You know that things have not been going well when you weigh yourself (a feat of some heroism in my case – I felt the fear and I did it anyway) and are relieved to find that you have STS. I put it down to being frequently cold, especially when wading through knee-deep snow as I have not been pointing this last week – there has been severe provocation, I hasten to add. First there was my mother’s birthday, then the snow and being snowbound and my boss’s extreme passive aggression over this when I finally made the epic journey in. Then we had a great meal at the Hotel Inspector’s Crown and Castle in Suffolk – lovely food, great service, gorgeous toasty fire. Then there was the adventure of Saturday night which I described thus to my friend yesterday:
We go to freezing tin hut, I flush the loo and it sounds like a slush puppy machine. We leave and go for lunch (that bit was good). We come home and bf has a post whisky nap (and wine and beer). I notice a spreading wet patch next to the bath. I wake up bf with the words "So what does a burst pipe look like?". This does the trick and he springs to his feet. I go out in the cold and the dark to turn the water off, bf takes the side off the bath and identifies a cracked pipe where water is coming out "like a water pistol". We tog up to walk to the on-site staff who shrug and direct us to a 6 year old Yellow Pages "in the thingy". We had to question closely to establish what "the thingy" was - a phone box. The only 2 numbers which are still current and anyone answers, decline to come to a mobile home. We pack up and leave at 8.20pm. It is dark and rainy and there are patches of thick fog. It takes me 3 hours to drive home (bf regretful that his lack of sobriety forces him to take the back seat (driver)). I have a headache, I am fed up, tired and hungry. I stop at McDonalds at 11.30pm and eat Big Mac and baby (cold) fries. Then a Big Purple One.
Actually I should refrain from eating too many Big Purple Ones lest I become a Big Purple One (I am fond of purple) in the same way that I fear I am becoming the embodiment of Ginger Pig (Big Purple Ginger Pig anyone?!).
On Sunday I decide that to use the unexpected and unwanted time in London to proper effect, I’d try to get a coat that kept me slightly warm. Since it’s absolutely bloody freezing. We drive towards Bluewater only to find that the queue to get off the motorway on to the turn – before the shopping centre is even open – goes back over a junction. Coat hunt is instantly aborted and we go to Wahaca for lunch. Which includes a shared portion of churros with hot dipping chocolate and cold caramel. We then have canapés for supper with red fizz and a glass of sherry. And a Big Purple One. Only a slight return to sanity (and a side order of laziness) prevents me making mince pies.
Anyway, the coat story ends well with bf buying me a terrifyingly expensive coat from Hobbs (olive and heather herringbone tweed) as an early Christmas present last night. I have resisted buying a decent coat since embarking on LL (4 years ago?) on the basis that I won’t know what size I am the following year. Well, of course I am still hoping to be much smaller next year but based on performance thus far, it seems silly (and chilly) to procrastinate further (and maybe I could have it taken in? You know, if...). I bought the smaller of the two sizes I tried on – even bf (who inclines to brutal frankness) said the larger one was too big. The smaller one (my current dress size) is slightly snug and I mustn’t allow Christmas to make it impossible to wear. Or there will be questions in the house. Or the flat/tinhut anyway. So really I need to lose some in order to mitigate the inevitable putting on over the Big (Purple?!) Week.
Today is not a good day to decide on this. Tonight is our work party. Groan. In a Chinese that was closed down for maggots in the food last year. Bet it doesn’t stop me though! Unless there are actual maggots of course – even I wouldn’t scarf those down. I won’t drink for fear of becoming very frank with some of my colleagues which saves a) calories and b) drunken consumption of anything and everything. As it is, I was forced to issue the following after threats of “super-fun party games” – “I think I have made my position on this clear. Greatly as I esteem you all (or most of you), I will not be participating in anything that requires bodily contact with any of you. Fact.”
Then on Saturday we’re having a festive supper with my mother before our carol concert (assuming we can actually get to a rehearsal or the actual performance) but then I think, think, that’s it until Christmas proper. Assuming I don’t fall headlong into a vat of Big Purple Ones (or its evil twin, the Big Gold One), and if I can negotiate around the maze of disaster that is the propoints labyrinth, then I ought to be able to lose a bit, don’t you think? And we have walks planned for in between Christmas and New Year – including our marathon 12.5 miler which we’ll have to set off for at c9am to get back before dark. That ought to burn a few calories. But I fear Chubby is still but a distant dream.