Twas the week before Christmas...

Okay, nothing from me in 18 months and then two posts in as many days! I was going to try and do a bit of a catch up but actually I don't wish to be responsible for any readers falling into a catatonic state so suffice to say life has gone on, the house is still a tip, the diet needs re-starting and I'm back on anti-depressants. Plus ca change and all that. Mind you, one thing that has changed, and for the better I think, is my photography. I really started to explore it more and get into it and although I have vast amounts still to learn, I'm loving the whole process, so much so that in August I went back to college and I'm now studying for an HNC in Photography. We no longer have a dining room as I've taken it over as a study so that I have somewhere quiet to work (or blog!) and any spare cash going seems to find its way into a Jessops shopping basket.

So, what to do with this blog. Well, one thing's for sure, the diet element of it needs to be re-addressed. It's mortifying to read back through this and see that in the last year alone I have ballooned back up to where I was in 2008. I've been busy blaming my mother's house move and the stress involved in that (and yes, it was very stressful) but she will have been sort-of-happily ensconced in her new house for a year this time next week and it doesn't seem reasonable to keep blaming something that happened a year ago for what I'm insisting on eating and drinking now. I do think that my eating and drinking are directly related to how I'm feeling though and mum's house move coincided with my annual winter blues last year. I don't think they ever really went away and a couple of months ago the doctor put me back on pills for depression. I was adamant that he was wrong and after a few weeks didn't go back to see him. I'm feeling worse again now and so I think it may be time to face facts and accept that actually yes, my head isn't in a good place and I need some help. Perhaps if I can do that I may be able to address the food issues better.

So yes, this can be a diet blog again. But I'd like it to be more than that. I think my photography is improving all the time so perhaps I'll share some of that here. And as a family we're all having adventures that I'd like to keep recording. It was rather wonderful to read back through some of these posts here and recall the things that prompted them. There's nothing to record the last 18 months and that's a shame because it hasn't all been doom and gloom, so my pre-New Year's Resolution is to do a much better blogging job - diet/head/photos/adventures and possibly some more recipes. A bit of a mish mash. Just like me then!

Mmmm - I remember this!

Well, this is embarrassing. It is so long since I added anything to this blog that I almost forgot I had it, and I certainly forgot the password. Still, it's a bit like riding a bike, surely? Once you get back into it you feel like you were never away. Or some other mixed metaphor.

Actually, things have moved on a lot since I last wrote here - probably more than I can cover in one short post, especially as I'm full of cold and had just determined to return to bed with the electric blanket firmly switched to maximum toastiness and kindle at the ready. Suffice to say, there's a lot of catching up to do and I have my new friends at A Kitten Called Betty to thank for giving me a shove back towards blogland. Here's hoping something positive comes of it!

Woo hoo! Now I really have no excuse for not keeping up to date with my blog...The Man I married was one of those keen types to be found outside the Apple Store at O'Dark-Thirty on the day the iPad made it to these shores. So yes, this is my first post using a blogger app on an iPad. Just trying to think how far back in time we'd have to go for that sentence to make no sense to anyone whatsoever!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Unchartered Territory

I made one of those spur of the moment decisions the other day and signed up to join the newly opened Curves gym in town.

I did once join a gym. It was staffed by muscular blokes in too-tight t-shirts and surprisingly small feet. The gentleman who showed me how to use the equipment kept checking himself out in the mirror. Given that I was doing my level best to avoid checking myself out in the mirror at that point, it was all a bit disconcerting. Perhaps I was intended to check him out instead? He'd have liked that. But for all his well-defined pecs he had a problem with nasal hair that couldn't be overlooked.

I tried to give them the benefit of the doubt on three separate occasions before coming to the conclusion that it just wasn't my thang. I wallowed in guilt for a while at the money wasted and that's when I bought the cheap exercise bike that has been so instrumental to my weight loss campaign these last few months. (Oh yes. The exercise bike has been an integral part of the furniture for much longer than I've actually been using it. At one point, The Man I Married suggested that we just put it in the attic, but in much the same way as everything looks somewhat strange once you remove the Christmas decorations, the room looked bare without its brooding presence in the corner.)

So, Curves. I know someone who has used this gym before although I have to be honest I have no idea if she's still using it, but it was her description of a women-only environment that tugged at me. A lack of narcissistic, body-building, disproportionately-footed neanderthals in need of a nose trim had to be appealing!

On the day I signed up it was being staffed by Lynne. Her nose looked just fine. She explained the way that Curves was run and showed me some of the equipment. Then she weighed me, measured me, made me hold a fat monitor and asked a whole bunch of rather personal questions. The net result of all this is that inspite of shifting four stone of extra me I'm still carrying too much fat. Not by much admittedly, but we need more muscle! I agreed to come back the next day for my first full session and the start of my new adventure - not to get thinner, but to become fitter.

When Lynne explained the Curves circuit to me, I had decided that perhaps this was going to be a bit easy. Thirty seconds on each machine and then move on to the next one? Thirty seconds is nothing. How pathetic would you have to be if you couldn't manage thirty seconds? Even the prospect of doing the circuit three times didn't seem that daunting.

We started. Don't ask me what these machines are all called. There's a website that probably explains it. I started with an arm pusher thing. You use the first six machines in the circle to warm up and every so often you're asked to check your pulse rate. I was aiming to maintain mine, according to their chart on the wall, between 20 and 24 over a ten second period. I started out with a resting pulse of 10. After the warm up (arm pushing, leg kicks, stomach yanking, arm-waving, leg-stretching, can-can) this had risen to 19. She decided I wasn't working hard enough and encouraged me to push myself round the rest of the circuit (squats, calf-raises, arm-pumping, jogging on the spot, something that looked like milking a cow, more squats, I don't even remember the half of it now) I was pumping away at 24, sweating like a very hot person and thinking that I'd pay money not to have to do this again.

You use the last six machines to cool down again and then you head for the stretching station. Blessed relief at last! And then that was it. I'd done it. I hadn't felt like cringing, I hadn't fainted, I had actually worked bloody hard and almost, almost enjoyed it in a masochistic manner. At least, I'm resolved to return on Monday and do it all again so it can't have been that bad!

Long Haul

Sometimes it's not the journey, it's the getting there.

Mother apparently needs a new coat. And a "nice top". So, with a familiar sense of fear and loathing I gave her some money for her birthday and promised to take her shopping with me yesterday. We've done this once or twice before and it's fair to say that it is not an experience to relish. I just kept focusing on the fact that it couldn't go on forever. It had to end at some point.

I have heard tell that some people enjoy Mother-Daughter, girly type shopping expeditions. Some mothers actually like the company of their daughters and look on it as an excuse to treat their offspring with some small frippery or other, or indulge in a sneaky lunchtime glass of wine, or perhaps a cake. That's not us. Oh no.

Mother hadn't spent the money that I gave her for Christmas. Lest anyone think I lack imagination in the gift department I should explain that Mother isn't the easiest person to buy for. Sometimes on forums you see posts saying "What can I buy my 65 year old father for his birthday? He likes photography, travel, music and film, going out for dinner and reading magazines." And I think "If only."

Mother is 71, plays bridge (competitive, not social) and wallows in widowhood. She doesn't wear perfume, or makeup beyond a dab of Rimmel lipstick. She doesn't have her ears pierced, wear necklaces, bangles or rings apart from her wedding ring. She loathes the idea of a massage, has never shaved her legs, doesn't paint her nails. Although she worries constantly about the fact that she has lost weight since my Dear Departed Dad did his departing, she doesn't really appreciate the joy to be found in a box of chocolates, preferring instead to ration them out. She eats chocolates as if they were worming tablets - a necessary evil.

She hates travelling anywhere at all, is terrified of driving, panics on trains. Her new bionic hips mean that walking isn't much of an option either. She doesn't like to go to the cinema. She doesn't own a DVD player and wouldn't want one anyway. She only listens to music if it happens to be playing on Radio 4. She reads, but only other people's cast-offs. The very idea of going into a bookshop and browsing fills her with contempt.

So, no toiletries, no food, no music, no books, no films. No weekend breaks, no magazine subscriptions, no jewellery, no spa days. No meals out, no meals in. Cold hard cash on the other hand...

Mother's idea of a shopping day out is to march (or in her case hobble) straight into Marks and Sparks and then go home. The nearest large shopping centre to my house is only a forty minute drive away but yesterday it felt like a very long slog.

We parked close to the entrance and walked directly into the midst of their Classic Range. This is the section designed pretty much with my mother in mind; sensible twin sets, not so much trousers as crease-resistant slacks, raincoats. Within two minutes she had dismissed it all as being "fuddy duddy", with the one exception of a rather pretty blouse that they only had in my size. I did ask the assistant if they had any more but was told it was the last one. I secretively picked it up.

There was a sale rail ahead. Now this is possibly the one uniting factor between us: we do both love a bargain. I quickly snapped up a pink coat and a pair of shoes. Mother found precisely nothing. We ventured to full price items in Per Una, Limited Collection, Portfolio and Autograph. Nothing doing. And the sense of deja vu was immediate and immense. Every time I take her shopping it's the same.

"I need a new jacket. And a nice top. That's not a jacket it's a coat. That's not long enough. Too long. I don't like double breasted. The buttons are dull. It's too tight across the shoulders. It's baggy. I need a higher neckline than this. Not a polo neck. That would be nice if it were green and half the price. Not that kind of green. Too old. Too young. It's a bit casual. I don't want anything that smart. They don't design their clothes with me in mind. Too busy. A bit of pattern would perk it up. Will it wash? I hate linen. I don't like manmade fibres. Cotton is too lightweight. It's not really my style. It's a bit plain. That looks like what I'm wearing. I have four like that already and I never wear them. It's all too young. I'm not being too fussy am I?"

I wouldn't mind this monologue so much if it weren't for the tone in which it is delivered. I fully agree that sometimes it's hard to find just what you're looking for, and there's no point buying something for the sake of it. But I actually enjoy the process of hunting down an elusive item and although it can sometimes be a little frustrating if you have a particular style or colour in mind but can't find it, there is at least the opportunity to ruffle through rails of pretty things and pleasure to be had from the whole shopping experience whether you buy or not. But Mother dispenses her condemnation of the Marks and Spencer Spring/Summer stock in a voice dripping with accusation and I'm left in no shadow of a doubt that it's somehow my fault.

We give up on the idea of Mother parting with any of my hard-earned cash and elect instead for lunch. Only Mother, who was brought up in the aftermath of WW2 doesn't like to be extravagant with lunch. "We'll share a sandwich. I'm not very hungry." She might not have been, but having missed breakfast I was ravenous and one cup of coffee and half an egg and cress wasn't really cutting it to my mind. No wonder she can't put weight on. However, I indulged her parsimony on my behalf (yes, this was supposed to be her birthday lunch so I was paying. I dread to think what we'd have eaten if she'd been flashing the cash) and then drove home. Forty minutes. You wouldn't believe how long that can be.

London, Paris, New York. Part 2.

Last Christmas, I hit upon the brilliant idea of giving The Man I Married tickets to a London Show for Christmas. I even sorted out flights, hotel accommodation and a dinner reservation. This year, we decided to do it again, only we thought we'd go one better and add in a special Wedding Anniversary gift of a trip to Paris too.

After consulting with friends, I sorted childcare out and booked tickets to see Priscilla Queen of the Desert (The Musical). The Man I Married booked hotel accommodation in London and flights to, and a hotel in, Paris. I booked us a table at our favourite Parisien restaurant. We had ongoing discussions as to which Gordon Ramsay establishment we would choose for lunch in London but apart from that we were all set for a weekend of utter fabulousness.

Disaster threatened when British Airways cabin crew started making noises about strikes. The Man I Married worried. He does that sometimes. It irritates me. "Oh, it'll be fine!" I said. Nonetheless he made alternative arrangements just in case. He booked a flight from Glasgow to London with EasyJet instead of BA. And he booked a fully flexible ticket on the Eurostar. He reserved a room at an hotel near St. Pancras in case we ended up not flying to France. Secretly I scoffed at all this caution and anal retentive planning activity but let him get on with it. He had folders with documents and tickets and reservations and was as happy as a happy boy. We had flights with two different airlines, hotel reservations with three different hotels, train tickets and theatre tickets. Still hadn't picked out a lunch venue.

Time rolled on as it tends to do and it began to look as if all the extra planning wouldn't be needed afterall. BA had gone fairly quiet and no noise had been made by the cabin crew with regard to further strike action. The Man I Married started to relax a bit and I tried not to look too smug.

You know what happened next. Big bangs in Iceland as Eyjafjallajokull chucked a shedload of volcanic ash into the sky and while that rained back down to earth chaos reigned in European airports as flights were immediately shelved and travellers the world over were just, well, stuck.

But not us. No. We were still on for Paris. I was going around calling it Serendipity but the fact is that The Man I Married had pulled an absolute coup! We would have to drive to London, and lunch from Gordon Ramsay had been swapped for lunch from Simply M&S on the M1 but we there was still going to be fabulousness in our lives.

The drive down to London was dull. That's the way I like it. You don't want too much excitement from your motorway driving, and someone on the other side had obviously had far too much of it as we drove past what must surely have been a fatal accident. I offered up a silent prayer that perhaps someone had survived, and that we would be safer and luckier than they had been. You don't want to take these things for granted.

Our London hotel was a step up from the Premier Inn by anyone's standards. They had a bellhop to take our bags to the room and while I checked us in I worried about how much to tip him. Sometimes it's just easier to do things yourself! We had room service for dinner before I snaffled the hotel's bubble bath and had a long leisurely soak in someone else's hot water ahead of the theatre.

We had decided to get all dolled up for the show. It seemed appropriate somehow and I felt my daft high heeled pink sandals and bright pink ruffled dress were the perfect get up to see a bunch of drag queens. I'm hoping that I didn't look like a drag queen, although actually, many of them do a much better job with their make up than I could ever hope to achieve.

The show was pure joy. Anyone wading through all this waffle that hasn't yet seen it should make it a top priority. It was joyous and I loved every minute of it.

Still high from the antics of Felicia, Mitzi and Bernadette, we set out the next day for Paris. The train ride is much more fun than being on a plane. It doesn't make me feel sick and dizzy with fear for a start and there's no need to calm my nerves with gin. And besides, when you disembark from a plane you still have to faff around luggage carousels and take a train to the city. With Eurostar you get off the train and you are there - right at Gare du Nord, right in the thick of things, no messing around. I love it!

I couldn't decide if it was because of the lack of planes in the sky or if rich people these days also prefer to travel by train, but there was a distinct odour of money in our carriage that day. I almost gasped out loud as I realised that the woman across the aisle from me had a weekend bag by Louis Vuitton. And a large handbag by Chanel. The distinctive Gucci logo was on the side of her sunglasses. LV provided the scarf that she casually knotted round her fingers. I vaguely recognised the enamel bangle round her wrist and I was sure I'd seen those sandals in a glossy magazine last month. I really did gasp though at the Versace necklace dripping into her non-fake-baked, surgically enhanced cleavage. I noticed that she took it off and slipped it into her handbag before leaving the safety of the train. How many labels could one woman wear at once? Quite a few by the looks of it!

We had originally booked ourselves into the french equivalent of good ol' Premier Inn. By some stroke of luck, The Man I Married remembered that he had amassed a huge number of "points' with Hilton hotels, and consequently we upgraded ourselves to the Hilton Arc De Triomphe. Oh man. This was luxury indeed. I wasn't sure that my M&S jacket and Boden handbag were up to the job. There was yet more Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Fendi and Prada in evidence here and it was hard not to feel a bit of a fraud! (This place was so posh that the "bell boy" took our bags up to our room without us and so the un-nerving question of how much to tip was neatly avoided completely!) However, it was still basically just a hotel room, even if they did turn down the bed and leave you chocolates on your pillow. We didn't do battle with striking cabin crew and Icelandic ash just to look at four (posh) walls. Oh no.

Paris was everything it should be. The sun shined warmly for us during our stay and as always, it felt like being back at home again. We walked everywhere, with frequent stops at cafes that appealed, for wine, water, coffee, beer, sometimes even food. Our favourite Parisien restaurant did not disappoint and we had a wonderful meal - goats cheese pressed with roasted vegetables followed by carpaccio of beef for me, thick black coffee and dark bitter chocolate to finish, while The Man I Married indulged himself with Roquefort and steak and finished off with the most sublime Creme Brulee. I only know this because there was one little bit that didn't look quite good enough and I was considerate enough to save him from eating it. Even that defective bit was heavenly!

We're home again now and I'm utterly grateful to my very dear friend for having The Offspring while we went on our super-luxe travels. I hope they behaved well enough that she'll do it again some day! I should just about have all the laundry taken care of before it's time to set off again. This time I'm leaving all my crew behind as I head for the bright lights of Edinburgh for a Hen Weekend. I'm part dreading it and part looking forward to the adventure. If nothing else, it will give me something to write about!

London, Paris, New York. Part 1.

Okay, so not New York. Very much the old York. (Old, original and best? Maybe not.) And not in that order either. And actually, it was Harrogate with a day trip or two to York followed by London and then Paris. But you get the gist. I'm living the life of an international popstar. Or jet setter. Or tourist, depending on how you like to view these things.

Traditionally in our household, or so it seems, the company that employs The Man I Married, likes to send him off on long business trips right around about the school holidays. It's the reason we bought a tent, so that I could escape with his offspring and relieve the tension felt at being left behind while the other local offspring get to go off on fun family holidays. This year, I extracted two promises from him. 1. He would be available for at least SOME of the long Easter break this year. 2. This year, he's not to abandon me sans voiture in the depths of Normandy (not once, but twice) in the middle of our main summer break. He kept the first. I'll no doubt report back on the second at a later date.

So, being a complete family unit for the second week of the Easter Break, we figured we'd take advantage and organise a little trip away. Mother is incapacitated after her second hip operation, so there was no danger of her coming with us and it felt safe to venture back to Yorkshire. Just the five of us. Bliss.

If I haven't mentioned this before, since Dad died almost five years ago, I can't tell her I'm going anywhere without her wanting to cadge a lift too. I've starting lying about where we're going in the hope that she doesn't know anyone in (for instance) Stoke and won't nag endlessly about how helpless she is and how I'm her only means of travel and she never gets out. (We don't have trains in Scotland you see. Or at least, not ones that Mother is willing to travel on.) I should add that The Man I Married has regularly offered to drive her to her sister's house, or even to drive her halfway while my brother meets her and takes her the rest of the way. This is "too much" and she "couldn't" ask us to do that. But encroaching on every other trip we make is okay apparently. And I do sometimes wonder how it can be that a woman who "never gets out" is never available to do any babysitting because she's "out" or "away" that day! Still. This wasn't meant to turn into a "Mother Rant". It's amazing how easy it is to do that though.

So. York. Okay, Harrogate. (I have relatives in Harrogate. Mother would have wanted to come down with us if we'd been going to Harrogate. Even if it meant amputating her leg for the duration of the journey. York is sufficiently far away from Harrogate to make it "not very convenient" as a drop-off point. So for Mother Purposes, we went to York. Even though it was really Harrogate. We felt so guilty that we did make two day trips to York though. Just so the kids wouldn't give the game away. Oh the tangled web....

Travelling four hundred odd miles in a car with three children is always an interesting experience. It doesn't matter how many times you tell them to go to the loo before you set off, you can guarantee that one of them will be "desperate" within an hour of leaving the house. The other two won't want to go and there you have your first fight of the trip.

Kid at the Bottom of the Heap always wants someone to stand outside her toilet cubicle because she's afraid of being locked in. I don't mind doing it, but on this particular occasion I was also pretty desperate (three double espressos before hitting the carseat is not a good plan. I really should know that by now) and so I asked Kid In The Middle to do Door Guarding Duty for me. I might have asked her to lick the floor clean from the expression on her face. "Someone might....seeeeeeeeee me!" So? Oh! Realisation dawned. She's ten and a half years old and we've hit that pre-pubescent phase where everything and anything has the potential to cause huge, massive, overwhelming, all-encompassing and utterly unfounded embarrassment. I was tempted to burst into a song and dance routine and then instantly remembered my Dear Departed Dad doing just that to me and that killed the impulse dead as a dead thing. Oh God. It might have been more than three decades ago but I can still feel that crippling anxiety that I was going to be embarrassed. And worse, blush. Nope. No song and dance routine from me then.

Back on the road, fully refreshed with more diuretics and a vague sense of having been completely ripped off in the sandwich department, we come to the sticky issue of in-car entertainment. When I was a kid this consisted of little more than a few rounds of Pub Cricket and Eye Spy until Mother got sick of it and made us recite our Times Tables instead. Ah, the memories.

These days of course, we all zoom down three lane motorways (when they're not clogged up like a furry artery) and there isn't exactly a plethora of pub signs over which to argue.

(For those who have never had the pleasure, pub cricket works by being the first to spot pub signs and work out how many points each is worth. You could earn points for heads (1), arms (2) and legs (3) So, The Three Lions would have 12 legs and three heads for a total of 39 points. No limb points available for the King's Head. Unless the executioner was depicted in which case you could claim for arms, legs and another head! Four points for The King's Arms, but only after much arguing over the definition of arms. If the King's Arms depicted critters you substituted the four points for however many (for example) lions rampant and their associated limbs that you could see. Unless your opponent was particularly dumb in which case you could claim for the arms as well. Sorry Brother of Mine. The Coach and Horses might provide as few as twelve points if no driver is portrayed on the pub sign, or as many as you like if you could persuade your fellow travellers than in fact there had been eight horses a driver and a crow depicted. Discussions as to whether wings counted as limbs would take you to the next pub. It wasn't much, and it was still maths, but it was better than endless recitation of tables.)

My children, theoretically at least, fare much better. We have ipods, dvd players, fold down tables with cup holders. It's just like being at home only, cosier. A tiny part of me wonders if they'll look back on their childhood travels with any fondness at all, given that they spend most of the travelling part glued to various bits of electronic gadgetry. But I'm not about to launch into a soliloquy about the "good old days". I'd have given my eye teeth for a Nintendo DSi at their age instead of trying to play noughts and crosses with my cheating brother on a napkin that kept ripping as we tried to write on it. No, my only grievance with all this portable gameware and viewing pleasure is that if I'm not the one driving the car, then I'm the one left to sort out the chargers. This means wires and plugs all tangled in a bag and snaking around my person from cigarette charger to the back seat. It's almost worse than dealing with mismatched coathangers.

One of the great inventions of the last couple of decades was the Premier Inn. My children don't know how lucky they are. Unless you're about my age or older, you might never have had the pleasure of a good old fashioned B&B. Peeling wallpaper, sinks that rattled when you turned the tap. The tap which looked like it might come adrift at any moment. In the shared bathroom. That strange smell which I think was probably a combination of cigarette smoke, burnt bacon, old teapots, newspapers and Zoflora. With a bit of wet dog thrown in for good measure. Swirly orange carpets, badly executed floral still life paintings, usually done by the landlady herself, or worse, portraits of the wet dog. Mismatched tablecloths, plastic carnations in little glasses decorated with Spanish-looking flowers and the immortal word "Southend!", inspite of being in Essex. It was as though most of them were rehearsing for being retirement homes.

Say what you like about the purple place, but at least you know what you're going to get: a clean room with a clean bathroom and an all you can eat breakfast. And no surprises. Although the one we stayed in did have a lingering smell of lavender which is what reminded me so strongly of my own childhood adventures!

However we didn't sit in a car for the better part of five and half hours just to stare at the four recently painted walls of our Premier Inn. And given that the framed print on the wall of this room was identical to the framed print on the wall of the last P.I. we'd stayed at, the artwork wasn't really much of an inspiration either.

We had planned to take the children to see Old Mother Shipton's Cave on arrival. But the cold sharp wind that sprang out of nowhere didn't make it an appealing prospect to us much less hardy adults so we opted for The York Dungeons instead. Even if it turned out to be overpriced, overrated and over the top it had the advantage of being indoors. Once we'd finished queuing /freezing our buns off outside that is. Still, we were "entertained" by a medieval looking chap with bad teeth and acne while we waited. Apparently his name was Kevin, he was from Merseyside and was still getting over the shock that York wasn't as posh as he'd been told.

Inside, after nearly fainting at the cost of a family ticket plus one child (not sure which child was considered the "extra" - Kid The Eldest for being the closest to an adult, or Kid at the Bottom of the Heap for being an afterthought?) we began our adventures by having our photographs taken. Mmmm. Another means of extracting cash from the hapless tourist. At this point, Kid at the Bottom of the Heap decided she was scared. Not just a bit scared, but pant-wettingly terrified. We bought the picture at the end of the tour simply to see just how miserable one child on a fun day out could look. She proceeded to howl and scream and cry her way through the first two thirds of the tour. Only when the torturer locked up The Man I Married and threatened to remove his genitals with a rather gruesome slicing machine did she begin to cheer up. Not sure if I should read anything into this or not.

In the end, we all came out smiling. The Dungeons had been fun, and there'd been just enough of a smattering of educational value to make us feel just a leetle bit worthy. Oh yes. We entertain and educate all at the same time in this house. After terrifying them of course.

Day two and Mother Shipton was going to have wait a bit longer. The Offspring were bitterly disappointed as for some reason this had become the most anticipated part of our trip. However, more indoor delights awaited at the York National Railway Museum. This is one of my favourite places. Not because I like trains all that much, but there is something fascinating about the degree of engineering capability from so far back. Technology these days is lost on me for the most part - it's all chips and circuit boards that you can't see. But with engines and shunts and hydraulics and nuts and bolts you can see which bit does what job and it all fits together and works. And some of it is quite beautiful to look at too. Amazingly intricate shapes wrought from great lumps of metal. This was lost on the Offspring who just turned grumpy. Well, not Kid The Eldest. He's a bit of a train nut and was in 7th Heaven, as was the Man I Married. But Kid In The Middle and Kid at the Bottom of The Heap looked about as happy as the condemned man in the Dungeon. Until they realised that there was a Helter Skelter. And a miniature railiway and a simulator. One ride on a virtual roller coaster and suddenly we were having fun again.

We did make it to Mother Shipton and her cave. And inspite of being worried that all the build-up would lead to an inevitable anti-climax, my kids loved it. Basically, a walk through the woods alongside the river at Knaresborough, there shouldn't have been all that much to recommend it. But the path leads to a natural waterfall which contains so much calcium carbonate that anything left in the water turns to "stone". This phenomenon has been in existence for years and years - it's effectively a stalactite that is growing in front of your eyes. Objects placed under the solidified "wall" under the running water become calcified over a three month period. You can see where someone left a hat over a hundred years ago and all that is left is a lump in the wall.

And that was really it. There was a quiz to do, a wishing well and a statue of Old Mother Shipton in her cave but it evidently caught their imagination because it was the most talked-about activity of our Easter Break - more so than the simulator at the Railway Museum, more so than any of the special effects in the Dungeons. The best bit for all of them was a walk in the woods and a ten pence wish in a rock pool. Perhaps I should teach them Pub Cricket afterall.

Light - Keeping The Tunnel Bright All the Way

At the same point every year for as long as I can remember, I start to feel that heavy black oppressive feeling that means a bout of depression is heading my way. It comes with the approach of the clock change in autumn and the knowledge that the night is going to begin encroaching on my day.

Historically, I have always tried to push back against the bleakness by focusing heavily on Christmas because there's nothing better than keeping so busy you can't think for putting off the inevitable. And the inevitable usually hits me smack in the face on January 3rd as all festivities of Christmas and New Year fade away with the last noise of the last cracker and the falling of the last champagne cork. Two days to get the house back in order and then...nothing.

January and February offer up little better than yet more dark nights with a biting wind and lashings of mean rain to add insult to injury. The depression that I've been battling with for months usually finds me here, at my lowest ebb, least able to deal with it.

The year before last, it dawned on me that this approach (essentially one of complete denial) wasn't working very well. I don't know why it took so long to figure out - the patterns have been the same for the last decade at least. With my new found insight I decided that the answer must be to put off the inevitable even further. If I just filled January and February with fun things to do that involved lots of planning then I'd stay too busy to be depressed and surely by March I'd have got over my seasonal slump and be ready to face the world again. Right?

Sort of. Only now I was knackered and although I'd avoided a full-scale bout of depression there was a low-grade sense of anti-climax that prevented me from feeling truly positive about anything at all. Evidently this was going to need more thought, and it was after reading (on the internet of course) that I decided to tackle things from the other end this previous year. I bought myself a SAD light, and as the days shortened I used it daily. Within a week I could already feel the dark clouds that had been rumbling in the distance start to fade. They hadn't quite disappeared completely but for the first time ever I felt confident that they would.

For the first time in a long time I felt I could start planning Christmas with enjoyment in mind and not just as a displacement activity. And although I had organised a few fun things to do as a family during January and February, it was just that - fun things to do, not a desperate attempt to fill the days. We went to the pantomime just before the kids went back to school in January. I joined friends in Edinburgh to see Scotland play (well, lose to) France in the Six Nations Rugby tournament in February. The kids had sleepovers with friends and I went to a candle party and spent far too much money. March was quiet - school and church events notwithstanding but it felt calm as opposed to disappointing.

I haven't turned my light on in the mornings now for several weeks - I haven't felt the need. It wasn't a conscious decision - it just happened naturally. I guess I'll naturally know when I need it again. In the mean time it's just another thing to dust!

Top Shopping! And a change of focus?

A friend mentioned that she'd been reading here, and that, coupled with something else I'd said to her, made her realise that I'd lost four stone. That fact had eluded me too. Mainly because I'd been denying that I'd ever been that heavy at all, and was really only counting down in my head from about thirteen stone. But losing that much is something of an achievement and I think I can take a few moments out of my hectic schedule to feel pretty damned pleased with myself!

But now that I'm done beaming, I find myself staring at a couple of problems. Not awful problems. Lots of people would be pleased to have such problems. Perhaps I should call them "issues" instead. Everyone has issues!

Losing four stone is great. I've chucked out all my size 18 to 20 stretchy waistbands and I'm now in a place where I can go into normal shops, even trendy shops, and be fairly sure that they'll sell things that will fit. This has been something of a revelation. For so long now my wardrobe has consisted of a vast swathe of George at Asda.

At first I argued that it was because it was convenient to shop for clothes at the same time as bagging the bread, milk and a Sunday joint, but gradually I had to admit that it was a kind of comfort blanket. I could shove something in the trolley and put off finding out if it looked hideous or not until I was safely at home in my bedroom. With the curtains drawn. And the staff didn't look at me as though I didn't belong; they were all shapes and sizes safely hidden behind a ghastly green nylon uniform and had no reason to look askance at me. Topshop was positively terrifying in comparison and so I stopped going there. Or anywhere else really.

So, it has been having great fun in the last few weeks replenishing my wardrobe by actually going out to shops. Clothes shops. Amazingly, no alarms sounded off as I entered; no security guard insisted on escorting me back out for the crime of having been around too long, or for having too much cellulite. Of course, most of the sales assistants look like they should still be in full time education and a great deal of what passes for fashion out there can only be worn by the sort of woman who hasn't hit puberty yet but so it ever was. No, this is not the "issue".

The issue is, or at least, one of the issues is, that I don't know what suits me any more. My shape has changed so completely since the days when I last really enjoyed clothes and shopping. My confidence has been hit so many times it's practically liquid so now I need to know what "suits" because I no longer have that "chutzpah" that allowed me to wear ridiculous things in my youth with panache so that even things that didn't look good still somehow worked as a statement.

I have tried on literally hundreds of garments over the last few weeks and while it has been huge fun in some respects, it has also been quite frustrating. When I was young and skinny all over with no boobs, no waist and no hips, I had a pretty good idea of how something would look on me just by holding up the hanger. When I was at my largest, what it looked like wasn't so much of an issue, so long as it covered everything. But now, well now I have this new shape and I'm not quite sure how to dress it sometimes. I hate to say it but I could do with Gok!

I have boobs now for a start, but because my tummy area has diminished they look like a separate part instead of being a big homogenous lump that started under the chin and ended around the knees somewhere. But I still don't think I really go in at the waist that much (and my "waist" seems to be much higher up my body than on other people). Does this make me a pear shape? I'd have laughed at that idea when I was younger. But I carry most of my weight around my tum. I think. You see? I have no clue! I'd always assumed that I was an apple but now I really do not know.

So the shopping has been a bit hit or miss. I'd pick things up and think they'd look good only to gasp in horror. Which means I've probably ignored some things that might have looked great! All in all though, I'm pleased with this new wardrobe. It has items from a variety of sources (yes, even Topshop, that supposedly hallowed ground for the uber-cool youf of today) and covers every day scruffs to smart casual, dressy and even quite posh things. Which brings me to issue two. How much more weight to lose, given that I've just splashed out vast sums of cash on things that fit me now?!

You see, I've been here before. And last time, my competitive streak got the better of me and I just kept on dieting and kept on losing weight until I was contemplating whether or not to go down to size 6 jeans or not. And I was as pleased as punch, because I'd beaten my target by a lot and was continuing to beat it on a daily basis. Only I hadn't realised how dreadful I looked at that weight - really, really ill. I don't want to go there again.

Could it be that I'm finally reaching some sort of acceptance? This body isn't ever going to be the same again, and it's certainly never going to be the smooth, toned body that it was in my twenties. I've had too many operations, leaving too many scars, too many children and too many diets. But dressed right, it doesn't look so awful any more and in the right light can look quite reasonable. So am I done dieting then? And if so, do I stop (the very sporadic) blogging?

I think I'm almost done with the diet. Another half stone would push me further into that healthy weight band and allow my existing clothes to fit even better without being too big. And then I can concentrate on my health and fitness rather than just my girth.

As for the blog, well it occurs to me that while I might have rediscovered my thinner self, I haven't done much work on my "inner" self. I'm not sure I've really explored that "me" in the Blog title. I've been existing, battling with family issues, trying to stay one step ahead of depression and dieting but that's about it. I think it's time to start living again and learning and having some adventures. So perhaps the blog title should change and the focus of my writing should be on gaining some things in my life instead of just losing!


Starting weight: 14 Stone 11 lbs
Current weight: 10 Stone 11lbs
Total Lost: 4 Stone

Today I'm wearing:

khaki trousers - River Island - size 12
Pink camisole - Topshop - Size 12
Black cardigan - M&S - size 12
Black suede boots - George at Asda

The dieting is going better than the writing

Perhaps I'm one of these people who can only do one thing at once. I can produce reams of writing and be crap at limiting my calorie intake, or I can control how much I eat but lose the ability to spout words. Who knows. You wouldn't think that the two activities would be related but how else to explain the lack of output here? Sorry, what was that? Lazy? Bone idle? Moi? Well yes, you could be right.

Still, I suppose if anything is to suffer from a lack of attention I'd rather it was this blog than the diet. The fact is that the Christmas Blip seems to be fading into the horizon and I've found my dieting head. I'm frantically touching wood as I type that by the way, which is providing the postman with his first comedy moment of the morning.

That's not to say that I've been entirely angelic or anything daft like that. This is a diet, not a punishment. So beers aplenty were taken to sustain me through the agony of watching Scotland lose to France at Murrayfield earlier this month. And thawing out my frozen heart with a hefty serve from the chippy made the stagger back to the pub for consolation pints possible. However, I guess I'm starting to understand a bit more about this whole "balance" thing and instead of doing my usual "Oh hell I've blown it so I may as well blow it some more" routine, I thought about how much I'd enjoyed myself and jumped straight back into the diet. I had prepared myself for a slight gain, or even just staying the same but somehow my body must have used the extra calories just to keep me warm in all this cold weather because I have continued to lose one or two pounds a week much to my delight.

Today I'm Wearing:

Pyjamas right now, but in a while I will have to stand in front of the open wardrobe and pick something out. There might be a pair of (stretchy) size 12 jeans to choose!

Starting weight: 14 Stone 11 lbs
Current weight: 11 Stone 8 lbs
Total Lost: 3 Stone 3lbs

Scratching the surface.

I itch. Pretty much everywhere, and mainly at night. I've convinced myself that I have scabies even though the rash looks nothing like what Google Images throws up. The rash just looks like I've scratched myself to bits. Which I have. The doc gave me piriton and aqueous cream with calamine. Close, but no cigar...still itching.

A friend I've never met because she's one of those cyber buddies we all have these days, suggested that perhaps it could be a food allergy - most likely culprits being wheat or dairy. I don't eat all that much diary anyway; the taste/texture of milk makes me heave and as much as I love cheese it's generally better not to have it in the house because it seems to induce a severe lack of self control whenever I'm in the vicinity of the fridge. I've somehow managed to produce three cheese-indifferent children so it's not even as if I can share it. I'm forced to eat it all by myself. It's a trial.

Last week I decided to cut dairy out completely. I'd been using soya milk for cooking purposes (porridge mainly) but learned to love it (okay, that's a slight exaggeration) made with water. It's weird. I've always preferred my porridge to be creamy and sweet, but if I concentrate hard and think of savoury breakfasts like bacon and hash browns, I can take the porridge watery and salty without wanting to hurl it against the wall where it would no doubt act as a very successful binding agent between wall and paper should I ever run out of wallpaper paste proper. I do sometimes wonder if the reason porridge is on so many diets is because actually it glues up your stomach lining and prevents the absorption of anything else.

Anyway, a week of no dairy products whatsoever had no effect whatsoever. I'm still squirming and trying not to resort to running a bristle hairbrush up and down my legs of an evening. So this week I thought I'd try cutting out wheat. This is a bit more of a challenge because when I looked through my food diary, there were rather a lot of wheat-based items throughout; wholemeal bread, pitta bread, pasta, flour tortillas and so on. And the kids eat a lot of it too; crumpets, hot cross buns, fruit loaf are all staples in our house.

I know I could prepare meals with couscous, rye, lentils, chickpeas and so on to fill me up without resorting to bread but on the first day, knowing that I was going to be eating leftover salad for lunch, I really just wanted some bread to go with it. So I invested in (and trust me, at that price it was definitely an investment) some wheat, milk and gluten free bread. I had previously heard horror stories about these products, but hey, that was years ago and I reckoned things must have improved by now. Especially at that price. How bad could it be?

So anyway, it seems like lentils and couscous could be the way ahead here. "Bread" made from potato, rice and shavings of owl pellets is not nice. It's very dry for a start and falls apart in your fingers. Then when you put it into your mouth it seems to expand and you can't actually swallow it straight away. The trouble is, as it becomes mixed with the saliva in your mouth it takes on the texture of slightly softened grit and when you do eventually spit it out the whole inside of your mouth feels...I don't know. The only word I can think of to describe this feeling is "cacky". I won't be buying anymore. As I said to Mother, if this is the best that the wheat-free world has to offer, I'll just scratch.

Starting weight: 14 Stone 11 lbs
Current weight: 11 Stone 13 lbs
Total Lost: 2 Stone 12lbs
This Week: -1lb

Today I'm wearing:

Adsa dark blue straight jeans, size 14, too big.
M&S sea green and white top, 3/4 length sleeves, size 14
Asda dark sea blue floppy cardigan size 14
Black knee length boots

I can see four grey hairs. More if I change my parting. They must go!

New Year, New Start.

I have a horrid feeling that I might be repeating myself! Oh, the humour, it's killing me! Seriously though, I'll have to go back and check my previous posts because that title is certainly ringing bells. But then, it is a new year and I am starting again. Again. On the plus side, I'm starting from a better place than I have done previously.

Before Christmas 2009 I had succesfully dieted my way down to 11 stone 10lbs. I was feeling very pleased with myself, but I knew that I was going to struggle to maintain this over the festive period so I pretty much gave myself permission to take time out of my diet. We had a lot of "social engagements" (that'd be piss ups then) on the calendar and I wanted to eat my Christmas dinner without writing every mouthful down in a jotter, or leaping up mid-sip to update the Tesco Diet site. Consequently I am returning to my blog four pounds heavier than I was at the beginning of advent, weighing 12 stone exactly. I'm trying to see the positive side of this. It's a nice neat figure to start the year with. I can see from this that I'd like to lose exactly 2 of those stones to make an even neater number of 10. This isn't so bad. I can do this.

Trouble is of course, that I'm now struggling to get back into the swing of things. I seem to have temporarily mislaid my dieting mojo. And I keep finding tins and tubs of mince pies, cake, chocolate log, chocolate oranges and cheese where there really ought to be nought but celery. That and I am sure the wine bottles have been breeding.

Anyway, today I think I might have managed to get that grip that was so desperately needed. I've eaten meals instead of snacks, consumed more water and as there is no wine open that needs finishing off, there's none that I feel inclined to drink. Could this be the start of great things to come?

Today I ate:

1 bowl porridge made with water and salt.
1 banana.

1 hard boiled egg
1 wholemeal bread roll
1 slim-a-soup thing

1 onion baguette
Roast ham
Mixed salad leaves
Homemade coleslaw
Tomatoes
Cucumber
Beetroot

More black coffee than is strictly good for me.
4 pints water.

Exercise was limited due to being in hospital all day (no, nothing drastic...Kid At the Bottom of the Heap "failed" her last few eye tests and they wanted to hook her up and figure her out. If they manage that they'll be doing better than me LOL)


Today I'm wearing:

Dark brown vest top size 14
Pale pink cardigan size 16 (it's too big now but I still like it)
A-line purple cord flowery skirt (sale bargain from Sainsbugs!) size 14
Dark brown knee high boots
Pink and purple necklace/earrings combo (also Sainsbury's finest)

Did I speak too soon?

Yesterday was not a good day. It started in the morning with a telephone call from my car insurance company. They wanted to discuss a claim. The only claim I know anything about was from an incident absolutely ages ago when I stupidly reversed my car into the side of a parked car behind me. I didn't do very much damage to them, although my bumper was superficially dented, but I left a note with my details and contacted my insurer so they'd be ready if a claim was made. After a few days of humming and hawing, the other party decided not to claim as the damage was so superficial. My insurance company told me that if no claim was made within six months then it would be dismissed. So naturally, not really remembering when all this went on, I thought they were phoning to tell me that the six months was up.

What they were actually calling about was a new claim. Apparently, four days ago, they received notice of a claim against me for when I drove into the rear of a pick up truck. In February. In County Durham. Errrr....I don't think so. For a start, I don't think I've ever set foot in County Durham! And if I have, it wasn't in February. The nearest I'd have been was en route to Harrogate in April when I babysat my niece and nephew while my brother and his wife went to Paris. I think someone has made an error with the registration number. Or is winding me up!

Anyway, all that went on, and my resolve was still strong. I ate my porridge, and cycled along to a recording of the XFactor as is my wont. And then my washing machine died on me. I hadn't noticed that the drum was still full of water and when I opened the door it all gushed out all over my feet, the pile of clothes waiting to into the machine and the floor of the downstairs loo. Great. I tried turning it off and turning it on again, that being "the code" these days, but no joy. Just more water.

By this time, I can feel a headache on its way, and the mouth ulcer that has been lurking near my bottom lip has been joined by several more towards the back of my throat. I'm feeling decidedly ropey. My lunch, which consisted of a ham salad sandwich and a satsuma is now feeling wholly inadequate. I toast two crumpets, but manage not to slather them with butter.

Eventually I reckon a bath might help. It probably would have done had I only realised that one of the kids had redirected the water to the shower. As I turned the water on full blast, the shower head leapt off its stand, crashed against the wall and ricocheted off the taps, forcefully spraying cold water all over everything, including me. Scrambling to turn the water off, or at least redirect it back into the bath I slip on the wet floor and knock my teeth on the side of the bath. What next? What next torment lurks?

The bath was too hot and I'm left with that sick, dizzy, faint feeling. I know I have to pull myself together; kid in the middle has hockey club and needs a wholesome meal inside her before she goes running around in the chill dark all night. Oh but I've no energy. Although I do have a Freddo bar in the bottom of my handbag. Oh look. I have three. I must have bought them for the children. Even as I'm thinking this, I'm eating them.

Self-loathing hangs about in the air as I prepare a meal for the children. Cries of "What's for dinner? That smells good" torment me as much as the garlicky aroma wafting from the oven. I resolve to have only a little bit, in order to balance out the greed and weakness of earlier. But resolve isn't hanging around much today and I polish off a full portion and the leftovers. And finish it off with a packet of cheese and onion crisps because what I really wanted, but was determined not to have was a glass of wine. Which makes no sense whatsoever.

The irony of all this is that yesterday was supposed to be Day One of a five week dieting challenge. (Ten pounds in five weeks. No alcohol. Well I managed that alright. Stick to diet. Pah. Exercise every day. I exercised my Caving In Muscles.) Day One. And I have the biggest fail of the last eight weeks. What's that all about?

So this is Day Two. This will be the measure of how serious I am about losing this weight. Perhaps it would be a good idea to print off those awful photographs to remind me WHY I'm doing this.

Maintaining

Maintaining enthusiam that is. So far so good. I'm down another two pounds this week and not only that but I'm starting to see Size 14s creep back into my wardrobe for the first time in, oh, way longer than I care to admit. It's certainly a morale boost, and hopefully it will give me the incentive I need to carry on. Afterall, if a size 14 feels good, imagine how great a size 12 would be. I think there might even be some size 12 items in the attic just waiting for my waist to shrink that little bit more!!

It has been a good week all round really. Biggest Kid had his belated birthday party on Saturday. We took him to play Laser Tag, mini golf and bowling at a nearby-ish leisure centre with some friends and then on to the dietary evil that is the Golden Arches for tea. I had a black coffee (I have to say, I do quite like their coffee) and one onion ring before coming home to a salad. The kids ate their own body weights in saturated fat and salt and declared it delicious. I then compounded the attack on their wellbeing with birthday cake and goodie bags stuffed with chocolate. They just about started to peak on the sugar high when it was time for them to go home. I'm sure their parents were delighted.

Today I'm wearing:

Straight leg stretch jeans (14)
Black, white and silver checked cap-sleeved blouse (14)
Black leather high heeled boots
Grey long length cardigan (16)
Bit of slap, bit of Asda sale jewellery.

Starting weight: 14 Stone 11 lbs
Current weight: 12 Stone 7 lbs
Total Lost: 2 Stone 4lbs

Dashed hopes

Another mother saga. Although I'm actually finding this one quite amusing for once.

Mother wants a new suitcase. On the (rare) occasions that I manage to persuade her onto a train to head darn sarf to Yorkshire, she complains that her existing case is too unwieldy to use on the train. She can't get it into the overhead rack without asking for help (which begs the question, why not ask for help, but that's another story), it's too heavy and really it's more suitcase than she needs for her purpose. I offered to loan her my spotty Cath Kidston case which is small enough to be considered hand luggage on most flights, but that was deemed too heavy and still too big. The Man I Married offered her the use of one of his wheeled computer bag things. Too heavy. I offered her Kid At the Top of the Heap's "sleepover" suitcase. Still too big. Over the summer we looked at suitcases in Asda. Little ones. Too expensive. (?)

So. Last week I was in Dunelm mill. And they had some luggage in the sale. And in amongst all the family size suitcases was one, bright lime green, tiny, tiny little suitcase, with telescopic handle and wheels with the words "Superlight" emblazoned across the label. Great thought I, and bought it, having checked the returns policy first. Just in case this minute, superlight little pocket of air was in too bright a colour for her sensitive eyes or summat.

I phone Mother and tell her the good news. Tiny suitcase. About big enough for Kid at the Bottom's pyjamas, a teddy bear, a couple of comics and a toothbrush. Any smaller and it would be a clutch bag. And "super light" - it even says so on the tin.

"How much does it weigh exactly then?" she asks, dubiously.
"2.6kg" I tell her jubilantly.
"2.6kg? Empty? That's over five and half pounds. It's a bit heavy."

My make up bag weighs more. She doesn't want a suitcase. She wants a plastic bag.

Goalposts all over the shop!

Depending on when you think I started this diet I have lost either two stone two pounds, one stone or nothing at all!

In September 2008 I weighed 14 Stone 11 lbs. By Christmas that year I had dieted and exercised my way down to 12 Stone 9lbs, but half way through January I was back up to 13 Stone 6lbs. I spent the next few months dithering about, losing and gaining, losing and gaining until, shortly after my summer holiday in France this year (where much was done in the way of wine and cheese consumption) I attended a friend's wedding. The photos that were circulating around thereafter were horrific; a real wake up call, and so for the last seven weeks I have really "got stuck in" and tried to put my head in a place where making the right choices and shrinking my not inconsiderable arsage is more important than wine and crisps. So far, so good. I've lost on average two pounds a week which means a stone since the full horror of my weight hit me. And for the last few days I've been hit not by shock at my reflection, but instead, a barrage of lovely comments. It's hard to believe that one stone alone could have made so much difference. Harder still to think what the next three stone might bring?! (Dare I actually believe that I could get that far? I hope so.)

Anyway, life isn't all about dieting. The Offspring have been doing their best to amaze and delight me this week too. Early on, Kid With Aspergers announced that he was taking up a musical instrument at school. "You know. The violin. Or the tuba. The tuba would be good. It's important to have a good solid second career in case the first one doesn't work out. You wouldn't want to end up a drug dealer." He has a point I think.

Kid at the bottom of the heap has discovered her singing voice. Unfortunately it's about as good as mine. On the drive home from Legoland last week she plonked on her headphones and was so carried away by the rhythm and beat that we had to endure "Reach for the stars...." all the way up the M6.

And Kid in the Middle has discovered a new freedom. Instead of taking the school bus home, she is now opting to walk. All very healthy. Except she keeps stopping off at the cafe for hot chocolate instead of coming straight home. She's ten. I'll just sit here and wait for certain sections of forumsville to implode I think ;-)

Time to revive the Wardrobe Posts. Especially as I purchased a size 14 skirt for the first time in years this week. Today however, I'm in:

Beige, scooped necked, long-sleeved fitted t-shirt. (16)
Brown pinstripe linen widelegged trousers (16)
Brown leather boots
Pink glittery scarf
Bit of slap, bit of Asda sale jewellery.
Big cardigan

Oh, and I think I'll start documenting the weight changes here too.

Starting weight: 14 Stone 11 lbs
Current weight: 12 Stone 9 lbs
Total Lost: 2 Stone 2lbs

And yes, I know I've gone for the most impressive-looking result. Wouldn't you?

I hate to say it, but...

things seem to be going pretty well! There. I've probably jinxed it and will wake up four stone heavier tomorrow.

We went darn sarf to visit Legoland in Windsor last weekend. I had been worrying about this trip for a while because the last time we went (about five years ago), the food choices had been horrendous, and as I had been steadily losing weight for the previous five weeks I was keen to keep this up and not reverse the trend with one weekend away. I was right to be concerned because in spite of the loud proclamations of "healthier" food on their website, it's fair to say that it's merely a relative term and they still weren't exactly overloaded with an abundance of vitamins on offer. Still, prudent choices at the all you can eat breakfast from Premier Inn kept me stoked up enough that the tiny "salad" I found for lunch was just about sufficient for my needs. That coupled with hours on hours of endless walking and queueing seemed to do more than mere damage limitation because I dropped four whole pounds of excess me!!

The one thing it did highlight for me though is that I felt completely out of control and didn't like it. I already know that I'm a bit of a control freak. Or at least, I like things done my way. When and how I say. According to my timetable. And to my specifications. Not that I'm fussy or anything, but if you can't do it right I'd rather do it myself. So get out of my kitchen!!! And of course, sitting in an hotel restaurant, or in a Legoland cafeteria, I had no input at all. I was quite taken aback at how scary I found it! I found myself getting quite ratty in a motorway service station where none of the food on offer had any nutritional information for me to assess. I couldn't tell if the dressing they'd assumed I wanted on my salad was laden with olive oil or not, or if the oozing mayo on the sandwich was full fat, or how lean the mince in the chilli con carne was. This was not good. It wasn't good that I couldn't have this information but it also wasn't good that I didn't feel able to "let up" a little for one weekend. Afterall, if I'd only lost one pound instead of the four that I did lose, that would still have been a result, and I'd perhaps have been less stressed about it all. So. Note for today is "Relax. Be vigilant, but not obsessive!"

Now, where was I?

Where was I? Avoiding writing a blog by the looks of things.

It isn't that I haven't been dieting, because let's face it I'm going to be "on a diet" now for preeeety much forever. I'm have been trying to reconcile that fact in my head and struggling with it a little. I know, it's supposed to be about creating a new way of life as opposed to dieting, but the fact remains that as I age, (somewhat disgracefully I hope), I no longer have the freedom to eat and drink without consequences. Bits of me hurt and ache that never used to before, and so my ability to go out dancing all night and burn off the kebab that staves off the munchies induced by three bottles of red wine shared with not quite enough friends is diminishing. Anyway, I no longer have the arse for that mini skirt.

So now it's about choices. I can decide to make healthy choices and melt off some of the excess me, or I can make less healthy choices and watch my weight creep up and my health become worse. It sounds easy enough, but as always, I want my cake and eat it. (Sorry.) I want to be able to eat and drink what I like AND lose weight, and I've been fighting against the knowledge that this isn't going to happen.

Kid the eldest has been struggling with the whole choices concept as well. He arrived home from secondary school (yes, it has been that long since I updated this blog...they've all moved up a year and one has moved school!) with a letter in hand informing me that the school were hoping to take some of the children to Spain in the summer. Six hundred odd quid it's going to cost. Six hundred (or possibly even more) of my finest pounds. Well you can imagine the look on my face. I think there might still be the odd stray eyebrow attached to the kitchen ceiling. Anyway, we thought about it and offered him a choice. It's his birthday this week. He could forgo a present and we'd put the money in the Spanish Fund. He can ask everyone who would normally give him a gift for dosh and that can also go in the Spanish Fund. And likewise at Christmas. And if he's really keen to go, he can give up a goodly portion of his monthly pocket money. He has a week to make up his mind and I can almost see the cogs churning as he weighs up the pros and cons.

Talking of money, Kid at the Bottom of the Heap had the best fun this weekend. It was her birthday in June and she was lucky enough to receive vouchers for Argos, book tokens and cold hard cash. For one reason or another, we hadn't taken her to spend any of these until Sunday when we braved the mall. So many things, so many choices, so many decisions! (She's another one who hates to commit to anything!) I didn't think we were ever coming home. Still, eventually she picked out three books, a heap of plastic tat and a wedding dress for a stuffed rabbit. I asked her who the (girl) rabbit was going to marry and she said "*Custard. Because you know, just because granny doesn't approve, girls CAN marry girls now."


*Bad mummy alert. I have no clue which stuffed critter of many stuffed critters is called Custard. I also don't know if the rabbit has a name, although if the state of most of her toys' clothes is anything to go by, Miss Havisham will soon seem appropriate.

Dip.

Some weeks just seem to be more uphill than others. Or maybe it's months. Either way, I seem to have been mired in lethargy just lately. I can't remember the last time I picked up my camera, there are myriad computer magazines lying pristine in their untouchedness, and I find myself looking for any excuse at all not to leave the house.

Depression is a strange thing. I seem to veer from fired-up and enthusiastic about life, to feeling the need to hunker down and conserve every last drop of energy. For what exactly I'm not sure. Projects that I started so keenly suddenly seem like an awful lot of effort. I find myself concentrating on one thing (currently ironing) and attacking that with gusto, as if to prove to myself that I'm functioning, that I haven't given up. The fact that I'm doing that to the exclusion of anything else at all beyond the bare necessities can't be good. I found myself ironing a dishcloth this morning. This is not a good sign.

I have to go out today. I have promised a friend that she can take her pick from some of the dresses that no longer fit Kid-at-the-Bottom-of-the-Heap. This means finding those dresses (and potentially ironing them) and going to her house. I have a deadline. But the mere fact I'm sitting here typing this means that I am pushing back against it, as if leaving it to the last minute is the only way I can make myself go.

And there's something else that doesn't make sense to me. This week, I'm taking my three camping. I have agreed that Biggest Kid can bring a pal. So there's me, and four kids, off on an adventure. Why is it that this doesn't faze me in the least, but I can barely bring myself to go and post a letter? The big things, the complicated things, the grand gestures, all seem eminently do-able. The minutiae of daily life on the other hand serve only to grind away at my confidence. Bah. Perhaps it's just the rain. Perhaps if the sun would just make an appearance occasionally I'd feel better. Nobody feels good with perma-soaked trouser hems.

More new beginnings

The Man I Married has a new job. I've known that this was in the offing for a while now, but it has been one of those hush-hush, don't tell the troops, TOP SECRET with a code name affairs because the company he used to work for was being sold and until the various lawyers had done bickering and offering and counter-offering and tying things up in scarlett ribbon and hacking away at contracts and reveiws, and legalese and all the rest of it, nobody was allowed to say a word. The last dot on the last "i" was placed late Thursday night and announcements made in press releases to global but limited-interest publications to much hooraying all round.

So we've celebrated with some champagne and the purchase of a new family car, but really it's pretty much business as usual. The Man I Married will still be working a silly number of hours each week, if not more stupid than before, there will still be three kidlets to supervise, love, feed, discipline, clothe and ferry around and Mother will still be driving me nuts. Plus ca change and all that.

Diet wise, my good friend Harridan's plan for a 40 Day Challenge has been a huge success. Not because I've succeeded in sticking to it exactly, although I haven't veered totally off course, but because it gave me the impetus and structure that a lazy-arsed person like me needs. I do much better when I have something to strive for, and being a competitive soul, I like the idea of a challenge, even if it's only really with myself!! Competitive but lazy - how's that for messed up?!