The Art of Compromise

Last night, Rob and I had a very subdued celebration about having our offer accepted on Stockbridge Road with two bottles of Bulmers Pear Cider and a half-hearted row (we were tired) about how he's negative about things which makes it difficult for me to get excited: he was looking at all the bad points of Stockwell Road and I wanted to be pleased that we'd had an offer (and a good one too) on a home in Winchester.

The big problem between us in this whole affair is that he sees a house as a financial investment to make as much money from as possible, whereas I see it as a home. It's Heart vs. Head.

We fight about this constantly: we see a house together and, even if I hate it because, for example, it has bedroom ceilings billowing towards the floor with age, if it has development potential, he'll never ever discount it. But if I see something that I like but he doesn't - usually because it's been finished really well and the most he could possibly do is put up a shower curtain or a mug hook - he won't discuss it. Not in the slightest: I loved this converted chapel. He hated it. End of. He loved this thatched cottage with the most disgusting carbuncle of a 70s extension sticklebricked onto its side; I said Absolutely Not, and yet he STILL brings it up - even though the old lady who lives there won't take less than our top, top budget which would mean living there in sour-milk hell until we either inherited a fortune or I went back on the game ... I caught him with the plans up on the laptop only the other day. Seriously? I said. But ... he said.

I complain (very well), but, in Rob's defence, he helps balance out the romantic in me who'll buy a house because it has nice wallpaper/lampshades/sofas/cat asleep on the bunkbeds. And we've come up with an excellent plan for opening up the downstairs of Stockbridge Road which we can do because he's a structural engineer and knows these things, so I guess his practicality isn't as bad as I make out - although it does make compromising and liking him at the same time rather tricky.

In other new, we've decided not to see Canon Street as Rob has stated: I hate it. And because I always like to make out I'm super nice and the best person in the relationship, I've said okay, we won't see it - but honestly, I didn't want to either: I think I'm slowly falling for Stockwell Road ...

I have a viewing at my flat today. Fingers crossed ...

XX

Is buying a house the third most stressful thing in the world?

About two months ago, Robbie and I decided to buy a house in Winchester.

This may seem like a smart move – buying a home together where we can raise our cats and indulge our desire for arguing over everything. And Winchester has recently been voted one of the best places to live in the whole of the UK. I know – far better than West Norwood where we’re currently trying to keep the cats from mixing with the wrong crowd.

Anyway, it seemed like a pretty straight forward thing: we’d sign up with estate agents, roll into town with all our London lolly and pick up something huge, Victorian and sprawling in which we get lost on a regular basis, before filling the whole thing with organic products and going to listen to a lunchtime recital at the Cathedral.

But, of course, God has a thing about pretentious wankers, and so we have been thwarted in our attempt to achieve middle-class hideousness and have realised that when we decided to buy a house in Winchester, so did half of London. Because, surprise surprise, calling somewhere the best place to live in the UK, makes it somewhat attractive to those, like us, seeking a break from the concrete grey days of London town. Even the fact that Robbie grew up there and his parents live in one of the nicest areas holds very little sway when a 3-bed Victorian terrace is going for £400k.

So we have searched and searched – 19 houses so far. And Oh! what joys we’ve seen – a house with barely a bedroom on at £360k, a terrace with an overgrown quarry face an inch from the back windows and a bedroom only accessible by going out the front door, down some stairs and then in again for £325k, a house that may as well have been in the middle of the A3 in terms of car noise for £399k, and one that came with the sense that something very bad happened in the back bedroom for £340k. We have wasted so much money and time careering over Hampshire only to find the delightful period cottage is actually a campervan on blocks. For £400k.

And Rob and I have nearly killed each other and ourselves – although, that’s usually me trying to hurl myself from the moving car mid-row as some kind of dramatic statement .

BUT – today we put an offer in on a nice little place on Stockbridge Road in Winchester. It’s not perfect – parking and a busy road may be an issue – but it will give Rob the opportunity to wield his hammer, or at least show someone where to wield theirs, it’s right by the station so we can get to London very easily and our London friends can get to us without complaining too much, and it ticks the big box marked: IN WINCHESTER. And it’s pretty. Or at least it could be. Our offer’s been accepted and so it could very soonly be ours ...

But there’s another BUT – Rob’s mum went to see a little 2 bed terrace on Canon Street which is in the old quarter and right by the cathedral this morning. She loved it and really wants us to see it before we make any final decisions - location is apparently perfect - so we’re going to go and see that one on Saturday, as well as a second viewing on Stockbridge Road.

I’m guessing the tale is not yet finished.

PS – if you want to buy a flat in Streatham/West Norwood/Tulse Hill borders ... it’s very, very nice house. http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-13090251.html?locationIdentifier=POSTCODE%5E834384&pageNumber=1&backToListURL=%2Fproperty-for-sale%2Ffind.html%3FsearchType%3DSALE%26locationIdentifier%3DPOSTCODE%255E834384%26radius%3D0.0%26displayPropertyType%3D%26minBedrooms%3D%26maxBedrooms%3D%26minPrice%3D%26maxPrice%3D%26maxDaysSinceAdded%3D%26retirement%3D%26partBuyPartRent%3D%26_includeSSTC%3Don%26sortByPriceDescending%3D%26primaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26secondaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26oldDisplayPropertyType%3D%26oldPrimaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26oldSecondaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26newHome%3D%26auction%3Dfalse%26x%3D77%26y%3D5

Stupid Adverts

LOVE KINGSMILL

Alright, it's not new, but the more I see of these adverts, the more I want to enter the Land of TV and kick their sets over shouting: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Why?

Because, it's like this: all jolly family scenes, set to faux-Damien Rice type, Lucky Jim's 'Your Lovely To Me' .  In this little medley, which includes toothless grandpas and babies, we find Little Tyke who hands his dad some toast that he's just wiped around some grass with his wellington boot, and enter Middle Class Kitchen where dad and 2.4 kids sit round the table awaiting the arrival of mum's sandwiches.  

This is when I begin to hate Kingsmill and all it stands for.  Seriously.  It's as bad as chuffing Mum's Gone To Iceland, which is unforgiveable, but this one's just that little bit more sinister, because it cloaks itself in humour.  Like painting a clown face on a missile.

See: mum makes the sandwiches and places them on the table for her hungry family.  They may as well be banging their cutlery on the table and shouting UG UG UG.

My other most hated scene: mum (sitting away from family on sensible picnic chair) pulls out the tupperwear full of homemade sandwiches for the family and hands them around (because they're incapable of putting their pampered little paws into a sandwich box and removing the bread triangles themselves) at which, Little Tyke thinks its hilarious - HI-LARIOUS - to pop his tomato bits into his sister's hood.

Now, let's look at it another way.  Would we ever see Sister do that?  No, because Sister is one pubic hair away from handing out sandwiches themselves.  Sister's too busy using the lid of the tupperwear as a plate to be up to tomfoolery.

So let's have a look at what Kingsmill thinks equals a Real Family:

Mum is the food machine who waits on her family.

All little brothers are naughty.

All sisters are good little girls.

Dads do nothing - their role is behind the scenes where they earn the money that bought the food that mother uses to feed her family.

Those advertising geniuses at Kingsmill must've been flying the day they came up with THAT innovative approach.

The Results Bit

Ready? Minus 5lbs!

I know.

Luckily, Kylie left her hot pants here or goodness knows what I'd've been able to wear from my selection of kaftans.

Am feeling rather surprised and not a little - are these scales broken? But they're the ones that treated me so cruelly last week, so either they've developed a conscience or it's true. And I've managed to do it with my tipples so all is not lost. Yay!

It's a good start, though, eh? I was as 'good' as possible this weekend. I tried to eat as much within the diet as possible but I did have some pizza with William on Saturday night. But even then, I only ate the smaller slices and didn't end up feeling like I was about to give birth through my ears. I guess it's the cutting out of all the sugary shit - there's been no junk-type stuff (apart from the pizza) and most of the time I've been adhering strictly to my green day philosophy.

Things I've not done:
No lager/beer type thing, apart from a bottle of Sol at the pub with Sar.
No bucket of Minstrels at the Cinema.
Not eaten pizza til it came out of my ears.

Things I have done:
Stuck to my Green Day philosophies
Eaten more fresh veg.
Eaten bananas in yoghurt to fill me up.
Made my own breakfasts.
Allowed myself some booze.
Had one croissant on Friday morning.

That said, I was feeling pretty low and grouchy yesterday, which I think is through lack of protein - I realised that, for a pretty meaty person, I hadn't had anything closely resembling carnival for a week (apart from the four prawns in my Wagamamas rice on Thursday night). So I'm having a red day today and tomorrow - a big old chilli with no rice for tea tonight and then smoked salmon and more chili tomorrow.

It's strange how introverted you become on one of these diets, though. There's a real focus on where and how you can eat so meals out and snacking on the run become tougher to face. Yesterday I went to the V&A after a breakfast of mushrooms and tomatoes and was absolutely desperate for something sweet. Then, rather fantastically, I stumbled across this gorgeous little place called Snog which does fat-free frozen yoghurts so I had one of those with fresh strawberries and felt quite sated. Which was brilliant.

Ordinarily, I would've succombed without thinking to an on-the-run snack kind of thing which would've had cheese somewhere in it. Like when I was in Greece, I was forever eating the Cheese Pie - a kind of cheese turnover thing that was born in the Land of Lard. I had a feeling they may not be a Friend of Thin, but because everyone seemed to be eating them, they felt all continental and healthy. Not to mention the fact that the Mediterranean diet is supposed to be the best in the world. I'm guessing, though, that, in hindsight, the general Mediterranean doesn't spend all day face down in Cheese Pies. It would be kind of like me living in Greggs the Bakers which is the highway to Morbidly Obese and frequented by those who smell of fried food and make up the audience of Jeremy Kyle. If Gregg's Cheese & Onion Square is anything to go by, despite my naieve reckoning, the Cheese Pie perhaps isn't actually the food of the Gods ...

Anyway. Five pounds down, nine to go until target for October. Maybe I CAN do this.

High Five Smallwood!

XX

Stick a fork in me

My GOD I feel bloated today. (Nice opening sentence. I've become one of those women, haven't I) Kept feeling like I might accidentally do the unspeakable in front of the office, but managed to contain it. I'm not sure how professional I'd appear going at it like a set of bagpipes mid-meeting.

I blame the potatoes and bananas. A bad case of the Ponanas.

The office was so hot today - 32 degrees at my desk - that even I wasn't up for eating much so I had:

bacon and mushroom and tomato and lettuce butty for breakfast.

Left over potato salad for lunch.

Lowfat yoghurt for afternoon snack.

Now I'm going to have left over spaghetti. It's wholewheat so hopefully it won't do too much damage.

And now having a nice glass of rose.

On my way home Fatdar spotted a hugely obese homeless woman, which is wierd because I always assumed that not having a fridge was the route to slimness. I guess the magazines are wrong ...

Have agreed with my friend Jules that we'll weigh in each week and gee each other along. She's pretty scary and a consumate dieter so hopefully she'll keep me on track.

Day three and all is well.

XX

The Fight Begins

I have always struggled with my weight. I've been a Ten Tonne Tessie and a tiny wee little thing that would give Nicole Ritchie a run for her money. At the moment, I'm the former. I no longer like looking at pictures of myself - I don't look anything like I think I do and am horrified by the girth that was once a fairly saucy bunch of curves.

Oddly, though, I have always expected to be fat. When I got really skinny it wasn't through planning, it was a bi-product of some other issues I was having. It was a surprise to see my rib cage poking out and feel the bones in my butt, but it wasn't as though I'd followed some special way of eating to get that way. I simply hadn't eaten and the weight had fallen off me. And then, of course, over the past ten years, it's all piled back on. I'm not quite where I was when I started, but I'm not far off and it shocks the hell out of me. I used to think that being that big had been a freak accident, but now I think it's because I'm fitting my personal profile - you know, the thing where if you think it hard enough, you will become it.

No matter what size I've been, apart from those two years or so, I have felt huge. I have really quite ridiculously large tits which add on a whole raft of hugeness in themselves and maybe that's why I always felt so much bigger than everyone else.

When I was at school, I remember feeling like a hippo, but I look back and I'm completely normal. I look just like a slightly curvier version of everyone else rather than a candidate for stomach bypass. In my mid-twenties, as I began to put weight back on, I moved to London and once again, I felt like the Big One. But I look at pictures and I'm not. In the slightest. Or at least, not then.

I'll always be curvy, but I really don't like that I have become the Fat Friend. I hate the way strangers feel comfortable enough to mention the fact that I'm large. That I untag pictures of myself on Facebook because people who haven't seen me in years will see that I've become a hefer.

I am my own self-fulfilling prophesy.

And I want to have kids and it scares the shit out of me that I'll get pregnant and after I've had the baby, I'll stay looking pregnant forever.

When I stopped eating, I did it because I wanted control. It was a horrible period in my life and so, part of the my eating patterns now are a reaction to that - in a way, I'm overjoyed that I can eat as much as I like now and not panic and for years I've kind of embraced that. That and the overwhelming guilt and self-hate that bubbles up at the end of a particularly gross pigout.

Ultimately, I don't eat that badly anymore and I can control my portions - it's the exercise that I need to up now and the booze I need to cut down on.

Over the course of the next year, I would like to lose two stone. I would like to be fitter and firmer and happier with myself. But, in all honesty, I really don't know if I can do it. In the main, my only experience of succesful weight loss is through an eating disorder. The only time I did something that worked was with Slimming World where I lost a stone. So I'm thinking, maybe it's time to do that again.

I'm going to do Slimming World to lose those two stone while listening to Paul McKenna and reassessing my body image and this blog will be my record of how I CAN lose weight without going mad and how I'm not going to be the Fat Girl for much longer.

I need to focus and commit and stop whining and get on with it. I wasn't born fat, I have just convinced myself that that's who I am. But I'm not and I don't want to spend a minute longer wishing that I were slimmer. How dull would the next ten years be doing that?

So tomorrow morning is the Big Weigh In and it all starts then.

So, here I go ... Good luck me!

XX

The Commitments

I've always thought that it was other people with the commitment problems. When I say people, I mean men. But actually, in retrospect and, after all, isn't that what New Year is about?, I think it's more likely me. I mean, of course I can commit to things. I'm perfectly capable of committing to a fag and a glass of wine at the end of the day. Pushing the snooze button on my alarm until it runs out of snoozes. Leaving everything to the last minute. Sleeping with him on the first date when I expressly told myself I wouldn't. But none of these are actually especially helpful. Apart from the fag and the glass of wine, of course.

When it comes to committing to change ... well. Well. I'm very good at committing to not changing. Much better.

So I'm going to see what happens when I do.

Here is what I am committing to this year:
1. Aqua at least twice a week. I like aqua. I'm the youngest, most attractive thing in the class especially now I have a proper swimsuit and won't be exposing vast whale-like body-parts via an ill-fitting tankini.
2. Pay more attention to grooming. I had all my lovely hair cut off three times last year and cried for weeks afterwards. This year it's all about the trim. I will also spend money on pampering myself once a month - a massage, a float, a manicure. I am getting on a bit now and occasionally taking my make up off with babywipes ain't cutting it any longer. I will take my make up off properly every night, unless I am drunk or getting lucky. (I am deeply committed to not being one of those girls who rolls over and cleanses)
3. Being a writer. How can I say that I AM a writer when there are people out there with the litererary abilities of a cave-dwelling monoglot who get published. And they didn't procrastinate by watching Charmed to get that deal. This year I shall not have to fake a book deal to impress an ex-boyfriend. I am looking at five hours writing a week. Minimum. Or I shall take to calling myself a ballet dancer - it will be just as true.
4. Rediscover my passion. I once spent months reading about the assassination of JFK. I even made notes in the margin of my condensed copy of the Warren Commission. I can't remember the last time I got quite so obsessed but I can tell you now - I'm never happier. Men do not count. For this, I'm going to keep an open mind, go to galleries and museums and exhibitions and read some good non-fiction books and revel in the geek that is me.
5. Lose weight. No quick fixes. I see myself as a fat bird - always have: even when I was slim, in my head there was a fatty trying to get out. I am going to use NLP and hypnosis to change that. Or it's just me and the cats from here on in.
6. Believe that I'm a catch. Because I am. And hanging around waiting for men to heal or simply throw a crumb is no longer on my agenda. I want to be happy and in love, not checking my phone every three seconds and mistaking being coveted for being loved.
7. Become friends with my money. It's my money after all and all this guilt about spending it? Well, I think we'll be seeing less of that and more attention paid to where it's going.
8. Know what has to be done and do it - the cats need their injections. I need to declare my old car off the road. I do it at work, now I do it at home.
9. Focus on my career. If I'm still at MBA by the end of this year it will be because I want to be.

Above all, this year I'm going to stop being frightened and be honest with myself. I am my best and worst friend most of the time, but this year, I'm going to try and be my best.

Oh, and at least once a month, I'm going to meet up with my favourite people in town for a lovely dinner or drinks or something fun and get a cab home.

I told my mother that this was the year I was going to have a baby. Fuck knows where I'm going to fit that one in ...