Tom 'Peridot' Kitten

I have been avoiding trying on my proposed wedding outfit in the manner of an emu with my head buried in the blissful sand of ignorance. But with the wedding in 3 weeks, I had to bite that calorie-free bullet and get on with it. And what better day to do it than today, dressed as I was in my smaller jeans (tight but conveniently I could both breathe and sit - just not at the same time) and my proper lingerie (which I've had to remove under the guise of doing a wash as it was becoming too painful).

Now, the good news or the bad? The good news is that both the skirt and jacket did up. But the bad news is that it wasn't pretty. Like Tom Kitten, I am afraid that my buttons will ricochet from the fabric, probably blacking the eye of the beautiful bride with my kind of luck (and - it has to be said - with Naughty R's propensity to end up in A&E after a few drinks!). Can I lose sufficient weight/inches in 3 weeks to ensure I look okay (I don't set my sights too high!) rather than an over stuffed sausage? Especially since said 3 weeks includes a trip to Devon to Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's restaurant (bf's birthday present) where the place we're staying celebrates its breakfasts including pancakes? Good sense (something I am as short of as I am on inches (except horizontally of course)) would suggest that I ought to invest in a back up outfit - just in case. But what a joyless experience, buying something that cannot look good - a waste of time, effort and emotional energy. It takes me back to the bad old days where my dress style could only be described as damage limitation. Actually, perhaps it still is...

I was terribly pleased with myself yesterday; bf and I went to Carluccios after auditioning a cocktail bar for my rapidly approaching 40th birthday party. I badly wanted the penne with deep fried spinach balls (and courgette but you've already spotted the danger signs here, right? And courgette is nowhere near those signs). I was feeling a bit squiffy - unpleasantly so - after two cocktails and nothing settles the stomach like a dose of quick release carbs. But, dear Reader, I chose the antipasti plate of salads and cold meat - AND I ate only a quarter of the piece of bread (admittedly the bread was the size of one of those irritating cutsie novelty pillows). Can you see my halo shine from there? Except, damnit, I'd already imbibed all the calories I'd saved! How true it is that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Or at least the road to having to be firelifted out of your house because you're too heavy for the paramedics to manoeuvre. Okay, breathe....

So, with Tom Kitten firmly in mind (and it really won't look as cute on me), I finish work tomorrow at 9am and will be out of the door like a flash. Ish. A slow, wheezy flash maybe. To attempt Week 3, Run 1 (eeeeek!). Then a walk. And next week I'm hoping to cycle three times and run another two times.

Which is just as well as I've just had a glass and a half of red wine to accompany bf's utterly sublime stilton souffle. Actually, only the cheese was questionable - my portion will have had 2 eggs and 2oz stilton - with just a little green salad to accompany. Although the walk tomorrow commences in a teashop (Rupert Brooke's favourite no less) which is never an occasion for calorie free nourishment.....