I had a plan. An ambitious plan, sure, but an achievable one. Or so I thought. My aim was to lose a stone before our holiday in May. I had two months (8 weeks, to be exact) to do that. Now I have seven weeks. The first week went okay. I’m doing my bit – but SoD is not pulling his weight. I’m sure the Scales of Doom are male – surely any female inanimate object would be more empathetic?
To put this in context, I’m freaked out by this morning’s WI. And, other than Easter, this was likely to be the most challenging weekend so I need to try not to panic (or, fatalistically, give up) just yet. We cushioned our filial duties this weekend by gin, wine and tapas on Friday and a bottle of fizz last night. Last night’s bottle (no supper) was, frankly, medicinal. But I still had alcohol three times – normally I would only allow myself to have it once. And we had three meals out. Still, that doesn’t explain the reason that little git said I’d put on 5.5lbs since Friday morning.
Today is a starve day so I’m hoping that extraordinary gain will be tempered by a larger loss than usual (6lbs would be a start). I’m certainly hungry enough to merit some pay back. And I’m still shooting for that stone. To be honest, even a stone won’t help me feel less self-conscious on holiday – and the thought of the beach makes my heart rate speed up and my shoulders tense up. It won’t get my into my nice summer skirts. But on the basis that every little helps, I’m hoping that it will make for a slightly less anxious holiday. At least I’ll have done my best. Like my wedding, I know, hand on heart that I really, really tried; the fact that I was still fat and didn’t look great, was not because I didn’t put the effort in, and whilst that makes me sad, it doesn’t make me angry with myself.
Apart from the odd evening meeting up with friends, the only hurdle to manage in the next seven weeks are some friends from the US coming over and being in London the Easter weekend. In an attempt to cram as many quintessentially British food experiences in, P has drawn up a schedule which includes lunch at a rather lovely pub in Kent (I’ll be driving so at least no booze for me), a cream tea at our place and a roast dinner (beef). I need to practice both Yorkshire puddings and scones – both of which I’ve had problems with in the past. My Yorkshires determinedly solder themselves to the pan and my scones are rather biscuity. The latter is particularly weird as I make (though I do say so myself) rather spectacular cheese and sweetcorn scones. Maybe it’s the rolling and cutting that causes them to refuse to rise. Anyone got any advice or idiotproof recipes?
Anyway, all this food chat is making my stomach growl ferociously and I’d better stop before people think there’s a rabid dog on the loose. Actually, I’m slathering a bit too.....