As I troughed down the last of the roast potatoes, polished off the remnants of pudding, and then sank an entire packet of Jelly Belly’s, I vowed, not just to myself, but also to the fine assembled company round me that,that by August 22nd 2014 I would look like a stick insect. Everyone chuckled, they know me and my appetite well. ‘Why August 22nd?’ ‘Because it’s the date for my eldest daughter’s wedding and I had no desire to be the fattest person in the wedding photographs – simple as that.’ My dear friend Mo (a thinnifer in comparison) suggested that if I really was going to try and morph myself in to a stick insect or something resembling something close to one, then it was necessary for a reality weigh-in. It was Christmas Day, we had just eaten an enormous lunch and now it was time for everyone’s favourite after dinner game ‘Guess the weight of the pig’. ‘No ifs or buts, Lottie’ Mo said hurriedly shooing me upstairs and in to her bathroom. There in the corner sat a set of electric scales, the sort that don’t lie and which you can’t jiggle around on one foot on. I held my hands over my face and then slowly, very slowly, parted my fingers before looking down – ‘*&^%$£%???!!!!!!!!!’ Fleeing as fast as my fat legs could carry me, I fled from the bathroom, down the stairs and straight in to the loving arms of the chocolate box and a large glass of Bailey’s.
Like billions of other hopeful Fatty-Puffs across the globe, January heralded the start of a shiny new diet regime. Instead of sticking to what I know works best for me, I decided to give Paleo a try. I watched countless Youtube videos about the Paleo diet, the cooking techniques, and various dashing, fit young men doing amazing things with courgettes; I was smitten. But the novelty of slicing courgettes in to ribbons and then pretending that it’s spaghetti wore thin. And when I say thin, please don’t for one second mistake that for weight-loss.
For three months I religiously stuck to the Caveman diet. I ate nuts, seeds, fruit, fish, vegetables and meat. I ditched dairy, anything with carbs and tried to limit my alcohol intake. It worked for a bit. I lost some weight, maybe even a couple of chins. But then I got bored. ‘Lottieness, you lack restraint’ I wanted to slap Irishman when he said it, but it’s true, I do lack restraint. BIG TIME. I need a restraining order not a diet.
With Leonora’s wedding just days away (three to be precise) I’ve left it a little late to be thinking about what to wear. According to various wedding websites, I should have given all my waking hours in the past months to thinking/planning my outfit for this special day (in fact I think Irishman may have to eat his words, I have shown GREAT restraint in the buying department), Mother of The Bride or MOB is proving to be quite a scary role. Amongst the 101 do’s and don’ts for MOB’s, the rule of thumb is that you are meant to look fabulous but not so fabulous that you steal the show from your daughter (no worries there), Choose your outfit colour so that you don’t clash with the bridesmaids, and wedding etiquette dictates that it’s polite to ask the MOG what she is wearing so that you don’t turn up in identical outfits. I doubt very much that Leonora’s soon to be MIL will be turning up in a psychedelic onesie with a bright pink rubber penis strapped to her head in lieu of a fascinator. But you never know.