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 ...

Rant about Choice

There's been a lot of talk about abortion this weekend. Forty years on from legalisation, it's still a hot potato to the point that you would never, unless you're one of those odd women who tell strangers about having a shallow vagina or something (these girls do exist - they're usually crying in the toilets, though, so easy to avoid), admit to in public. No sane woman is particularly proud of making the decision to terminate a pregnancy, yet most who do know that it was the right one and are thankful beyond belief that that choice was there for them to make.

There's a misguided belief, propagated by pro-lifers that abortion clinics are full of the feckless and the flippant. That women use the procedure as a form of contraception. Which shows just how blinkered these people really are. Who cares about the gut-wrenching guilt and the whomp of reality that grips you at every turn of the day that if only things were different this would've been one of the happiest times of your life, not the worst.

The highest proportion of women seeking abortions in the UK are those in their mid-twenties to early-thirties. These aren't girls getting fucked by a faceless hoodie whilst downing their fifth WKD Blue. These are women who are struggling to get their lives off the ground and quite simply cannot give a child what they need. Equally, I doubt that they're all power-hungry business women, removing an inconvenience. They're women like you and me who feel that they have no choice: not the right man, not the right home, not the right financial situation.

Still, at least we're not American. In a world where the morning-after pill is up there with heroin and referred to as the Abortion Pill in hushed tones in college dorms, US clinics are picketed daily by brutish men and women bearing grotesque placards, shouting abuse at terrified, vulnerable women. Doctors, nurses and admin staff who work in these clinics are verbally and physically attacked - remember Brookline? It's fucking crazyland out there. How Pro-Life ARE you exactly with a gun in your hand? Thankfully, Bush didn't get rid of abortion as was feared, but he has ploughed millions of dollars into teaching abstinence as the only form of contraception. Neato!

But back to Blighty. Women shouldn't be vilified for making the choice to terminate a pregnancy. They shouldn't be applauded or congratulated, either. They should be allowed to go through what will remain with them forever with the dignity and respect that they probably lost the moment that line went pink.

Girl's Night In

It's very dark in here. Dark and cold. And if it weren't for the sequins on Chantelle's boob tube reflecting off Jade Goody's mum's neon teeth we'd be completely blind to everything around us.

The delightful Jodie Marsh is keeping us going, though. Her and Michelle Macmanus, before, of course, Michelle found the trap door and escaped. There's a rumour, though, that she hasn't escaped at all. I heard Myleene Klass say that the door was actually a portal into Gillian McKeith's kitchen which had been put there specially for Michelle. Michelle had told Myleene that her agent had told her this when they were doing some situps. But while she was there, she, and Jodie, kept us going. They both agreed that, seeing as they were the only two who could actually lose a bit of weight without become medical marvels, we'd feast from their muffin tops.As long as we didn't all go for it at once and ensured that everything was balanced when we left off. Good old Jodie, though. She's a trooper that one and hasn't reneged even though the mighty MacManus legged it. We just treat it like a diet.

Michelle Heaton keeps us entertained during dinner with a lovely song and dance routine that was choreographed by Lisa Scott Lee. I must say, we were all very disappointed when it was announced Lisa wouldn't be joining us, but apparently she's doing something for charity. I made a joke about the charity being rather more top-shelf than expected and I don't think Michelle (Heaton) has spoken to me since. I think there's some familial loyalty there or something :( .

But weird bright lights keep breaking through the darkness and it feels like someone's poking me in the arm but it isn't any of us in here. To be honest, they keep their distance. I hide my shameful volupt beneath my wrap dress and too-high boots and shield my lack of extensions and press-ons behind pretending I'm funny. Still, they can't understand how I got in there. I'm not one of them. They're suspicious of me and keep their distance. Even at meal times - as much as they can, anyway.

The lights are getting brighter and I can't quite understand why the pinching had started, especially as my controversial announcement that I thought Preston was too short and Desperate Housewives was nish has landed me not so much in Coventry as Birmingham Central - it's worse; the kind of ignoring that only very hormonal girls can do.

Then, comes the voice. At first I think it's God, but then I realise I'm not an R&B singer who comes from a pushy, American family, and as such God's probably otherwise engaged. I'm pretty sure it's not the devil - I gave him a kidney one fuzzy night way back in Mexico and we'd agreed that that was that for a while.

The lights, the pinching, the voices - they all get stronger and louder until I can hardly hear poor Girl's Aloud (choreographed by Michelle Heaton this time) and I can't help but start to get distracted and find myself yelling out: what? WHAT DO YOU WANT? KEEP SINGING CHERYL TWEEDY COLE! whilst smiling encouragingly at the girls - carry on, I say as they twirl uncertainly round their chairs.

Then, the room's bright white with light and the voice is deafening and I have the sudden sensation of being wrenched from the womb; wrenched and dragged and then ...

"For God's sake, can't you just ONCE make it to bed?" I barely hear him over the sound of Celebrity Big Brother Live on E4. I'm on the sofa. A copy of Now magazine is stuck to my cheek and the remenants of a bumper bag of peanut M&Ms litter my clothes. I blink and pull the magazine from my face and burp a tiny burble of sugar. Standing, I see in our over-mantel mirror that the front cover has transferred onto my cheek - Jade Goody's mum beams her neon, 300k smile at me over a minor acne break out. I trip over an empty litre bottle of coke.

One of these nights I'm going to go cold turkey.

Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear over the size of my TROPHY

At lunchtime today, I received my award for Times Crème, DHL PA of the Year – Runner Up 2006. I KNOW. Who on earth would’ve thought! Certainly not my parents, who are so excited I think they may have misheard and are telling all their friends I’ve won the X-Factor. See, they always thought I’d be some cruise singer or something, eeking out a living in rhinestones, blasting my way through showtunes, all the while crying inside over someone called Juan.

But, actually, even though I never expected to be one, I’ve ended up absolutely loving being a PA and feel justified in my award. Kind of.

I mean, generally, I know that I can do my job and I’m pretty much okay with stuff. But better than other people? I hadn’t noticed a change of location for a meeting on Tuesday until the very last minute: surely that’s proof enough that I’m really just fluking it?

You see, there are two kinds of people in this world. There are the people who are supremely confident – Sayeed and Paul from The Apprentice are two perfect, recent examples – who never doubt that they are number one. The other are people who get on with things in the background, hear the negatives before the positives and are never really bothered about setting the world on fire.

And I think that, by the very nature of our working life, the majority of PAs tend to fall into the latter category. Being seen isn’t top of our list. We like to look after, to nurture, to push from behind the scenes. We don’t actively seek out praise or get top kudos from a deal that’s gone through. Professionally speaking, that is, because outside of this place, I will not be outdone on the karaoke machine and will wrestle you without warning if you try and do one of my numbers.

But this is exactly why it’s ace that I got this award. I don’t feel like a fraud in the workplace anymore. I feel competent, strong and capable. Of course, I’ve felt like that before, but this time, it’s been acknowledged in a way that only stars tend to get. I am so proud of who I am and what I do. I’m not ‘just a PA’. I’m an award-winning PA. And, apart from this red wine hangover, I’ve never felt more inspired in my life.

I’m now campaigning for a PA of the Year, Europe competition, followed by PA of the World competition to be held in Hawaii, where the highlight of the judging process will be the bikini minuting section which, well, kind of speaks for itself. Anyone who’s interested, sign up below …

An Ode to Metal Heads

I love metal heads.

They have to be the most endearing bunch of fans and music makers you could ever come across. Even metal God’s such as Metallica are sweet puddings underneath all those leather vests and whisky sweats. Take their “Some Kind of Monster” documentary of last year. Instead of the boozing, blaspheming, groupie banging fest of nastiness you’d expect of a band with such delightful song titles as “Ain’t My Bitch”, “Die, Die My Darling” and “Am I Evil?”, you get four be-jumpered dads going through therapy because they can’t do anything without a row.

I love that metal-heads are generally lumbering social misfits who have side-stepped their lack of rhythm by inventing a whole new way of getting down to the groove by simply nodding their heads up and down.

I love that regardless of quality or quantity, if they’re under forty the hair is long, long, long. And that post forty it’s the mullet/goatee combo a’la Jon Bon Jovi/James Hetfield all the way.

I love that they wear rings that are large skull heads. I love that they wear leather jackets – even in August – and that under the jacket is a t-shirt with the arms ripped off so you can see all of the armpit hair and some of the torso. I love that they are able to fix my computer when it breaks and neither of us will mention the fact that he’s wearing black nail varnish on his little finger.

I love that metal isn’t just metal. You have death metal, doom metal, grind core and, my personal favourite, hair metal.

That the big guns get away with names like Megadeth, Mr Big and Dangerous Toys. That local metal heads make local metal bands and call them Embalmed Alive, Bird Flesh and Bathtub Shitter. And that these doting dads and studious students write songs about committing mass murder and drinking too much and eating someone’s heart for breakfast. That they don’t sing, they roar like angry lions. That they know four chords each but can play a twenty minute guitar solo that will blow your mind.

And I love that metal heads are like one big family who, when they see a fellow metaler they will exchange a cow horn of recognition. I mean, come on.

Metal heads are the most perfect example of the best type of music fan – they are loyal, they are committed and they are passionate. When was the last time you saw a 50 year old man cry when five other men, clad in too little ran onto a stage screaming that they were going to fuck your sister when she was dead?

Long live metal heads, may you reign in satanic glory forever.