Diet starts tomorrow. I haven’t got on the scales yet. I’m putting that moment of destiny off until the last possible moment; partly because I’m dreading what the scales will say (I think I’m off the scale and into the ‘you fat bastard’ territory) and partly because those poor scales have had to put up with me squashing them for the past 15 years; I just don’t think I can bring myself to cause that amount of pain anymore.
I have devised many ways of fooling the scales. Standing on one leg. Leaning forwards or backwards. Doing a poo. Stripping off. (I don’t recommend doing these things all at once.) Actually I don’t know how much stripping off helped because at the point when my knickers dropped to the floor the manager of Boots asked me leave before I could get back on.
I shall eat vegetable soup for a week until it emerges from my pores. I shall eat fruit and vegetables for three days and bananas and skimmed milk on the fourth. I shall eat chicken, tomatoes and brown rice for two days and I hope to lose so much weight that I will be able to describe myself as cuddly or chubby or maybe even tubby. (Oh I haven’t been tubby since I was a teenager.)
My moods will swing violently between morose and gloomy. I will hate everyone including myself and especially those that like me. In fact it is upon them that I will heap most rancour. I will cry in the company of people thinner than me. I will cry in the company of people fatter than me. I will crave foods I do not like and will take to shop lifting and peeing in public places as a means of diversion.
In short I will declare self loathing an Olympic sport and become the gold medal winner overnight.
I will learn the difference between eating as a response to hunger rather than eating as a response to marketing.
I will do my body some good for a change.
I will be healthier and thus extend the number of days that I can chase my children around the garden.