still a rather traumatic experience. I always have this fear that when I step on the scales, rather than a weight, they’ll simply flash up with “One at a time please” or worse, they’ll just display that digital message “Errrrr”, which would essentially mean the scales were telling me that my arse had got so enormous they were now point blank refusing to tell me my weight for fear of me taking my own life, and perhaps the lives of some of the other members who’d been lucky enough to reach goal, in some kind of bitter jealous rage.

All three of us have our own personal goals, and we’re all determined to achieve them. For the first time ever I have set myself a deadline for when I want to reach my goal. I’ve never done this before, because secretly I don’t think I’ve ever felt I could achieve them. With the big three-oh approaching this time next year, I’ve decided I’ve got to have reached goal by then, and I’ve also established that it’s more than do-able, so definitely not an unrealistic target.

Interestingly though, going to Fat Club with two good friends is already making the world of difference to me from a motivational aspect. Now some would assume that there would be a form of competition between us, along the lines of who can get to goal first etc. The fact is, none of us have really discussed how much we weighed in at, or how much we want to lose. Given that we’re all varying weights, and are losing it for very different reasons, competition isn’t what’s motivating us. In fact, it seems it’s a mutual contempt for dieting that’s drawing us all together!

The last few days have seen us texting each other with tips on how to make it “not feel too much like a diet”, as well as complaints to each other about how hungry we feel, or how much eating the staple diet of your average house rabbit, sucks big time. It’s easy to become a diet bore when you embark on a new eating regime. People around you tend to get bored of listening to you harp on about not being able to eat nice things like cheese and cake and chocolate. They’re supportive at first, but the more you hate your diet, the more they wish you weren’t on one so they wouldn’t have to listen to your moaning. This is where your fellow dieters come in useful. If you don’t have them, then eventually your non dieting friends will tempt you to break your self imposed rules. They’ll practically shove goodies down your neck in order to stop your incessant whinging! Your diet buddies however will join in with the moaning, and complaining. This allows you to bitch about how unfair it is, refocus and carry on without spoiling all of your hard work.

Now obviously the biggest motivation comes from seeing results on the scales. We all have certain rituals for weigh in day. Myself, I always ensure I’m not wearing jeans for weigh in. (They can add as much a 1lb dontcha know!) In fact I’ll opt for a light cotton summer dress in the depths of winter if I think it’ll help me shift that ½ lb that I need in order to get my next half stone award sticker. (Yes, it’s true...even at 29 years old I’m still excited by getting gold stars for my achievements!) Gaga...well she’ll pretty much remove everything – bangles, tiny stud earrings, cardigans, hair grips...her underwired bra...(!!) If she could step on the scales completely in the buff I think she probably would! Other people drink wine the night before weigh in to make sure they’re good and dehydrated, and thus not retaining ANY fluids which could add to their overall weights, and I think any dieter will admit, that they’ll ensure they’ve gone for a tinkle immediately before weigh in (usually as soon as they reach the church hall the meeting is held at) in order to ensure any saliva they may have accidentally swallowed in the five minute journey from their house to the meeting is pee’d out literally seconds before “crunch time” on the scales. Well...you just never know – could be the difference between a loss or staying the same!!

Either way, with all of the rituals, and feelings of deprivation, I am cheered by my fellow diet buddies. I have a little support network I can rely on to slap me hard around the face if I’m tempted to indulge in a Krispy Kreme, and a constant reminder of why I’m being good. Given that I’m also part of their support network, I’m also motivating myself every time I offer them advice, or cheer them on, so it’s like a double motivator. I feel 100% confident that we’ll all reach our personal goals, and when we do, I think we’ll all be able to feel rather smug about it! Right, well if you’ll excuse me I have some zero point dust to go munch on...Dust? No? Dust?...Dust? No?...Dust?

Table For One (and a half - if you count the pooch!)

This Christmas saw me hosting dinner for nine of my family. It’s always nice to have everyone gathered around, and even nicer when it’s in the comfort of your own home. As my house used to be my grandparents house, it must have been lovely for them to “come home” for Christmas, and despite some slight disasters in the kitchen (only I could remember at 3pm on Christmas Eve that I hadn’t got the turkey out of the freezer! Terrence the turkey, much to the amusement of my friends spent the night in my bath to aid his defrosting!), a Christmas feast was delivered, devoured and enjoyed by all. The one thing that struck me however, was the sheer amount of food that I had in my fridge. It was packed full of vegetables, cheeses, meats and puddings, condiments, creams, custards and beverages. In fact with hindsight it’s a good job I forgot about Terrence because there would have been no room for him in the fridge!!

My fridge always looks kind of similar to Bridget Jones’s. You’ll usually find a carton of milk in there that’s on the turn, a wedge of stilton that would definitely need the edges scraping off before consumption, a jar of Hellman’s Real Mayonnaise (none of that low fat rubbish when it comes to mayo for me – ask anyone who knows me, it’s kind of my “thing”!) and a jar of Branston Pickle. Occasionally if I’m feeling indulgent there’ll be a tub of Greek style olives with feta cheese, and there’ll always be a bag of carrots. The carrots aren’t for me – the pooch adores them, and they’re good for his teeth and breath – a sort of natural doggie toothbrush.

The fact is, that I never have a full fridge because I never see the point in cooking anything when it’s just me.

Gaga is even worse than me. The most I have ever seen in her fridge was two bottles of Rosé, some cat milk and an emergency bar of Galaxy chocolate. Like me, she rarely cooks for herself. She’s a little worse than me however and does predominantly live on take away’s and dinners at her mums. I just tend not to eat in the evenings. If I’m really peckish then I can usually find a packet of prawn cocktail crisps lurking at the back of the larder. Gareth finds it all rather strange. He prepares himself breakfast, lunch and dinner each day, every day. If you look in his fridge, there’s always something green in there (and I don’t mean the kind of green that’s growing on my stilton), there’s fresh milk, some kind of meat, and various other tasty bits and bobs. He’s even got a fruit bowl...and it has fruit in it...rather than unopened post and stray pens that he hasn’t given a home to yet! We have argued that as we’re all singletons, and two out of three of us don’t cook for ourselves, perhaps Gareth is the odd one out. I suppose it’s down to his years in the Army, where the routine of eating three square meals would have been drummed into him from the minute he arrived for his basic training as a spotty gangly teenager.

Gareth can be quite...hmm how can I put it...honest at times, and I think both Gaga and I felt suitably ashamed when he accused us of not looking after ourselves. There’s nothing worse than someone like Gareth audibly tutting and shaking his head at you whilst telling you, “if you won’t look after yourselves why would you expect anyone else to?” to make you feel a little guilty that you’ve essentially been a bit lazy and have neglected yourself. We all know that a healthy attitude to food is important, and that regular healthy and satisfying meals are key to good physical and mental well being. It’s just that it can seem so pointless when it’s only you. The effort it takes to cook and wash up after a meal, when it’s only you who’ll be eating it, always seems a bit OTT for my liking. I don’t mind doing it for nine people at Christmas, but just for me??

Nevertheless, I have started the year as I mean to go on, and have (for the last four days) cooked myself a sensible dinner every evening. Unfortunately my portion estimates are a little generous given that I’ve always been used to cooking for two, however the pooch doesn’t seem to mind, as he’s getting the left overs. Now the only problem I have is that given I started out with nothing in my fridge, after rustling together four meals, you can imagine how little food I have left in my house! Today’s meal of hearty vegetable soup with bread was improvised (it was supposed to be something far grander) as unfortunately it seems that even when frozen, some food, if left for over a year in the freezer, still goes bad! (This disappoints me greatly as it means that the majority of the food I have in the freezer is now inedible – bad times) It looks like a trip to the supermarket is in order to re-stock!

It’s all part of the master plan of course. Healthy eating, regular exercise, less alcohol consumption...my body is a temple (no jokes about the size of the Taj Mahal please). Aren’t new years resolutions great? Well...ask me in February and we’ll see if I’m still sticking to it!!