I must admit that I wasn't expecting to write a 'diet' progress report quite so soon, but after what has been two full days of eating sensibly, doing more exercise and sucking my belly in whilst in polite company, words of this kind are now spilling out of my fingers.
I don't actually like the term 'diet' very much. To me it implies either cutting certain foods out, introducing new ones (like very expensive Chinese seaweed that's been licked by turtles), and generally meticulous watching of calorie intake. I'm not doing any of that.
'Eat a bit less, do a bit more' (or 'EABLDABM') is my philosophy. I shall continue to enjoy cake, faggots, beer and ice cream - liquidised and topped with caramel sauce and nuts - just as I did before, but 'less of it, less often' (LOILO). And of course I shall combine this with more exercise: lots of 'walks and nightly kinetic stretches' (WANKS).
Wow, with all this funky terminology I've just invented, I could probably actually create my own weight loss society. Or a cult where I'm worshipped! The 'cult utilising nutritious temperance' (CUN...oh).
I am tempted to take before and after photographs of myself, just in case I do need to produce some promotional literature to encourage membership. Rather than waste money on two separate photo shoots months apart, I can get all of this done in one go. All I will need is a giant pair of trousers (held out in front of me whilst I look ecstatic) to pose in for my 'after' shots. In fact, wearing giant trousers (or a corset) may be a short cut to looking slimmer any way. Maybe my cult will have an oversized uniform. Join up and even on day one, you'll be feeling a lot slimmer as your baggy jeans keep falling down and tripping you up.
When I do reduce my portly girth a little, it'll be like getting a whole new wardrobe. Well, a wardrobe of tired old shirts that finally fit me again, but still more choice than I currently have.
One of the advantages of having Crohn's disease was, under normally circumstances, a constant slimness regardless of what I ate. This meant that I always bought nicely fitted shirts that were described as 'tailored' or 'slim fit'. I couldn't wear these now for fear it would actually cause damage to the litter of Battenbergs gestating in my belly.
If I ever manage to fit into those again, it will be a tangible sign that my EABLDABM programme is working (or that my illness has flared up and once again I'm wasting away).
Yesterday I enjoyed a lovely picnic in the grounds of Salisbury Cathedral with the delightful company of my two best pals, Jessington Cupcake and Keira Husky. This was quite a challenge as we'd travelled via my favourite local bakery that stocks all manner of tempting treats, but I managed to restrain myself and buy just a sensible lunch that a normal person would enjoy (unlike my two companions who bought every last pasty they had).
It proved to me that I could have a brilliant, fun lunch with my pals and not completely gorge myself. There were also signs that [insert deity or higher power of your choice] was helping me in my endeavour to get trim in three different ways.
Firstly, despite it being a most beautifully warm, sunny day at a busy tourist destination, the ice cream kiosk was shut. I deliberately hadn't bought a cake from the bakery so as to allow myself a nice ice cream for pudding. Obviously, given the surroundings, I had a stern word with the Christian God upon learning of this, wondering why he had been so cruel. A thunderous voice replied, "BECAUSE YOU ARE A FATSO".
Well, I couldn't argue with that. But I did then question Him about why the grass was still so damp. He said He'd get back to me on that one and mumbled something about being too fat to understand.
The second thing that reduced my waistline was the emergence of a random bagpipe player (complete with kilt and funny hat - not sure about pants). Whilst enjoying the tranquil surroundings, chatting to my girlfriends about knitting and 50 Shades of Grey, suddenly our peace was shattered by the lusty lungfuls of air being passed through this dead sheep (or however bagpipes actually work). The anger I felt about this, together with the gesticulations I directed towards the performer, surely helped burn off a few extra calories.
The final bit of assistance I got to aid my weight loss was being held up in a shop, only to have to then run to catch my bus home. Yes, of course I could have walked home, thus ensuring even more energy being used up, but it's hard to tackle greediness and laziness at the same time.
Running is something that I only normally do when being chased by monsters, or if there's a limited supply of free cake somewhere. Since neither of those happen very often, it's not an action that comes naturally to me. I have to really concentrate of putting one foot in front of the other in quick enough succession to propel me forward and not end up going round in a circle or falling over.
The sight of me wobbling through the city centre at speed must have been extremely alarming for Salisbury's Friday afternoon shoppers. I imagine the CCTV operators might have thought for a moment that a small hippo had escaped from the zoo, popped on some clothes and a rucksack and was now trundling menacingly towards a stationary bus.
The worst things about running for a bus are:
a) being too out of breath to ask for my fare
b) having a very crippled old lady offer me her seat
c) waiting for a good three minutes for it to finally depart - during which time, there's the slow dawning realisation that I didn't need to run anyway
But hey, it must have shaved at least a millimetre off my belly (and probably an inch off the length of my pavement-pounded legs).
As I finish writing this post, it's quite ironic that I've just been to answer the door to the postman who has delivered me a pot of jam from a friendly jam company on Twitter. It's with great self control then, that I'm saving it to try later and resisting firing up the toaster immediately. Maybe I could just dip a finger in though...
*heads off to kitchen for a table spoon*
*feels proud that it's not to the shed for a shovel*
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