Category Archives: Weight Loss

A Newly Discovered Memory Lane

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I spent this weekend just passed in Sydney which was terrible for the waste line but satisfied almost all of my other sensibilities. The toolman is at first glance a typical Australian man; he has a bizarre but rather normal love of Australian Rules Football, he loves the most amber of beer and prefers to refer to tomato sauce as “dead ‘orse”.  He is however the son of a Hungarian immigrant mother and we spent the weekend with his very Eastern European grandmother.

Although we did none of the usual sightseeing which usually includes Sydney Harbour, the famous Bridge and Opera House, I did have an opportunity to become painfully aware of surrounding Sydney-ites. If you feel you have the most perfect of shades of blonde hair, can tie it severely in a pony tail, don some skin tight lycra and asics trainers, shout your demand of a soy latte and gloopey oats for breakfast at the poor waiter (hold the fat, the cream, the flavour) and feel inclined to laugh hysterically with your BFF as you tell each other how fabulous and interesting you are, you’ll be sure to have a riot in Syndey (I’m sure the tiny seats were there just to highlight how far my derrière really can spill over the sides). Needless to say, I would be more inclined to move to a damp cave inhabiting a grizzly bear than I would move there.

But the joy of the city is never found in its streets; it’s in a quiet apartment with a mature aged Hungarian couple who have the key to the most interesting city around.  With a “Hogy vagy” here and a sprinkling of paprika there, you will find an endless list of stories about crossing a war torn border, early immigrant Australia and tales of family history I seldom hear from the toolman.

Tales of characters with names like Monsika and Geisa are so closely tied to the toolmans’ childhood, I wonder how this man is more “fair dinkum” than “Béke veled”! Around his grandma, the toolman becomes his ‘European self’, enjoying the delights of her Hungarian cooking, the likes of which I couldn’t imagine myself replicating nor quite frankly, understanding. But the food of the toolman’s childhood brings out his playful and vulnerable side, which when it reveals itself, is magic for me to watch. As the weekend progressed, I realised that there are some things more important than calorie counting and I welcomed the food that Grandma served.

Unfortunately I never met the toolman’s mother and he rarely, for his own reasons, talks of her in detail. Any information I can gather about her is in pieces and I am often embarrassed about how little I know of her. Having never met his father either, it seems to me at times (albeit selfishly) that this man appeared in my life with the sole purpose of being my loving husband, with a fully formed personality that was created during adulthood without parental influences. Without any way to place that cheeky smile or the curvature of his hands into a context, I studied the photos Grandma showed me, trying to memorise the shape of his parents’ faces, the tilt of his mothers chin.

When the toolman brought out his use of the Hungarian language, reciting one of the few phrases he knows (Csirke halszálka which translates roughly as “chicken bones”), I was brought back to the present once more and reminded of how I love his humour, even if I’m not sure who he got it from.

When we left, it wasn’t without a tin full of cakes and sweets to take with us. With my Nanna gone from this time, I was reminded as I walked out the door, that there are few things that can beat the attention to detail that a Grandma can bring to food.

And ultimately, whoever you are, wherever you’re from, nothing can really beat Grandma’s cooking.

Wiggling Good Time

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“Lean forward a bit”

“Ok. Any better?”

“Worse. Stand up straight” she says with a giggle

“I am, I am”. I lift my left leg and bend it in front of me. The reason was twofold; first to show the world that I can do that now and to see if it made a difference.

“Have you been to the toilet today?” she looked hopeful.

“I just went before. Why don’t I take off my jumper? I weighed in my singlet last week anyway”.

Standing in leggings, socks and a singlet, I saw the loss of last week on the scale before me– 1.1 kilos (2.4 pounds), which meant that finally I had reached the big 2.0. Twenty kilos (44 pounds) and with 14 to go, I am well on my way to redeeming myself as the slightly pudgy but well rounded bouncy brunette I once was.

It felt so great that the slightly raised eyebrows I detected (from the oh-so-well-manicured-crowd) as I wiggled my bum in the air didn’t deter me from exclaiming, “I got there! I did it!”

Throw in a few working ovaries and some firmly attached nails and the world is my oyster…

And sometimes you just have to leave it there.

The Text in Context

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The past week has had me asking some pretty serious questions. The query at the frontline of my proverbial war on words has been “what makes me happy?”

I lost nearly a kilo this week which had me in a lather of personal achievement (for all of five minutes) but was soon overshadowed with the sense that the monkey on my back is far from falling off with a swift slap to the head, instead preferring to fang in with even greater savour.  

I have all the signs of coming of age. I now accept the eccentricities that are me: I keep a pen in my bra, I like to read a map upside down, I like to wear woollen shawls (and prefer to call them “capes”), I occasionally wrap my cat in muslin and rock her like a baby (put the phone down PETA, she loves it, I’m telling you), I prefer flat shoes for any occasion, and nothing warms my cockles more than a good size plastic container.

So having matured enough to accept all that with open arms, I can only think that my general displeasure comes from desiring most what I cannot have. I have been prescribed a rather nasty medication for a rather nasty disorder of the skin that has rather nastily (have I said nasty?) reared its ugly head in the past ten months.

In the same way that some may be envious of my curls and rather ample bosom (even if the toolman predicts that in time “deck hitters” may be a better description), I am envious of those with smooth and unbroken skin. The psoriasis I have developed has left me with scaly and occasionally bleeding hands and feet; a rather gruesome affliction for a young woman.

The drama continues as previous treatments have proven ineffective and it is now considered a reasonable therapy to try a rather toxic drug. Side effects aside, babies are off the cards whilst on the drug which may mean a few years without child.

“What me wants, me can’t have” as someone rather gloomy and blue (me) once said.

Ovaries, mental health and crusty complaint aside, I try to convince myself that things can only get better. There’s always another uniquely shaped plastic container to add to the collection….

And then, when things just seem too much and I’m delirious enough to ask the heavens why someone up there is intent on withholding me the most special of gifts, I open the good book. Give me a sec…this may not be going where you think it is.

I have three loving and loyal siblings. One of them, the eldest is a considered communicator and rarely says much without some forethought. The other two, bless them, say some important and meaningful things but you generally have to wait patiently for these little gems to pop up between much loved scandal and chat.

One day, about a year ago, the eldest gave me a book which at the time I thought was an odd gift. But later, upon opening it, I realised it was his way of saying, “Keep your chin up. I love you”. It’s times like these that I open the “good book” and read from it.

“I’m afraid that some times

you’ll play lonely games too.

Games you can’t win

‘cause you’ll play against you.

 All alone!

Whether you like it or not,

Alone will be something

you’ll be quite a lot.

 And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance

you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.

There are some, down the road between hither and yon,

that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

 But on you will go

Though the weather be foul.

On you will go

Though your enemies prowl….

 ….On you will hike,

And I know you’ll hike far

and face up to your problems

whatever they are…

 …You’re off to Great Places!

Today is your day!

Your mountain is waiting.

So…get on your way”

 – Oh, The Places You’ll Go (Dr. Seuss) –

When in trouble, some have the Bible, some the Qur’an, I have Dr. Seuss.

And that’s what big brothers are for…

Spice of Life

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Well I won the bet by default, as mother was unable to make it to weigh-in today. I won’t chase her for payment as I suspect mother’s determination to lose weight has waned over the past few months and I am unable to find the right route of encouragement to mobilize her efforts once more. I however, have been ramping up in my little kitchenette, alla Julia Child, experimenting with new flavours to satisfy the taste buds, rather than the stomach.

The toolman has commented more than once that the first time I cooked for him, I unwittingly cemented the relationship for at least the next few years. I cooked him a pasta dish; the sauce full of hot salami, olives, capers and chilli. But having cut carbs, fat and yes it seems, flavour from my dishes in the last few months, I didn’t realise how my disinterest in food was driving him to have sneaky expeditions out for lunch during the week to satisfy his need for rich, flavourful food.

When you are trying hard to lose weight, only the most motivated can whip up nutritious and low fat food every night. Yes, I can hear you cry out in objection already, but sweetheart, you may be happy with fish and steamed veggies- I’m just not. The food I cook instinctively involves meat, tomatoes, basil, cream, cheese…(I just wiped the dribble off my keyboard) and denying myself these flavours often results in a rather dry looking piece of chicken and some very sad and limp veggies, consumed with a good dollop of,

“Mmm, this is really good” or “This is not that bad”.

That’s usually what comes to mind when cooking fat reduced sweets and savouries; it’s never, gee this is great, How delicious! Always, it’s not that bad. I do myself an injustice, as I am well trained by a lineage of very talented female cooks in the family, and I too can cook. I just can’t really, well, be bothered thinking about food. I’d lost interest.

But yesterday I ventured down the road, less than a kilometre from where I live and decided to take advantage of the endless strip of Vietnamese grocers and restaurants that make up “Little Vietnam”. Dodging the “less fortunate” and their furtive appraisals of the likelihood I would open my wallet and pay them for drugs, I filled my basket with fresh and vibrant flavours; garlic, ginger, lemongrass, chilli, star anise, coriander, thai basil, tamarind, and dry spices. I eat these foods all the time, I just happen to do so in a restaurant decked out with plastic chairs and tables. Why not make it myself? And boy, am I on a winner.

This whole weight loss ordeal can be very tiresome my friends, so this week I plan to spice up my life. And the best bit of all, after one taste last night, the toolman declared it to be just “Delicious!”.

And I may have just secured myself another couple of years.

Cash Coup

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Poo, Damn, Darn it, Blast!

It’s too easy to climb under the security of a soft doona when you can rest on laurels of weeks gone by. For some, the decreasing number on the scales only pushes them forward with an even greater gusto for shedding the weight. But for me, it’s often my demise.

I’ve been exceptionally grateful to all those who have encouraged me over the last few weeks. The occasional, “You look great!” and “How much have you lost now?” adds oodles to my self esteem but makes it easy to fall into the thinking that my job is done. In actual fact I have still just over 15 kilos (33 pounds) to lose. And this week I’ve gained.

They say that our body remembers times of great fitness; that this “body memory” helps great athletes regain peak form before a competition. I have a different sort of body memory that is ever so slightly starting to reveal itself. More of a déjà vu really. Did I imagine that chair was easier to sit in, was there really a time when I could no longer cross my legs, did that shop assistant really ask me if I would like to try that on?

And then today, Oh joys of joys. A. MAN. OPENED. A. DOOR. FOR. ME. Feminists relinquish immediately- you have an angry fat girl on your hands. This is not your fight.

For too long I have not been seen or even bumped out of the way as I have converged on an unopened door, a parking meter, a check out line at the same time as any man (and woman but that didn’t hurt). The mark of my self esteem is of course, not directly linked to the men of the world, but gee it’s nice to be seen.

There is no doubt that there is less wobble in my step these days; that my head is held slightly higher when I walk; and that I have dared to flutter my eyes in passing. But I still have all the characteristics of a very large woman- thighs that burn from rubbing together, a rather undefined waste and a rather voluptuous back…known as “back boobs” in the bizz.

And so, not yet satisfied with the status quo and desperate to propel myself with a revised relish into the week ahead, I set myself a little challenge. A head to head contest with a woman against whom I would not usually bet against. My mother. One week, one set of scales, a small sum of money to win.

Hey, obviously the promise of a life full of open doors hasn’t done it for me…maybe the cash will.

Poo, Damn, Darn it, Blast!

It’s too easy to climb under the security of a soft doona when you can rest on laurels of weeks gone by. For some, the decreasing number on the scales only pushes them forward with an even greater gusto for shedding the weight. But for me, it’s often my demise.

I’ve been exceptionally grateful to all those who have encouraged me over the last few weeks. The occasional, “You look great!” and “How much have you lost now?” adds oodles to my self esteem but makes it easy to fall into the thinking that my job is done. In actual fact I have still just over 15 kilos (33 pounds) to lose. And this week I’ve gained.

They say that our body remembers times of great fitness; that this “body memory” helps great athletes regain peak form before a competition. I have a different sort of body memory that is ever so slightly starting to reveal itself. More of a déjà vu really. Did I imagine that chair was easier to sit in, was there really a time when I could no longer cross my legs, did that shop assistant really ask me if I would like to try that on?

And then today, Oh joys of joys. A. MAN. OPENED. A. DOOR. FOR. ME. Feminists relinquish immediately- you have an angry fat girl on your hands. This is not your fight.

For too long I have not been seen or even bumped out of the way as I have converged on an unopened door, a parking meter, a check out line at the same time as any man (and woman but that didn’t hurt). The mark of my self esteem is of course, not directly linked to the men of the world, but gee it’s nice to be seen.

There is no doubt that there is less wobble in my step these days; that my head is held slightly higher when I walk; and that I have dared to flutter my eyes in passing. But I still have all the characteristics of a very large woman- thighs that burn from rubbing together, a rather undefined waste and a rather voluptuous back…known as “back boobs” in the bizz.

And so, not yet satisfied with the status quo and desperate to propel myself with a revised relish into the week ahead, I set myself a little challenge. A head to head contest with a woman against whom I would not usually bet against. My mother. One week, one set of scales, a small sum of money to win.

Hey, obviously the promise of a life full of open doors hasn’t done it for me…maybe the cash will.

Collateral Kilos

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I’m full of revelations. It seems that any time I do anything slightly positive for my physical wellbeing, I claim the behaviour as a revelation. Slightly frustrating for the toolman I would imagine,

“Baby, I went for a walk tonight. I had an epiphany…if I go for more walks the weight will come off faster!” He always smiles politely but even I want to shut me up with a quick blow to the head with a shovel when I hear it come out of my mouth.

But the truth is, I have been working hard at being active. By increasing my physical activity I have found that it quiets my mind. Having a mind that drags and being unable to soothe myself with drugs or alcohol, I sometimes find the burdensome weight of self awareness overwhelming. I have to be constantly prepared to fight the battle of self-depreciation and in doing so have realised that being active is a great help.

So, the past week I have been busy puffing around the block, cleaning out the veggie patch and living off home made whole foods. And even if I battle with the idea that “simple living” might actually be the thing that keeps me living longer, for now it doesn’t really matter. Because the weight came off this week.

And for once, it was a pleasant form of collateral damage.

Onwards and Downwards

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I had an interesting conversation with a dear friend of mine the other day. A slightly morbid train of thought or at the very least a scene from a strange black comedy. We were comparing notes on mental illness and trying to decide what body parts we would give up to be free from the burden of our diseases. After some lengthy contemplation, I decided I would be happy to give away my middle, ring and small fingers from my right hand. My friend, who suffers from a more severe disease than I do, and consequently is unable to trust the reality of her thoughts for much of the time, decided she would be happy to trade her whole hand. Obviously (or obvious to us anyway), the toes lovingly referred to as our “pinkies” which are null and void anyway would be happily given away to sweeten the deal.

I have felt broken for some time now as my body has become increasingly tired and noncompliant. My ovaries are on strike, I have developed the rarest type of psoriasis on my hands and feet causing them to crack and bleed, my big toe nail is hanging on by the slightest of attachments (soon to be removed by a professional) and my mind is at times, a parasite, enslaving its inhabitant (me) to wreak havoc on my life.

Despite this, little gems still manage to crop up in front of me. The Toolman and I travelled to a small Australian town, on the border of two states last weekend, in celebration of the Toolman’s birthday. We opted for some cheap accommodation in the main street of the town (our favourite way to travel) and instead of frequenting the surrounding wine region, full of city folk trying to “look country”, decided to make ourselves familiar with the locals.

When travelling, the Toolman and I manage to enter into the strangest situations that only being away from your home town can produce. It has become quite the habit for us to stay in substandard accommodation and prop somewhere, confident that inevitably an interesting local will befriend us. This town did not disappoint.

We sat quietly in an empty bar on Saturday night, after a day that had been spent much in silence. When I am “not well”, I struggle to communicate because of the energy it requires and therefore abuse the intimacy I have with my husband that allows me to stay mainly mute. But within an hour, we had befriended “Rod and Shirles” who wanted us to stay at their place, Geoff the local sheep farmer and Stan the book man. Not only were we acquainted but I had successfully obtained individual stories from each which included a drug affected daughter, a deep disappointment that a son had chosen an academic career instead of a life on the land, and a deeply shameful liaison with a married woman. The next day, people were waving to us in the street and introducing me to the woman at the centre of said affair to “see what I thought of her”. But in all this an interesting this happened. A man unknown to both the Toolman and I said to me, almost completely out of the blue,

I think sometimes we can underestimate the illusionary nature of pain”. And that was it. I was so shocked that I didn’t respond, instead chose to contemplate how this idea had so randomly been presented to me by a total stranger.

And so in contemplating, I wondered whether pain was in fact just an illusion or perhaps even, an hallucination. If an hallucination is the perception of “something” in the “complete absence of anything”, and an illusion is the “incorrect perception” of something that is actually “there”, perhaps my pain is in fact an illusion after all.

You see, I could have it all wrong. And just maybe all those religious types have something to offer. Because what if my mental illness, my psoriasis and even my toe nail are not sources of pain at all? What if I have incorrectly perceived them? Could they be little gifts, little ways of learning and becoming stronger and (shudder)….happier?

Don’t worry, I haven’t lost it, OF COURSE THEY’RE NOT! They’re just crappy and make me feel crappy and unhappy and overwhelmed. But as my Grandpa said to me the other day which resulted in a few tears springing to the corners of my eyes,

“You’re a great jumper. You jump over everything thrown at you. In fact, you should go down to the track and show those horses a thing or two”. I felt something for him when he said that, which I have never felt before. Maybe he has gotten me all along after all?

The next day, I tried something new. I got out my “Thailand-Special” converse runners and an old pair of trackies, threw my long out-of-control curls on top of my head and went for walk because I will not let this get away from me. I want to lose weight, shed the flab and move on, toe nail or no toe nail. And just maybe, I can walk myself out of all this malaise.

So enough of all “that”, it’s do or die and how true that is. Onwards and upwards peeps, back to calorie counting and weighing and all those other clichés synonymous with getting back on track, yoo-hooing, and fighting the good fight!

Maybe with a bit of extra effort, I can delay the inevitable slide down for at least a few months, maybe even years.

But by the way, just so you know, my friend and I drew the line at losing an eye.

Malaise of Mind

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I have exercised this blog at times with the same assurance a bowed cane gives to an old man. No doubt the flow of my life and more specifically, states of mind have been present here. Having been well versed in the ways of keeping on keeping on, it is more important than ever for me to take the time to mention the following. I trust you’ll excuse the lack of wit and sparkle. Stasis is a true enemy of mine and results in a quick trip down to where doing nothing perpetuates doing nothing ever more.

It takes a very special person to understand what happens inside for someone who has a mental illness.

“Get over it!”

“Put in a bit of effort, would you!”

“You’re not trying”…and my favourite,

“If you had some real problems, you’d realise that things are not that bad”.

I do indeed realise that I am privileged. I do indeed understand that I am free from the need to search for food, potentially risking my life or at least integrity to feed my family. And that is just one of the horrific circumstances that I do not have to take in hand. But I do feel the fear of something bigger than myself coming after me.

We are a strange animal, us human beings. No other living creature has within in it, a secular group capable of self-destruction. Whilst so many living things fight for the right to live, some of us humans are capable of turning against ourselves. The human brain is a magical thing and in its mere concept, inspires me no end. It inspired me straight through a degree in psychology in fact. But unfortunately I am one of the relative few, who during their existence will go behind enemy lines in a battle against themselves.

People like myself, if they are lucky and have the resources, must go about learning how to win these battles. How to motivate a mind that haunts you, how to trick a brain that momentarily wants to keep you down.

Yesterday the toolman commented that I am just “so mean” to him. That I bring him down and make him feel horrible. He also commented that when I am the other person I am “incredibly loving and kind”.

“I agree with you” is all I said before walking away.

Stephen Fry, a British actor, writer and less commonly known as my personal hero was endowed with the courage and strength that led him to “out” himself four years ago. He travelled the world talking to people with mental illness and asked a very poignant question of them all. He asked,

“If I had a red button that could take this away for you right now, would you press it?”

Nobody said yes. He himself admitted that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. However, nearly all of them said that they would like the same offer extended to them during times of deep depression.

You see, when I’m good, I’m great. My life is verbally vibrant and stimulating. I have lots of ideas, love a chat, love to read and love to think, even if much of that occurs in my own mind. But when I am bad and energized (as opposed to bad and mute), I direct every misgiving, every misfortune I have ever encountered directly at the person who has decided to love me unconditionally.

Loving me unconditionally does not mean that the toolman loves me all the time; just that for some reason that I haven’t fully understood, knowing all that he does, he has decided to love me anyway. He has resolved to bear the brunt when I express states of mind so diligently controlled outside the home; or at least I think they’re controlled.

When I care, I care deeply and give a lot of myself. But when something changes me, when I am challenged by the rage that channels me, I am unable to control it.

Someone very dear to me said recently,

“I’m responsible for the first drink. I’m just not responsible for what happens by the second. I cannot be held accountable.” He has a very serious allergy to alcohol.

What an affliction, we chime, and it is true. What is more difficult to understand is the wife, the daughter, the sister, the cousin, me, standing before you looking exactly as I always have but completely transformed from within. There is no slur of speech, no wobble of gait, just me firing misdirected missiles in your direction.

When you hate yourself, as I truly do in those moments, I have no control. Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t hate myself for behaving like that, I hate myself despite of it. Oh no, in the moment, I am being completely reasonable. I am expelling the rage and hatred in my life, screaming…..

“How dare you!”

I know what you are thinking. Free pass to bitch-town. But as you consider this as the most reasonable explanation of behaviour, I assure you that I also have a free pass to experience depression, self hatred, shame, guilt, abandonment, fear, and a ride that teeters on the edge with a clear view down.  

And believe me; they’re all right next to bitch-town.

Skinny You Want And You Shall Receive

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If ever there was motivation to be found within, I just may have found it during a recent visit with whom I like to call “my ovary finder”. Some of you may remember the day my ovaries hid during a rather embarrassing examination which I am pleased to announce, were later found hiding behind a rather generous paunch.

What was to take place during the short visit with said “finder” last week left me in the very least, melancholy. Apparently folks, I am not a good “candidate” for fertility treatment. Yes, I need it. Yes, I desperately want it. No, I can’t have it.

As if I wasn’t a full blooded woman sitting in a very intimidating office, abreast the most recent and revered fertility treatment specialist in my town, I was turned down because of my weight. In a very short amount of time I was reduced to a body, an infertile mound of fatty waste, a non thinking entity deemed not eligible to experience the joy of motherhood.

I must admit, the woman who offhandedly threw this information my way was indeed professional, knowledgeable and attempted to be inclusive in her diagnosis. What she failed to tell me was,

“I can imagine this is very difficult for you to hear. Unfortunately, you don’t deserve to be a mother. It seems you are what we call in the business, a fatty-boom-ba!”

She would continue, “Please come back when you are eligible to be considered a skinny-minny. You will know you have entered this phase as you will feel light headed and hungry a good deal of the time”.

I explained to this woman that in fact I have always been rather munificent in the hips and buttocks stakes, and wondered whether I had been a significant player in the long standing misconception that this would in fact make me a prime candidate to carry a little one and put this belly to good use.

Apparently Not.

And just to add a little insult to injury, I was also informed in a hushed voice as she lent over the tiny desk which I’m sure was there to highlight how huge I am, that the medication I have taken for two years to keep me well and happy is not compatible with the hormonal treatment I need.

This part I knew. It didn’t surprise me one bit. I have become increasingly comfortable with the looks, the quite lean-in, the whispered voice that white coats use to give me even basic medical information, as if I might fly off the handle just because they exhaled a breath.

I have long suffered from an illness that can leave me devastatingly low, and then very quickly see me packing my bag to head to the beach at midnight. This too makes me an undesirable candidate for fertility treatment, so it seems. I’m used to my dynamic life, lived so much of the time in my own head; used to the active participation of my thoughts. Fortunately, the toolman is also coming around to this life that requires us to often be combat-ready. Just last week, as that beach bag was almost swung over my shoulder, he diligently and patiently distracted my attention to something inside the home, where I was safely under his watchful eye.

Having understood this, please understand me. Whilst some little girls wish to be fairies, or princesses, and the special ones even diligent lawyers, when I was asked what I wished for, I replied,

“I’m going to live in a caravan and have twelve children. I might even wear moccasins”

I have since marveled at the response. Not only was I proud to think of myself as a mother, childhood play during school holidays predisposed me to the idea that a caravan full of children was the happiest place on earth.

So yes Doctor, fat will turn to skinny. The pounds will not be my enemy in a quest to do what I have always felt would be my most magnificent role. I will return to weight loss with a new vigour if that is what you require of me.

But even as that caravan dream evolves into a country property, lovingly tendered by the toolman, you will not take my dream because I’m partial to life’s extreme highs and lows. Because that’s who I am.

But sure Doctor, I can give you skinny.

Knock-Knock…Not.

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I have a confession to make. A quiet evening at home on a Saturday night watching a relatively successful movie about a blogger and her infatuation with an infamous French chef has really left me in a rather precarious position. I should have been in cosy-night-in-heaven, watching a film based on food, cooking, blogging and the often elusive goal so many of us aspire to; getting published. But I was left feeling confused about my goals.

And so I confess that yes, even the thought of being picked up to write a chatty column in my favourite weekend broadsheet leaves me squealing just a little. And to think my story interesting enough to make it even to the small screen, well, I just fell off my chair. But these are fantasies in the same department of crazy-town as climbing Mt Everest, growing straight blond locks, and let us be honest, flying.

Soldiering on with my curly brown hair, frizz and all, I ask what on earth I am doing here? Never fear, this is no existentialist question. I just wonder what all this weight loss blogging jazz is for…could I add a recipe or two? Maybe have a knock-knock joke theme? I know, I know, why’d the fat chicken cross the road?

To Hell With It. I just have to write what I know…but do I have the guts?