Food is a weight on my mind
When I did the eight-week weight-loss challenge for this paper before the summer, I was all gung ho and delighted with myself. Another stone and I'll be grand, I said. And then because nobody was watching me, I have started to lose the plot again. I found an Easter egg that was out of date since 2012 when I was cleaning out a press and I left it there. A big egg with about twenty sweets in it. I'll throw that out, I said. But, of course, I didn't. And, of course, after a few drinks one night I found myself burrowing into the press to get it. By the time I had finished watching Celebrity Big Brother in bed on my Ipad, it was gone. Not a sweet in sight either. Now that's not normal behaviour by anyone's standards. I've also taken to bringing Tuc biscuits up to bed with me and eating the whole packet. They were an attempt at plain and low cal.
And the butter has crept back in. I use bread as a vehicle for butter. I would nearly prefer the butter on its own. I wasn't buying any and now I am. All the nasty little habits creeping back in. Soon it will be Tuc biscuits with butter. The bed sheets will be minging.
The blender that I had been using to make smoothies has gone back into the cupboard. I never managed to make one that didn't taste of puke. Green sludge that tasted of over ripe banana even when there wasn't any banana in there. Vile stuff. I am making a lot of Caesar salads but the only thing I really like is the Caesar dressing which is the fattening bit and I use nearly a whole bottle each time. I just have a problem with control.
I went to the trouble of buying a weighing scales. A talking one. I weigh myself every morning before my shower. She shouts my weight out and just as I'm getting into the shower she shouts 'ready for operation'. Does she mean liposuction. When I reach a certain weight, I'm expecting her to scream 'Fat bitch'. I can change it to different languages. That might be better.
I'm not multiligual and I certainly don't know the German for fat bitch.