Please accept my sincerest apollos for the lack of post last week. To the 7 people that asked me where my blog was – I am very sorry. To make it up to you here is a name check:
Carly Harwick, Sarah Jones, Vic Higgins, Francesca Powell, Ayse Ince, Lauren Tully and Claire White – you are all ace! The rest of you, I can only assume your handwritten letters of support are in the post…
I promise you I did try to write but unfortunately everything that I came up with was complete and utter plop, to use the technical term. At one point I was even giving marriage advice. I know – me, writing about marriage. That’s like asking Jodie Marsh for advice about modesty!
This blog is the closest thing I will have to a child for the next
five ten years (sorry mum) and I am weirdly protective of it. Not that it needs protection from you, Dear Reader, you are lovely. I like what you have done to your hair by the way – looking good!
No, I feel the need to protect it from myself. I am a huge believer that children should not be blamed for the acts of their parents. Think Paris Jackson, Jayden Spears, and Suri Cruise. Sure, their parents are as crazy as a sack full of ferrets, but it shouldn’t automatically mean they can’t be trusted with scissors.
In the same way, just because I had a collapse of creativity doesn’t mean my lovely little SSW has to bear the brunt of it.
Back in my first ever post I warned you not to expect a blog every week, however, I got a little bit overexcited and somehow I ended up posting every Friday. Most of the time it is joyous – words just seem to flow magically from my fingertips. I am Matilda without the need for social services, Harry minus the unsightly forehead scab. I loved it and it loved me.
Then, last week. Nothing.
It isn’t like I didn’t have anything to write about either. My parents celebrated 35 years of wedded bliss for crying out loud! Nevertheless, it was Friday and my page was blank.
Then it hit me. The source of all my powers:
I hadn’t had one in a while on account of my new diet. Maybe the hangover to me is like Chandler’s “nubbin” in Friends. Maybe removing alcohol from my life has actually made me less creative!
Oh, dear god, what have I done?!
Yes you did read correctly – I have finally succumbed to the popular belief that eating large amounts of carbohydrates and moving about at a glacial pace is probably not good for my health.
In real terms – if your watch starts to get too tight, go to the gym. If you have nowhere else to put weight on to the extent it is starting to go to your wrists – something needs to change.
Instead of sensibly reducing my carb intake, drinking more water and gradually increasing my exercise routine. I have gone Full Throttle Fad Diet. Raspberry keytones literally melt your fat away you say? Great I’ll take 1000! The woman in Holland and Barratt could hardly contain her joy as I approached the counter with more pills and potions than Pete Doherty at Glastonbury. I could practically feel her working out how much quinoah she could buy with her commission.
I have been to the gym, I have cut out carbs and alcohol, and have started a Tea-Tox.
I hate myself.
The Tea-Tox basically involves drinking herbal tea every morning and night. The tea bags contain a weird and wonderful concoction of herbs designed to suck the fat right out of my system. In all honesty, they could be filled with tree bark and foot scrapings for all I know.
This new direction has meant that I have not had an alcoholic beverage in some time. Yes my head feels clearer, yes I am much more productive and yes, I am a lot less fun.
No wonder I couldn’t write anything. I spent most of my time at the end of last week thinking about how hungry I was and how I would sell my soul to have a body like Nicole Scherzinger.
On a side note – there is no way that woman enjoys eating Müller yoghurts that much! I mean, I like a chocolate covered ball as much as the next girl, but you don’t see me writhing around in ecstasy about it. Doesn’t really say much for Lewis Hamilton’s prowess if she gets that excited by a pot of fermented milk. Get a grip Nicole!
So far the only change I can see from my new healthier lifestyle is that I have the skin of a meth addict, I smell like oregano and I have developed the superhuman ability to spot a toilet from 500 yards away. Not ideal, but then it is only day 8 of a possible 14. I remain naïvely optimistic that after 14 days I will emerge the other side a physical shadow of my former self, yet with glossier hair and the ability to walk past a Greggs without foaming at the mouth.
Plan B is to buy some incredibly large jeans and hold them next to myself like the Subway diet guy:
Minor disruption on the quest to find the New Me is that my fabulous friend Jenny is getting married on Saturday!
Who knows – I could meet the man of my dreams over the buffet?
Actually, that is scientifically impossible; a buffet is the WORST place to meet someone. Even if I made eye contact with the most handsome man in the world, my eyes would be saying “oh that’s lovely” but my head would be saying “alright, keep it moving, don’t take all the prawns, you selfish b****rd”.
If the hen-do is anything to go by, it is bound to be an amazing day. Just do me a favour: if anyone asks who the girl is hovering by the loos, looking like she wants to score crack and smelling like pizza, please pretend you don’t know me.
Unless it’s the prawn guy wanting to apologise.
Speak soon (I mean it this time)
p.s. Huge congratulations to Sandi and John, I love you both loads. 35 years of marriage, 2 children and 1 questionable man-bag later they are still each other’s best friend. Let’s hope that the next year is forever known as your 36th year of wedded bliss and not “The Year Sophie Moved Back In And Ruined Everything”.
Well done Mr and Mrs Fox xxx*
*This was the only paragraph worth salvaging from last week’s disaster – I promise I will be better next time!