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’?