My, how time flies when you're having fun. I've only just realised that it's almost two months since my last post. Christmas and the New Year have a lot to answer for - and in my particular case it was a mixture of indulgence and indolence I must confess. How can tempus fugit so fast when you're living life (relatively speaking) in the slow lane? Christmas was just wonderful - the girls came round, we ate lots of lovely food and really, really chilled. Not fab on the weight reduction front, but I'm now not altogether convinced that I should be concentrating my efforts in that direction. And I'm going to blame it all on my favourite butcher.

On Christmas Eve I arrived in his shop to see Roger already in full flow. Roger just loves his life; ever since he was made redundant he has been the male equivalent of a scrummy (I've been trying to think of an appropriate acronym and have failed completely - the best I could do was 'gaddy' - gym attending daddy - any better suggestions gratefully received) and was regaling Butcher Bill with the trials and tribulations of entertaining two elderly relatives throughout the festive season both in various stages of dementure.

"We've brought all the presents for them to make their lives easier, but even now they're worrying about it all. I've had to make lists for them both so they can see that everyone has a present and they're all wrapped. That worked for about five minutes then it was - are they all labelled? So I put another column on the list and ticked that. I've escaped before they can find something else to bother them."

At that point Butcher Bill produced my sirloin - three ribs with fillet in - a true Flintstone cut of meat.

"Blimey," said Roger, "You need to be careful about eating all of that - just think of the cholesterol."

"You don't want to worry about that," quipped Bill. "You don't want to grow old. You want to eat well and keel over young - you don't want to end up like your rellies - die before you dribble, that's what I say."

Hmmm. Food for thought, isn't it?

Anyway, to whet your appetite, here's the evidence of my bingo wing reducing dining room...

It's amazing the number of people who go in there and think we have a new fire place - just shows what a bit of swanky wallpaper can do.

Hey, look - we've even got toning curtains (although that took me until the New Year). The bay window faces south and the room gets bathed in sunshine, so just to ensure the curtains don't burn like the last pair, I've interlined and used blackout lining. The curtains are so blinking heavy I reckon I did the equivalent of a couple of hours in the gym simply hanging them.

Check this out - even matching chairs - thanks to my mate Louise reminding me about the Crowson shop in Buxted. All covered for the princely sum of £8! And there's enough fabric to allow me to cover an additional two chairs should we ever feel flush enough to get another couple.

Also, prior to Christmas (by the skin of my teeth) I managed to decorate Hannah's room (the curtains and cupboard door linings (they're glass fronted so need some backing to conceal the mess within) are still pending), but the rest of it is much lighter and brighter. I became a big fan of 'paste the wall' wallpaper - no messing about with pasting tables, no having to pre-cut to size, just slap the paste on the wall, offer the paper up, match the patterns and you're there.

This is Hannah when we first arrived creating her purple paradise - which, with voile lilac curtains looked pretty groovy, actually, but made the space surprisingly dark and shrunk the walls...

And this is what it's been transformed to thanks to a dash of paint and three and a bit rolls of half price wallpaper. It seems to have doubled in size. Hannah has undergone a slightly different transformation; she's taller, slimmer and brunette.

Now I'm procrastinating about doing Ellen's room. When we first moved she wanted an underwater room - I was really pleased with the result. But now, it's a bit old hat and she would like something more sophisticated. Cream and burgundy are her colours of choice - these home improvement programmes have a lot to answer for.

Soon it will be time for a slight re-evaluation. My Captain of Industry is even threatening to get me working full time - proper, paid employment. The hard fact is that the economic slow down has affected his firm; there are very few pub or restaurant companies investing in their portfolios at the moment. Those whose balance sheets have been affected adversely by the revaluation of their property portfolio and mortgage obligations simply don't have the resources to invest; those that have a war chest are waiting for the property market to collapse further so they can buy new stock at rock bottom prices.

The office doesn't keep me particularly busy at the moment, but other things crop up - like making curtains for domestic accommodation for the managers of a hotel. Now, that was a bit of a challenge as I had to source flame retardant fabric (it's classified as a place of work, so has to comply with fire regulations unlike domestic accommodation) and it took me ages to source anything viable. I googled and facebooked and found very little - then I discovered what I was doing wrong. The fabric for curtains is classified as drapery - I was putting the wrong criteria in the search engines. Easy peasy once you know. I ordered the fabric and one week later (with the aid of a couple of really late nights/early mornings) I'd made and hung seven pairs of curtains (three bedrooms - two of them bays, one dining room, one lounge large bay, stair and bathroom windows). True to form, I grossly underestimated the amount of time it would take me to make them up which was ridiculous considering I knew how labour intensive the dining room curtains were. Being me, I factored in overoptimistic assessments of how much I was going to speed up and didn't allow for how much additional time really big curtains take. Next time I will be better prepared. There must be a plethora of jokes about retarded curtains but I refuse to be drawn on the subject...

However, having found this lovely website which specialises in curtains for the hospitality sector, I'm burning with ambition to put my sewing machine to good use. So if any of you out there need new drapes or decs, my interior design expertise comes for free. Just think of it as helping a middle aged woman to become a shadow of her former self.

A Decorative Diversion

December 2nd 2009

It’s been a while since I updated y’all on my diminishing progress; the dining room intervened…

When we first moved here in late September just over six years ago, the house had been subdivided into flats and the consensus was it was more like a psychedelic rabbit warren than a home. My husband, being a building surveyor, rapidly worked out that if we ripped out a second staircase, reconfigured the back door, put in a steel, ripped out the stud partition walls and blocked up the additional doorways that had been inserted, we could have a lovely house (easy, peasy, huh?). This is indeed what happened – fairly rapidly. The dining room and the lounge were then decorated at lightning speed with a splash of paint so we could spend Christmas enjoying the house beyond building site stage. And that’s the last time the dining room was done.

Earlier this year, in the interests of efficiency and economy, my man decided it would be prudent to move his firm’s office here. The admin section is in the study; it’s a snug fit, but it works fine as long as everything is filed meticulously. He, however, simply can’t be levered in alongside all the paraphernalia so uses the dining room as his office during the week. So, that’s the nerve centre of our source of income and where we put the boss when he’s not on site.

Occasionally something just flips inside and – almost on impulse – I spring into action. Well, that’s what happened with the dining room. I decided it wasn’t really a suitable working environment for my Captain of Industry and the bits of overpainted cruddy wallpaper around our beautiful cast iron fireplace and light switches (the cruddy wallpaper, not the switches) were simply getting on my nerves.

Stripping the first three walls wasn’t too difficult; it’s interesting as it allows you to see others’ taste. How anyone ever thought a grey cross hatched textured wallpaper is a good look defeats me, but each to their own. The final wall, however (and the only one uninterrupted by windows, fireplaces or doors) was quite another story. The painted lining paper came off relatively easily to reveal two blocked up doorways; evidence of our original cunning plan to restore the house to its former glory. When the plasterers did the final skim, they feathered up to the old, painted wallpaper. It was the vilest shade of green vinyl silk on top of really ancient (probably Sanderson) wallpaper. This was so water resistant and firmly affixed I had to resort to a steamer. This effectively melted the green paint and, with a little patience, I could prize this off in teeny tiny sections in the manner of a face mask, intriguingly bearing the imprint of the ancient wallpaper on its reverse. The ancient paper had assumed the texture of sugar paper and appeared to be stuck on with PVA. With steam and perseverance I finally managed to get it off, inch by millimetre. This, however, left me with a wall with two slightly proud protuberances in its middle (like man boobs). Much polyfilla and sanding later, I was finally ready to line – and get rid of the dust.



(The doorways blocked up (note
the window in the background))

I must say, wallpaper stripping is very good for sorting out bingo wings, but it’s pretty horrendous for working up an appetite. Never, ever, ever have chocolate in the house when you are on a diet, not even if you have hidden it in the most secret place and forgotten all about its existence, for in moments of decorating induced hunger, it will call to you, enticing you with its sweet seduction and you will succumb. It’s just a matter of time.

Anyway, I happily lined the dining room, found drop dead gorgeous wallpaper (for the feature fireplace wall), decided on the paint and felt rather smug. I painted the ceiling and frieze (the bit above the picture rail for the uninitiated) leaving the cornice to be picked out in a complementary colour. This is a very, very bad idea indeed. Never, ever do this, because there is so much cutting in to do. Even with the aid of masking tape (which unlike on DIY programmes on the telly, doesn’t properly mask off everything) it takes forever. Then when the paint dries it will look wrong and not at all like the colour you’ve chosen. Inevitably, you will end up trying another colour which will entail many more hours perching giddily at the top of a step ladder with your mouth slightly open and tongue protruding in concentration (v. attractive in the manner of a ‘Peanuts’ character like Linus or Charlie Brown; less so for a middle aged mum) only to decide that it still isn’t right and end up repainting it (three times to cover up the darker shade) in the same colour as the ceiling and frieze (which, annoyingly, is what my CoI had suggested in the first place). And it gives you a very, very sore neck.

Then I turned my attention to the walls and woodwork; the painting all had to be done prior to papering so I spent another two days applying emulsion and cutting in eggshell. One of the problems of being a relatively inexperienced decorator is that I wildly underestimate the time it will take to complete a task. Emulsion the walls? Couple of hours, tops. Not on your life; you may be able to do the bulk of it in that timescale, the edges (particularly those that involve clambering up and down step ladders) take much longer to complete. Woodwork? Well, there’s not all that much of it; skirting boards, picture rail, architrave, door, windows – actually, that’s a lot of cutting in – and it takes me forever.

I was so looking forward to putting up the wallpaper (incidentally, the first rule of wallpapering is the ease with which you will be able to hang it is in inverse proportion to the cost of the roll. Lining paper (which costs about 20p per drop) will behave like a well trained dog, meekly obeying your every command and lying obediently where instructed (even when you’re cross lining). Designer wallpaper (at about £6.00 per drop) will stretch, droop, sag, fold, tear and generally sulk before being forced into submission). The morning sun was shining through the stained glass windows onto the plain wall, plainly revealing the man boobs still very much in evidence. I was gutted. It looked horrific.
“Don’t worry about it,” said my CoI. “It’ll only show up at this time of the day when the sun is shining and that doesn’t happen very often.”

That, however, was not the point. I wanted the dining room to be beautiful. I’d already put so much effort in, it would have been counterproductive not to do the job properly. There was nothing for it but to strip the wall again. So I went on Facebook and sulked.

Then I became a stripper again, reminding myself how good this was for my bingo wings.

The dining room in ‘emergency
decorations’ mode (note the

smooth wall at the back – not
a man boob in sight).

The CoI returned to find me grumpily stuffing the detritus into a bin bag and a newly redenuded wall. “You decided to go for it,” he gently observed. I grunted, “I think we need a plasterer. I’m not as good as I thought I was with the polyfilla.” Mild panic registered in his eyes; decent plasterers are like gold dust – pretty rare and very expensive. He rubbed his fingers over the offending profile. “It doesn’t feel too bad. Perhaps another go with the polyfilla and cross lining would do the trick.” I sighed. I knew who would be doing the filling and cross lining and it wouldn’t be him. “I think it’s time for a large glass of wine,” I said. He didn’t need to be told twice.

The following day I went to B & Q and purchased a tub of ready mixed skim coat: apply with a brush and smooth – un morçeau de gateau allegedly. I spread it far and wide, smoothed it as well as I could and let it dry. In the interests of doing the job properly, I then used the orbital sander. This was a very big mistake. I didn’t have the Velcro backed sanding sheets so attached the ordinary kind – which seemed to orbit independently of the base plate and then suddenly fracture. It was also extremely heavy and bulky and vibrated so much it numbed my fingers (and tried to escape from my grasp – it was like wrestling with a growling, truculent tiger cub). The net result of this was an incredible amount of torn sandpaper sheets, mountains of dust and not much evidence of smoothing. It was just too depressing for words. I then found the palm sander which, although much smaller and more manageable, seemed to be more effective. Result! A couple of hours later, I emerged looking as if I had been decorating in a blizzard but with considerably smoother walls. I was ready to cross line.

Although it is a universally acknowledged fact that the first rule of wallpaper applies, the second rule is that cross lining at height should never be attempted solo unless you happen to be in excess of six feet tall and have a proper trestle. Not being acquainted with this essential knowledge, I (at just under 5’ 4”) decided I would go it alone.

The idea of cross lining is that you hang lining paper horizontally on the wall and then add another layer vertically on the top, thus providing a smooth underneath for the top layer. However, after a brief amount of thought the following question will occur; how do you manage the top horizontal run? Admittedly the first sweep was below picture rail level i.e. approximately 6 foot off the ground, but it was still impossible to place it properly without using a stepladder of which I had only one. So, picture the scene. Me with 4 metres of sticky wallpaper in my left hand, perched on the second step of the ladder, coaxing the paper into conforming by smoothing it into place with the other hand, then realising that I am going to have to somehow move along. I hold the remaining paper as high as I can, step gingerly down, push the ladder along, feel my heart lurch as my left arm droops and SSHHHTTHHHWWWHHHKKKHHH the paper starts to peel off the wall. In a state of near panic I kick the stepladder into place and jump up before the paper finally manages to disengage entirely from the wall, pin the rest of the paper at an appropriate level on the wall with my head, let my arms drop to get some feeling back into them, then start the coaxing process all over again. It was blinking exhausting I can tell you. Factor into the equation that if you haven’t got the first little section right, you’re going to have to start the whole palaver from the beginning again and you’ll probably appreciate it’s an activity fraught with anxiety. That’ll be another large glass of wine, please.

It worked; I no longer have a wall with man boobs even in the harsh light of the morning sun; I know, I checked. Finally, I even managed to get the expensive wallpaper in place (although, typically I managed to waste at least three lengths through tearing) but the net result is drop dead gorgeous. A couple of hours reviving the fireplace with wire wool and WD40 (note to self: never, ever attempt to use WD 40 when the fire is in use and always use gloves for this sort of exercise – I had to bleach my fingers clean in neat Domestos) and a further morning removing the dust mountain and my CoI had his HQ (and his equilibrium) restored. To add to that, thanks to my mate Louise, I’ve rediscovered the Crowson shop in Buxted and found the matching fabric on an end of roll, so I’ve been able to cover all the dining room chairs for the princely sum of eight quid plus staples. I’ve even managed to order a new light fitting and the curtain material; all I’ve got to do then is make them up and install them. Once I locate my camera, I’ll even be able to supply the evidence to back this up. Hooray!!

So, in short, the dining room is a partially completed triumph but the diet has gone completely to pot. All in all I’ve lost a stone to date, so actually I’m a quarter of the way there. But I’ve a feeling I’m going to have to be a bit more determined if I’m going to get to my goal.

Now I’ve got the decorating bug; both girls have outgrown their rooms (six years and a lot of things have changed; what’s in fashion and also their tastes) so they’re next on the agenda. Wish me luck…

One week on…

Confession time. I’m not only Weeble-bodied; I’m also Weeble-willed. If short term memory was equatable to willpower, I’d be right up there with the goldfish. (Note to self: is it a true scientific fact that goldfish have a memory span of eight seconds or is it myth? And if it is true, how was it ever substantiated? Do goldfish live in a constant state of surprise? Did a researcher observe a goldfish peer at him obscurely through its aquatic surroundings pondering the meaning of the universe, turn round and swim (full of curiosity and excitement) to the castle in the centre having (obviously) forgotten its existence?) In my defence, there were extenuating circumstances, though…

I toddled back after my lovely meal with Maggie, gave my man a big hug and told him of my grand plan. He smiled his lovely smile, said,

“Well done, matey.[*] I’m really proud of you,” followed shortly by a knowing grin and, “You do know, tomorrow never comes, don’t you?” (Has he never heard of the self-fulfilling prophecy?)

“I’m determined,” I declared.

The following night, returning from tap dancing class (I need something to exercise my mind as well as my body) and feeling all self-righteous, I walked into the lounge (where he was nodding off), leaned over the armchair and planted a kiss on his cheek. He gave me a sleepy cuddle.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said rather groggily. “If you do a few weights, you’ll soon get rid of these,” and he patted my upper arms.

They wobbled.

I swallowed hard.

Garnering my inner resources I walked into the hall. I stood bravely in front of the mirror, removed my hoodie (only worn for exercise purposes – honestly!) and raised my arms. Oh no! It was true. Bingo wings! How long had he been keeping that from me? I tell you, power steering has a lot to answer for. When we were first together, he used to say he liked my well defined unflappable arms. At the time, I was driving a really basic little Clio. I used to tell him it would be terrible if he ever gave me a car with power steering; old fashioned wrestling with the steering wheel kept my upper arms trim and toned. How prophetic that was: when I got my new car all thought of the possible negative implications flew out of the window as I marvelled at the ease with which I could park. It comes to something when dolman sleeves become a sartorial necessity rather than a fashion statement. I felt completely demoralised. “I think I’ll have a glass of wine,” I thought. So I did.

See? What a complete flake!

Having thought about it, is starting something this radical during the current economic downturn doomed to failure? You only have to turn the news on to get an instant dose of drama turning into a crisis. And if I see or hear another ‘tax doesn’t have to be taxing’ advert, I think I’ll scream – I wouldn’t mind but it’s costing our hard earned money for them to wind me up (and virtually every other employed mature-ish (I’m refusing the middle-aged label) person I know). Political correctness can go hang; I’m cheesed off (although not consuming it, obviously) with being told what to do, what not to drink, what to think ad nauseam. That ridiculous Carole Caplin woman has even postulated that too much Earl Grey tea is harmful. Honestly, I’m not kidding; she says an excess of bergamot is damaging to your health. But it’s an ill wind, as they say, and the energy I use getting annoyed at the idiotic behaviour of our leaders and so-called experts must be burning up a few calories, mustn’t it?

Opposed as I am to political correctness, I’ve long harboured a passion for its grammatical equivalent (although I’m not averse to writing fragments (it drives my grammar checker to distraction)). Or to starting sentences with a conjunction (obviously). You might have observed that I’m rather partial to parentheses. I’m not sure why. I chortled as I read the chapter in 1066 and All That about the Celts, Picts and Scots and their rather complicated relationships; by the end of it the Picts were living in brackets (I just loved that idea). Ever since then, I’ve taken great delight in subordinating clauses and enclosing them in comforting ( ) or - - or even, on occasion, [ ]. Certain to raise my hackles, however, is the intrusion of the errant apostrophe. Even PLT (Pre Lynne Truss of Eats, Shoots & Leaves fame (Google her if you’re still in the dark)) I was almost messianic in my desire to educate market traders in good labelling habits. It’s a hobby pretty much guaranteed to make you quick on your feet; stall holders became strangely exorcised at my brief tutorial. Maybe it’s a personal campaign I should consider reintroducing; even if it has no effect literally, my exercise regime would experience a boost.

Nevertheless, it was not all doom and gloom last week. I was reasonably good about food. I think one of the reasons grapefruits form such a substantial part of this diet is that during their preparation you could easily lose your appetite (or possibly the will to live). When I was little, we occasionally had grapefruit for really special breakfasts and my mum had a special, dedicated knife, slightly curved and serrated on one side with which she would attempt to separate the inner fruit from the outer skin (invariably leaving a considerable proportion affixed to the pith which, when you attempted to remove it with a spoon, would spit juice into your eye). I don’t own any such implement but, in any case, favour total segmentation. However, I have yet to find a way of doing it either quickly or cleanly. Having tried a variety of techniques to no real advantage (and after eleven grapefruits, I feel I’m something of an expert) I have come to the following earth shattering conclusion: tinned grapefruit is quicker, cleaner and altogether easier. Just a thought, though, it’s possible the preparation part is a fiendish subliminal low impact exercise without which you are doomed not to lose weight. Anyway, I’ll give tinned stuff a go over the next week and let you know the outcome.

As it is, please celebrate with me the following achievements: I no longer have to breathe in to do up my jeans; I have exercised more in the last week than I have during the previous month and I am 5lb lighter! Wahoo!! Global downturn notwithstanding, I’ll try harder next week – and keep you posted.

[*] Since when did ‘matey’ replace ‘sexy’ or ‘gorgeous’?

Reversing the Middle-Aged Spread

“No, really, it’s getting serious,” I protested, as we tucked into our Indonesian chicken curry. It had been Maggie’s suggestion to add mushrooms and it was really delicious. It’s all right for her; she’s younger than me, slightly hypo-glycaemic (which means she burns food like there’s no tomorrow) and she has an extremely active toddler who keeps her constantly on the go. Naturally, she’s slim and gorgeous. “I’ve really got to do something drastic; from the legs up, I am a weeble with boobs.”

Tears sprang into Maggie’s eyes as she tried to laugh and swallow simultaneously (and failed). She took a swig of her spritzer. “God, Bex, you’ve got to be joking! Surely it can’t be that bad?”

I nodded gloomily, swallowing yet another fabulous mouthful. “Anyway, I’ve come to a decision: I’m going to diet – starting tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Well, it can’t be today because of this,” I gestured at our little feast, “So tomorrow is the earliest I can start. And I’m planning to blog it, at least once a week. That should shame me into sticking to it.”
“Now that I will look forward to,” she giggled, raising her glass. “Let’s drink to that.”

The problem is approaching middle age I’ve spread – mainly round my middle. What was once a fairly fit and healthy size ten, twenty-eight inch waist is now as zip-straining, button busting thirty-six inches. (Please bear in mind that I couldn’t even get into the Metropolitan Police when I was a graduate because I wasn’t tall enough). The scales are equally depressing; wobbling towards twelve stone. Blimey, I was barely that when I was pregnant! However, it’s an ill wind as the saying goes and the upside is that I’ve developed boobs. What were once pretty pathetic tangerines are now cantaloupes. I was ecstatic when I first developed a cleavage (or cliché as Dangerous Dennis likes to phrase it). However, it comes at a price; bazookas are heavy and it takes serious scaffolding to keep those babies in place – industrial bras don’t come cheap (or, it has to be said, particularly sexy).

I realise that I’m not obscenely overweight, but it is enough to make clothes buying (even in the bra department) pretty depressing. I currently have a wardrobe stuffed full of clothes I like but simply don’t fit into any more. But scarier when I think about it is that to get back to my original size I will need to lose more than a quarter of my current body weight (for years my non-pregnant weight was just under 8½ stone). Put like that, it sounds pretty obscene.

And the reality is that currently I really don’t feel great about the way I look and that is reflected in all sorts of ways. I tend towards supermarket undies, jeans and jumpers. And the reason for that is twofold, I suppose. On the surface is a certain lack of self-esteem, but lurking below that is the rationale of the procrastinator. I have known for some time that I need to do something about my weight; why bother investing in fabulous clothes (especially as, no matter how special they are, I don’t feel particularly fabulous in them) when I’m intending to shrink out of them imminently? But I haven’t got round to shrinking, and I haven’t invested in clothes that make the new, bigger me feel fabulous because I’m not happy being like this. A vicious circle, isn’t it?

Good grief, that sounds gloomy!

The question is; how did this happen? Why has this spare tyre crept on?

Well, lack of stress, for one thing. When I’m really, really stressed my pulse rate goes up, my appetite plummets and food assumes the flavour and texture of cardboard. Nor do I sleep well; so I exercise more, prowling round the house in the wee small hours. (Trust me, I know what it is to feel really stressed, but that’s another story for another time.) Now that I’m happy with a lovely husband, home and life I enjoy cooking, eating and relaxing after work with a glass or three of wine and I sleep like a baby. (On no! The thought police and health authorities are probably on to me now, ready to cart me off to the Priory. Who came up with that ludicrous measure of two units per adult female per day? Our partners in Europe having been drinking more than that for years and living longer. Someone’s head should roll.) However, even I can’t escape the fact that booze contains a lot of calories, and clearly I’m consuming more than I’m burning off or I wouldn’t be getting fatter.

Lack of exercise, for another. I look at my younger, slimmer friends, and they’re on the go all the time; baby carrying is fabulous exercise and when your sprouts are small, you’re having a weight training workout every day without realising it. My teenagers simply don’t involve that degree of physicality (well, not from me at any rate). And my work has become more sedentary. What am I doing right now? Not working (or even pretending to) as it happens but nevertheless, me sitting in front of a monitor exercising little more than my brain and fingertips pretty much sums up most of my working life.

I think I’ve also developed body anti-dysmorphia (or should that be body amorphia – when you quite like the way your body looks despite evidence to the contrary?). There’s only one full length mirror in our house – in our bedroom – and because of its position I only ever catch myself in it in profile. If I make the effort to suck my stomach in my boobs distract me sufficiently to think I look okay. And in every other mirror in the house (we have quite a few, for the reflected light, of course) it’s only my face and upper torso that are visible – and they look in proportion with each other. It’s only when I’m confronted with my full image face on (usually on shopping trips with my beautiful svelte daughters) that I am confronted with the awful truth that not only do I possess love handles but they are rapidly changing into panic bars.

Anyway, I reckon that if I steel myself to diarise my shrinking journey, I’ll stop making excuses, stick with it and hopefully even get in some exercise. The little red book I’ve got claims that with three half grapefruits a day, a healthy diet and a modicum of exercise, the pounds should tumble off in a fortnight. I think even I can manage a fortnight without booze. And if the wine is not winding me down, I might even get the get up and go to exercise.

So… that’s about it. Tomorrow is D-day. I’ll keep you posted.