Now I know it is uncharacteristically sunny for the UK at the moment so I will forgive you if you cant be bothered reading this or you are too distracted by the stench of human sweat on public transport that you will tell me you read it but haven’t. It’s fine. It’s very hot.
I know you probably don’t care but I am now a fully committed member of Weight Watchers.
The group leader is a lovely lady called Pam who I’m sure thinks I have a drinking problem because the only points I ever ask her about are related to alcohol. Pam is lovely and super enthusiastic which helps when you are standing in front of 40 women who haven’t eaten all day. She is practically risking her life. It’s like in cartoons when one character is talking and the other one just sees meat…
Still, whilst we were sat there clapping “Jean” for only putting on 3lbs whilst she went on holiday to the Lake District for two days, one woman got a certificate for losing a whopping 50lbs!! Five Zero. You could tell the difference in the sincerity of the clap for that lady as opposed to “Barbara” who made the dramatic decision (actual quote) not to eat anything after lunch until 3 o’clock.
Blimey Barb – that’s nearly 90 minutes without a cake – well bloody done love!
After this revelation and about 20 minutes of chip-chat, and by that I do mean chatting about chips, we were released back into society like a pack of wild dogs. I swear – the only thing bigger than the queue for the loo before Weight Watchers is the queue at the kebab shop afterwards!
I had made the ridiculous decision to go to the gym before weigh-in to counteract the 5, yes 5, lamb chops and 4, yes 4, glasses of wine I had had the night before. All this meant that I had to wait until the end before I could finally eat something. Whilst we were discussing that eating in bed is a bad thing (breaking news!), my sister was sat with my parents having a wine and waiting not so patiently for me to get home before going for a curry. To give you an idea of the kind of relationship I have with my sister here is the text message she sent me whilst I was dreaming about poppadoms and Sharon was talking about kale:
I know it sounds like I am taking the mickey out of WW but I actually not so secretly love it. It takes a special kind of person to get weighed in public and even more to open up and share their secret eating habits with a group of carb-craving strangers. Kudos to Barb – you go girl!
Diet chat done, other things that happened this week included going to Chester Races for my lovely friend Helen’s hen-do. I learnt two things about myself at the races:
- I can now only last 0.065 second in high heels before putting my comfortable flats on like an old lady
- I am the world’s worst gambler
I tried in high heels, I really did. The problem with the races is that it involves a lot of drinking which I am good at, and a lot of standing in heels, which I am not so good at. I would love to be one of those people like my friend Jade, who can wear ridiculously high shoes and walk around like there’s no issue. I struggle in a pair of flats at the best of times as shown in Blackpool. The problem is at the races you want to look your best and heels really are the only way forwards. In my head I looked like this:
But I inevitably end up like this:
Gambling is something I am not very good at either. I think I’m too emotional about it. Every time I buy a lottery ticket in my head I am Charlie from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and this is the golden ticket that will change my life. I even come up with my winning headline:
“Girl pops in for Emergency Mars Bar, Comes Out Millionaire!”
“Tan In A Can Shortage leads to Lotto Success”
I hand over the money with a knowing look to the cashier like we will be forever united by my impending cash windfall. I then go home, don’t win the lottery, and spend the rest of the night rethinking my plans for a super- yacht in the Caribbean.
I am so bad at gambling that when my dad said it would be perfect if I could put £1 each way on a horse I was happy as I had already put £3 on anyway. That’s £2 more each way than I had been asked to do!
I later found out that he wasn’t being complimentary – the horse he had wanted me to bet on was called Be Perfect and not only that but it won 7-1. Oops – sorry dad.
We had a brilliant day and night at the races – what was quite civilized descended into open chaos when we got to the dance-floor. I was so confident in my flat shoes that I thought I was Beyonce and according to my friend Jen, was waggling my bum around “like it was independent from my body”.
I managed to show my ice skating video about 452 times to Helen’s school friends who I had never met before. Classy Soph.
I even bumped into an ex Man U player who I didn’t recognise who then told me about the famous girl he used to date and the fact he had 2 Range Rovers. He then asked me if I was going to tell my parents I had met him to which I replied No, but I am the British Adult ice-Skating Champion and he probably should tell his parents he met me!
I felt bad about it until I remembered the next day that he was talking about his friend who had something to do with ice-hockey and he said “I mean I’m rich, but he is really rich!”
We’ll see who is laughing when I win the EuroMillions tonight and pay my new Weight Watchers friends to pelt both of his Range Rovers with Jaffa Cakes (only one point each)!