They say that in blogland, no news is bad news. That’s not strictly the case for me. It’s just that I don’t really have anything to say - no news is, well, no news.
I continue to try to make sensible choices but achieve little or nothing. I would say I’m better on the food side – better than I have been previous Christmases, ie I’m not using it as an excuse to eat every calorie laden thing I can stuff into my gaping maw. Despite the Style section of the Sunday Times saying that calories over the next fortnight don’t count- sadly my ever increasing bulgy bits don’t appear to know this. On the exercise front – not good. I haven’t cycled since my last debacle of extreme shakiness and hunger. Not simply out of fear – or laziness – but mostly because of wholly unsuitable weather with a bit of needing to do Christmas chores in there too. And Circuit of Hell? I have no excuses. I cannot get out of bed in the mornings, I’m just permanently shattered. I clearly have a strong hibernation instinct, which whilst it may explain the blubber, sadly doesn’t mean I emerge into the Spring sunshine all skinny. And with clothes that fit (wouldn't that be nice?).
Talking of which, I saw my bonkers obesity specialist last week. He also compared me to a bear (in my handy-for-famine non-existent metabolism) – I told him that it would explain other things too, especially my occasional temper and that it's a shame it's only bears that looked cute chubby. I would have said to you that I had no hopes or expectations going in there to see him but I came out in tears. Tears mostly caused by his frank admission that there was little hope for me, that despite (mostly) doing the right thing, my weight is on a slow but steady upward trajectory that he's at a loss to control. He’s referring me for surgery. Or to find out about whether I would be eligible anyway. I initially found the prospect too frightening to contemplate – it just seems so unnatural – and I have rejected it before, but he feels there’s nothing on the horizon that will help and astutely remarked that it was not good for my mental health to continue as I am. It’s just I would hate never to be able to enjoy a meal with friends ever again. But I realise that these are things that I would be better talking to the surgeons about, rather than making ill-judged assumptions about. So, I’ll go along and see. It kind of sounds like Lighter Life in that it works by severe calorie restriction but maybe I’m missing the point. The consultant I’m to see is called Mr Coke, my specialist tells me. “Well, I guess that’s another option” I quipped. His student sniggered but he just looked at me over his half moon glasses “It’s spelt differently” he explained “Besides you can’t get that on the NHS”.