Run For Your Life

Well this is it. I'm now running in the evenings. Gone are the 5am get-ups, and the fresh bracing morning air that threatens to strangle me when I'm already struggling to move and breathe at the same time. Now they've been replaced by...public running humiliation.

Running in the mornings has it's drawbacks, but the big positive is that there are few people around to see you do it.  Having spent the last few weeks steadily building from 1.8km to 5.3km three times a week, I have noticed the effect running has on my body. I'll be honest, it's not particularly pretty. As a boobilicious lady I know all too well how important a sports bra is if I want to avoid black eyes, but no'one warned me about my arse. My arse wobbles! And I'm not just talking about a gentle jiggle, I'm talking about my arse cheeks often falling out of rhythm with each other and moving independently with their wobbles, creating a ripple (tidal wave) effect which must be quite a spectacle if you're behind me! Now I haven't looked into it, but I don't think I've ever seen sports knickers for "batty-support" so at the moment I'm contemplating running in my Spanx. My only consolation is that hopefully by running, I'll start to tone up my wobbly bum!

I've also discovered that bizarrely, I don't seem to move my upper body when I run. I only spotted this by running in the light of the street lamps and catching a glance at my shadow. I don't appear to pump my arms like normal runners. I just hold them loosely in front of me, in a manner akin to a 70yr old power walker.

Finally I think I make a squishy face when I run. Like I'm wincing and in pain. I'm not...well obviously I feel like I'm dying but not in a "someone's just trodden on my toe" way...so why do I keep having the physically relax my face? I might not be doing it all the time I suppose (I don't exactly carry a mirror with me to check) and I only discovered it when I jogged past a guy with his kid and they both did a double take and seemed to physically recoil from my pained expression. Nevertheless though, it all stacks up and makes me aware of the fact that I am not a carefree or graceful runner to watch!  For this reason it has always been preferable from a self concious point of view, to jog when no'one else is about.

All this said though, last week I manned up and opted for an evening run, and I'm pleased to say that now I have the focus of just trying to ensure I get all the way round without stopping (keeling over), I'm less inclined to care about what people might think when they see me. It's a real milestone for me, as I've always been concious of how people perceive me and the extra padding I've been carrying. Perhaps, when my efforts start to be rewarded, the woman at the bus stop that I tend to pass on my way round will notice less of a wobble from my arse as I fly past her...and if I'm lucky my face might start to naturally relax and I can stop accidentally scaring small children. I suppose only time will tell.

Going Under

It's not that I don't want my mum to be here...it's just that. It seems like an awful waste of her time waiting with me in the day procedures unit.  I've brought my Kindle with me, and I'm not nervous about my surgery...I'll go in, they'll get me to put on some nasty surgical gown with no back so the world can see my arse (I've worn fabulous knickers for this very reason) and then I'll go for a nap while they perform keyhole surgery on my knee.

The difference between my mum and me is that she doesn't care about the inconvenience to herself, whereas if she were me, she would be counting the seconds until she could escape and carry on with her own life.  I'm quite selfish...my mum isn't.  So here she is, sat with me while I wait to be called in for my pre-op consultation...yes...I did just say "pre-op" (snigger snigger).  The thing is, I was kind of looking forward to carrying on with the book I'm reading, but I don't say this to her, because I know she's here because she loves me, and part of her is probably concerned that I'm going under general anaesthetic for this operation.  Me...well I'm not concerned at all.  I don't think I have any reason to be, it's a straight forward operation, nothing to worry about.

The other women in the waiting area seem more tense than I am.  Their surgeries might be more serious I suppose, or I might just be unnaturally calm about being put under.  Should I be more concerned? I'm pondering this when the anaesthetist calls my name and leads me into a small consultation room.  He's ridiculously handsome, Asian, with dark round chocolate eyes and a soft yet masculine voice...I'm distracted by his jawline which is awkward as he's started asking me questions about allergies.  No I'm not allergic to anything, but the way you're looking at me at the moment might just bring me out in a rash...yes by all means you can look at my teeth to prove that I don't have any caps or loose fillings, but ohmygod please don't put your face that close to mine to check, as I may be forced to lick you!  I'm just about admitting to myself that I'm smitten when he asks my to jutt out my lower jaw...seriously how is a girl supposed to impress a guy when he's asking her to gurn at him?

"You have a very small mouth" he says, "that makes my job more difficult"

What the hell is he planning to shove in my mouth while I'm under? Surely it's more polite to keep a girl awake for those sort of shenanigans?  I realise I don't really care and joke about my friends disagreeing based on the amount of noise my gob emits...he doesn't smile.  He is either very professional or has no sense of humour.  I decide it's the former, because otherwise he'd be evicted from my "ideal man" box and I'm not quite ready to let him go.

After my consultation I'm handed my surgical stocking and backless gown, and do my very best to make it look as attractive as possible, but fail miserably.  I'm walked down to theatre where the team of anaesthetists start sticking heart monitors to me and a cannula in my hand.  I'm not the type of person who is comfortable with serious situations, so I make a suggestion with regards to the surgical stocking that perhaps it could come in a fishnet variety, only the female anaesthetist smiles and comments that I don't seem particularly nervous.  I admit that I'm kind of just looking forward to an afternoon nap as it's an  extravagance I rarely have the opportunity to indulge in.  Finally the others seem to start developing a sense of humour, and they start to joke along with me.

As the first lot of anaesthetic is injected,I'm asked if I'm starting to feel the effects, which I'm not, I suggest they may need more ketamine to tranquillise this thoroughbred and as she dutifully ups the dosage, the last thing I remember saying is "ooooh, my face feels itchy, is that norm...zzzzz". I realise ultimately the joke is on me, as there are few things funnier than watching a person pass out when they're still trying to hold a conversation!

I've never woken up drunk before.  Usually sleep comes after alcohol and its a hangover that I wake up to.  Waking up from anaesthesia is like waking up and being ridiculously drunk.  I woke with a start with a couple of nurses at my bedside and immediately started gabbling.  The benefit of feeling like you're drunk is that when you make a comment about the procedure being so quick, is that you don't feel like a complete eejit when the nurse points out that you were asleep...so it probably felt a lot quicker than it actually was.

The nurses busied around me, occasionally tipping the bed when my blood pressure dropped, which given that my blood pressure is usually on the low side of normal didn't really surprise me.  It's happened before when I was giving blood.  I'd finished giving blood and got off the bed to go and help myself to a cup of tea and a custard cream, when a fellow donor blanched and started pointing at my arm.  The gauze plaster had become soaked in blood and peeled away, leaving the vein I'd just donated from free to literally spurt blood in a comedy fashion.  Out of nowhere two partially retired (teeny tiny) nurses hoisted me off my feet and back onto an upside down bed.  I swear I have no idea where they got their strength from but nevertheless they managed it!

So there I lay, my left knee bandaged up tightly, still talking gibberish at speed...still completely smacked off my t*ts, when my handsome anaesthetist appeared by my bedside. Reassuringly he told me, I'd be back up on my feet and running marathons in no time.

I think he must have liked me...Because bad knees or good knees...

I've clearly never run a marathon in my life!!!

Note to self...get my friend at the hospital to give the hot anaesthetist my number.

Bridesmaids

Now you'd be forgiven for thinking due to the fact my own marriage so spectacularly fell to pieces, that I'd be the last person on the planet to be excited about weddings, however you would be wrong.  I am in fact thrilled that Jonesy, who was a bridesmaid at my wedding, is getting married.  I'm thrilled largely because I now know I won't have to listen to her gin-fuelled, tearful rants about being a spinster for the rest of her life, but also because anyone who knows her can see how happy she has been over the last year, since getting together with her now fiancé,  Mark.

I'm also very excited because for the first time in my adult life, I'm going to be a bridesmaid!  I'm also...bloody terrified.  Jonesy is having three bridesmaids, her cousin, myself, and another friend from high school, Kim.  In the spirit of being a total Bridezilla, she has even charged us with very specific roles.  Given that Jonesy is going for a vintage themed wedding, her cousin Charlie, is being given the responsibility of being her "Vintage Consultant" and will aide Jonesy in sourcing and procuring the most kitsch bunting, and shabby chic table decorations.   Kim has been given the responsibility of alcohol management (i.e. how much gin Jonesy is allowed to drink on the day...for the safety of all her guests!) and will be taking on the role of "Chief Calming Influence" due to her very laid back approach to life, and soft spoken manner.  I have been given the prestigious role of "Mistress of Fun" which sounds rather kinky, but essentially I think this means I'm there for pure comedy value.  Naturally I will take my role very seriously, even if it means spending the day with my dress tucked in my knickers whilst trailing a line of bog roll from my right heel.  If it ensures that on the day Jonesy feels like the most glamorous bride of all time, and has fun whilst she's doing it, then it will be worth my humiliation.

I'm actually pretty sure that I'm destined to be a terrible bridesmaid. I'm bound to cock something up. I know there's a 99.9% chance I'm going to spill wine down my front, or split my dress by eating too much during the wedding breakfast. I'll probably be the one who's heels get stuck in the grass when having the photos taken and end up flat on my face with grass stains down one side of my frock.  I'll basically be the fat one in the film Bridesmaids, but with less grace and decorum!!  I can't help but feel therefore that Jonesy has given me this role for that very reason.  She knows all too well that I'm going to make a spaz out of myself at some point during the day, so at least this way I can do it whilst still fulfilling all of  my duties as a bridesmaid.

Now the other thing about being a bridesmaid is that there's usually a "fat one".  I fear this is me, and whilst I know Jonesy will ensure I have a flattering dress, I hate the thought of being porky on her wedding photos.  If ever I have needed a goal (and a cut off date of a years time) to get myself slimmer, this must surely be it?  For a girl who has no will power and very little resolve when it comes to giving up the things she loves, it's a terrifying prospect that I may not actually achieve it, and I'll let myself down.  With this in mind I am declaring now, to the world, that I am giving up dominoes for a whole year.  Given the amount of dominoes pizza I consume, I would suggest that all of my readers double their monthly consumption of dominoes, if only to safeguard the future of the company so that I can have a massive pizza blow-out once the big day has been and gone!

I'm going to be stepping up the exercise regime over the summer, paying particular attention to the bingo wings, as I don't want to have to choose my dress on the basis of whether or not it covers my "wobbly bits".  I'll keep you all update on my progress (naturally) and who knows, this time next year I might even be writing to say I've achieved my goal weight!  It's funny isn't it...They always say you should lose weight for yourself and no one else, but when the truth is that you don't really like yourself, but you love your best mates, what's wrong with doing it for one of them instead?

Boys Boys Boys

Having spent most of my career working in predominantly female environments, first as a waitress, then as a travel agent, and then working within the lingerie industry, moving to the automotive industry has been...well, let's just say it has been an education!

Men often complain that women are impossible to read, and they can never tell what a woman really wants/means/is saying, but having spent the last nine months working with men in what would typically be classed as a "mans world" I can honestly say I find them just as baffling!

Men greet each other with insults for one. Women would find it quite hideous to be greeted with "Oi oi dickhead!" first thing in the morning, but men take it in their stride, often returning the greeting with something equally as rude. Men also have no problems telling you about your shortcomings to your face regardless of how little you're going to want to hear it. At least women have the common decency to bitch about you behind your back!

Men seem to have a habit of giving you nicknames which aren't always the most complimentary...my current nickname (or at least the one they call me to my face) is "short batty" roughly this translates as "short arse" which whilst accurate isn't exactly a compliment. One of my colleagues has been christened "Labrador Head" or "The Retriever" due to her glossy locks...again not the nicest of nicknames but given as a term of endearment...I think. Funnily enough we take these names and actually embrace them though. They're like a badge of acceptance if you work on the principle that men only give pet names to the people they like...that's what I'm telling myself anyway.

Men also appear to be immovable when it comes to their opinions...even when they can be proved wrong, they just can't accept hearing it from a woman. They would rather argue the toss and make themselves look like arseholes, than say "hmm...yeah you might be right there". Women like being educated and learning things that empower them. Men shy away from it seeing it as either a) demeaning to be corrected by a woman or b) that you're somehow trying to change everything they stand for, and this is a privilege only the women in their personal lives hold.

Men appear to be much better at saying no. As women we shy away from negative responses in the workplace. We try to be accommodating, and we try to flex in order to be everything to all people. You can see it in all the women out there who work full time and also try to be a mother to their children. Rather than say, "I've got a child under five, there's no possible way I can have a full time career as well and do justice to either job" we slog our guts out and break our hearts trying to do both. We manage it, but at what cost?

Equality is something the generations before us fought for, and sometimes we take for granted what some women sacrificed to give us the choice to determine our own paths. Sometimes though I can't help but feel their efforts have backfired, especially when I look at the women who no longer have the choice between a family or a career. For the majority of us the only realistic choice we have is a career...or a family AND a career. So few of us can afford to be a stay and home mum. For those of us that do choose family, we're looked down on and the assumption is made that we could never have been successful in a career. Why is this? Isn't ensuring our children have stable and happy childhoods, where they're nurtured and taught right from wrong one of the most important jobs in the world? No'one looks down their noses at teachers, and they've chosen the same vocation...just with other peoples children!

The one thing I will say about working with men though, is that it makes you act like more of a girl. Having been single for so long now, I'd forgotten what my whiney voice sounded like, and I can't remember the last time I needed to pout in order to get my own way. Here in this line of work, it feels like a daily occurrence (and yes I hate myself a little for it). It does however seem to be the only way to get on in a male dominated environment, as being assertive, forthright and open about your opinions, just gets you labelled as a ball-buster...and let's be honest very few men want their balls busted on a daily basis. Just goes to show, that as a woman, yet again, I'm the one flexing my behaviour in order for guys to feel comfortable around me!

Perhaps the lesson here for me though, is that men don't really change their behaviours between work and their home lives. Perhaps the reason I'm still single is because I haven't yet removed the ball busting side of my personality from my social interactions with men? It's difficult to accept that through being a strong modern woman, I just don't attract the right kind of men...perhaps letting my softer, less controlled and more girlish side show in my private life is the key to meeting the right man for me.

A Room Full Of Strangers

As we walked into the pub in Leamington, we were greeted by a couple of smiling gentlemen.  Both looked slightly awkward, nursing their drinks and making polite conversation.  They seemed pleased when my housemate asked them if they were here for the “Meet Up”, nodding enthusiastically. My housemate has been to one of these things before…I however, haven’t and really didn’t have a clue what to expect.


The point of meet ups (which are all organised on-line) is to get a bunch of strangers in a room to socialise and make new friends.  You may ask why you’d want to go to a pub and chat to a load of strangers, when you could just go out with your own friends.  Well it’s designed for those people who, for whatever reason, aren’t able to regularly socialise with their friends.  For some, it’s because they’ve recently moved to the area for work, and they’re looking to meet new friends to ensure they have a life outside of the office.  For others like me, it’s because most of my friends are all in relationships and have families, so it’s just not that easy to get together regularly for a night out.

It’s quite daunting trying to make conversation with strangers, when you have absolutely no inkling about what kind of a person they may be.  Corinne had already given me the heads up in terms of the people she’d chatted to at her first meet up, and who she thought I’d enjoy chatting to, but nevertheless, striking up conversation wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done.  I had already made the decision not to drink.  I am aware that when I drink, I can become a little…well…overbearing.  When Corinne drinks she becomes incredibly chatty, however when I drink I talk at people and demand to be the centre of attention.  It’s all about me when I’ve had wine, and for people who don’t know me, I suppose it can come across as a bit...obnoxious.  Team that with a desire to show off my vivacious personality and wonderful sense of humour (because obviously then everyone will love me, and be desperate to be my friend), I would have just ended up looking like a bit of a knobhead.  Not really the first impression I would want to give off.  It’s actually flummoxed me for a little while, why some people are wary of me when they first meet me as I know I'm really a rather nice person, but having seen myself drunk on a couple of occasions over the last year, when even I didn’t like me, it’s started to become clear where I’ve been letting myself down.

Usually, when I’m sober in a pub, there’s always some chav with no spatial awareness, who ends up leaning against me. Or there’ll be the fifty year old man who after a few bitter shandy’s, thinks he’s Hugh Heffner and wants to whisper (shout) slurred sweet nothings at me. There are guys who when drunk, think nothing of saying hurtful things about my weight, or lecherous comments about the size of my rack.  Remaining sober while everyone else drinks is usually my idea of hell, but last night, it couldn’t have bothered me less.  The women on the meet up were a mixture of ages, and had fascinating stories to tell.  Some had families, some were divorced, some were career women, some were creative.  They were witty, intelligent women, and the kind of women that I could talk to all night.  The men pretty much all came across as bright, polite, and mature men.  Again the ages of the guys ranged from late twenties to late fifties, but I had no difficulties speaking to any of them, as they were all my kind of people.  I love my friends, and that will never change, but as a single woman, looking to broaden her horizons and network with likeminded people, this was a really positive experience, and I’d recommend it to anyone.

The Meet Up is planning a spring ball in April, and I’ve warned them all that I would definitely be drinking for that one.  Hopefully they’ll still be talking to me the morning after!

Stop Horsing Around

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am always either just about to start a new diet, or falling of my current diet wagon of choice.  It’s one of my biggest failings in life.  For one reason or another I can’t ever seem to stick at a healthy eating plan, despite the fact that the one thing which would make me happiest in life, would be to shed about four stone.  I put this down to the fact that I love food, and that my body doesn’t seem to realise I am not cut out for low fat regimens, and refuses to give me a higher metabolism. (If I’m being honest this smarts a little.  I only have to look at my slim hands, little feet, and skinny wrists and ankles to know I was not meant to be a chubby girl, but for some reason my body has ignored all the obvious signals and decided to make me a little on the porky side regardless).  Nevertheless though, I do recognise that I’m a convenience eater.  That’s not to say that when I cook properly I take shortcuts – in fact if I’m cooking properly I will only use fresh ingredients and never use processed sauces.  The problem is, I rarely cook “properly”.  I’ve never really been particularly organised about my eating.  I’ve never planned my meals in advance, and have always relied on sandwich shops for lunchtime fixes and quick oven pizzas or filled pastas for dinner.  Because of this, when I’ve chosen to diet it has always revolved around either a food replacement tetra pack milkshake, or a low fat microwaveable ready meal, as they’re quick and easy to make.  To put it bluntly, I’m a lazy dieter, and an even lazier chef.

Now unless you’ve been living in a cave for the last few weeks, you will undoubtedly be aware (and maybe even a little bored by now) of the horse meat scandal.  Now I’m a meat lover, and it’s my personal opinion that it’s absolutely fine to rear animals for meat.  It’s my opinion, and may not be to everyone’s taste, but I believe that as a species we’re predisposed to want to eat meat, and I’m no different to many others to harbor this desire for meat.  What I’m not happy about though, is someone telling me that I’m eating a certain type of meat, and then sneaking another type into my dinner.  If I ordered steak in a restaurant and the waiter delivered a penguin to my table, claiming it was in fact steak, I would be rather aggrieved.  Not just because I’m a big fan of Happy Feet but because as far as I’m aware, Pingu and his chums haven’t been bred for the human food chain.  I’m sure that if I was hungry enough, I’d not only eat a penguin, but I’d happily pluck him and gut him and whatever other smelly/yucky stuff my local abattoir does on my behalf, but it’s really not the point.  I’d only do it under dire life or death circumstances.  In my normal day to day life, I want to know that the meat on my plate is what I think it is, that it has been bred responsibly, with the human food chain in mind.  This way I know the poor sod hasn’t had an unhappy (albeit maybe a little short) existence before landing on my plate, and if he’s ever been treated for illness, it’s been with drugs that won’t have a lasting effect on those who then come to nibble on him later down the line.

My biggest problem with this whole scandal is that I simply can’t trust processed foods or the supermarkets that sell them any more.  In fact I’ve been losing faith with the supermarkets for some time now, so much so that I decided to turn to my local market as an alternative.  Nuneaton is a market town, with the main market open on a Saturday and a slightly smaller market on a Wednesday.  I took a trip to the fruit and veg stall this Saturday, and managed picked up a mixture of potatoes, carrots, parsnip, leeks, a head of lettuce and a bunch of bananas for £1.94.  The same shop in Asda or Tesco (online) costs between £3.64 and £4.02!  The most annoying thing though is that the quality of the fruit and veg on the market is far superior to the supermarkets and they’re charging me half the price.  I also took a trip to Bostock’s butchers in the town centre, and for just over £5.00 came away with a large chicken leg, and enough mince to feed three people.  In Tesco the mince alone would have cost me £4.00 and I can’t even be one hundred percent sure it’s even beef!  The butchers source all of their meat from local breeders and can tell you the history of every cut of meat on their counter.  Plus the fruit and veg are sourced from local farms as well.  They’re fresh, tasty and....well they’re cheaper.  It seems ridiculous that it’s taken me so long to realise that with a little more effort on my part, I can walk from one end of the market picking up cleaning supplies and toiletries, to the other, for my meat, fish and vegetables and save myself a fortune on the way.

The other bonus (which really struck me in the butchers) is that when you’re buying like this, you can actually pick and choose what and how much you want.  As I looked at the chicken legs in the chiller display, I marvelled over the fact that I could buy just one.  I’m a single girl, and I don’t need to buy packs of chicken legs in fours.  I mean, how many chickens have you even seen with four legs anyway?  I just want one...one chicken leg.  The savings I can make on the basis that I won’t be wasting meat over the course of a year are substantial.  I feel quite passionately that everyone living on a budget should try shopping with local independent stalls and shops and see what a difference it makes.  If the horse meat debacle has taught me anything, it’s that these large superstores have lost touch with their supply chain, and if they can allow horse meat to make it into our beef lasagnes, then what else could we have unknowingly consumed or imbibed?  I for one will be supporting my local market, independent stores and family butchers going forward, and I hope many of you will join me.  Trust is quickly lost and not easily regained.  Plus, who knows...if I’m not wandering past an aisle dedicated to biscuits and confectionery each time I go shopping...maybe I’ll actually manage to stay on my diet!

Mother's Ruin

I’m not a religious person.  I went to catholic schools and was raised in the faith, but I wouldn’t say I particularly follow any of the religious teachings and I’m eternally undecided about the afterlife.  I understand that people of faith enjoy having it, and I would never say they were wrong, just as I’d never say that atheists were wrong.  I don’t know.  I’ve never had a profound religious experience, and I’ve also never died, so I don’t know what happens after we peg it.  Lent however is a weird tradition I always seem to get sucked into.  Not because of the religious connotations but because it’s kind of a second chance for me to put my failed new year’s resolutions back on the table, and have another stab at them.  This year I have decided to give up red wine.  Wine in general is my tipple of choice, but red wine is pretty much my vice.  There’s something about coming home after a long day, opening a bottle of full bodied red, and slowly mellowing into your evening.  There’s also something deeply comforting about the light haze you develop after a couple of glasses that means when it’s time for bed sleep comes easily. 

A girlie night at Jonesy’s last night saw me on the gin and tonic’s instead of my usual Merlot, and the first thing I noticed was that by drinking spirits, it took me a lot longer to get drunk than I usually would.  Given that I was drinking the gin with mixers, I also stayed relatively hydrated, so this morning’s hangover was...well it wasn’t.  I didn’t feel particularly rough, I had no headache or nausea.  I felt tired, but I’d been up until 1am, so that was understandable.  Could it be that switching to the spirits really is the best option for me?  Wine in all its variations has always given me heartburn, so for any night out when I know I’m going to be consuming a lot of alcohol, I always make sure I’m prepared by carrying antacid with me.  Last night was no different, however I never needed to break them out.  I wasn’t affected by heartburn at all.  Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t think my body is exactly thanking me for plying it full of gin last night, but it does seem to at least appreciate the fact that I didn’t drink wine.  All the usual post-drinking side effects and ailments have not made an appearance, and this has got to be my body giving me a silent nod of gratitude.

Now having dieted A LOT over the last ten years, I know that most healthy eating plans would always recommend spirits over beer and wine, due to the fact that spirits are made up of far less “empty calories”, due them containing less sugar.  I’ve always drank wine because I think it’s more ladylike than beers or alcopops, but a G&T or a Vodka and diet coke is definitely still a demure drink.  Granted gin is nicknamed “Mother’s Ruin” due to the fact that in 18^th Century London, gin became the opium of the people because of how cheaply it could be produced.  Gin joints became the first places where women and men could drink together, and many believed this led women to neglect their children, and turn to prostitution in order to be able to buy more.  Hmmm..okay well maybe it’s not that ladylike or demure (!!)

The biggest seller for me on the whole spirits front however, is that I don’t actually think I drink as much of them as I do wine.  I tend to drink a bottle of wine quite happily, and also, I could quite happily do this every night of the week.  On gin or vodka I’d only have two to three glasses in the same period of time, for far less calories than the wine.  When I write all of this down, two things strike me.  One, is that I’m clearly a borderline alcoholic, and two, that the majority of my calorie mistakes and dieting failures come from booze.  Perhaps I should revise my lent promise for the remaining thirty six days and thirty six nights, to include white and rosé too?  Well...let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but it’s certainly something to think on!

Basket Case

Have you ever looked at someone’s food shopping on the conveyer belt and made assumptions about their lifestyle?  I never used to until one visit to Asda where upon purchasing a family size bar of Dairy Milk, a bottle of rosé and a packet of ibuprofen, the check out crone (I’d call her a checkout girl but that would be massively understating her age) quipped,

 “Cosy night in for one?” 

It’s actually lucky that she was approaching retirement age because if she’d been younger I probably would have punched her in the face for that sarky comment, however I managed to remember my manners and replied with what was, in hindsight, the most pathetic come-back ever...

 “Erm no, my housemate and I have got a riveting night of Downton Abbey planned actually!”  

It was at this point that I thought to myself, perhaps I should have let her continue with her assumption of my fabulous life as a singleton, being all chocolate and booze.  It seemed far more rock and roll than the truth.

Since then though I’ve spent far more time inspecting the contents of other peoples shopping than I perhaps should have.  For instance, the woman buying a copy of Weight Watchers magazine and a chocolate bar is kidding herself, the woman who has sent through an empty packet of Haribo is honest, but at her wits end about how to pacify her screaming two year old, and the young man buying a twelve pack of toilet roll for his weekly shop either has a large family, or a serious bowel complaint.

It stands to reason however that once you start judging a person by the contents of their shopping trolley, you have to start judging yourself too.  I’ve decided to use this to my advantage for the 2013.  The way I see it, if I would look at my trolley and assume “fat cow” or “boring and unadventurous” then really I haven’t made the right food choices during this particular shop.  Therefore for 2013 my new year’s resolution is that my shopping basket should always project an image of a healthy, nutritionally aware, gorgeous fabulousness. 

Granted this means I’m going to have to go elsewhere to buy my hideous granny-esque 15 denier knee high’s for work (oh come on ladies, we all have them, and the supermarket multipacks are such good value for money!) otherwise I could undo my otherwise well thought through plan...but perhaps if I make sure my shopping trolley is a testament to a fabulous way of life, then hopefully I’ll actually start seeing my life in the same way, because let’s be honest, here I am, in the prime of my life, no children, no responsibilities to anyone but myself... so I might as well enjoy it to the full, as you never know when your priorities might change.  Who knows?  In a couple of years, I could be the Haribo lady!