I was absolutely determined that today would be an absolute binge fest of chocolate, chocolate and more chocolate. How depressing then that after just one egg I feel utterly sick and can't tolerate a second. This is a sure sign that I am getting old and becoming ridiculously moderate. In some things anyway. I should have realised this fact when on Friday, at Alton Towers, I backed out of riding the Oblivion. I have never ever refused a thrill seeking ride before but something whispered to me that my death drop days were over, and instead I stood and minded the bags. I guess that's when you know fun is a thing of the past.
Surprisingly our day out was less eventful than I had anticipated. Absolutely exhausting (walking non-stop for nine hours) and bone chillingly damp but as bad experiences go, not one of my worst - assisted by the fact that Alton Towers are very understanding about breakages. The idea to have a sleep over the night before must have been inspired as it rendered the partygoers pretty much knackered the next morning and therefore very subdued. Apart from Danny that is, who I'm sure will struggle to remain still in his own coffin - the boy is like a whippet on speed. And so my little merry band of misfits did pretty good despite themselves.
As far as I am aware there wasn't a single fall out between them. Which I can absolutely guarantee will not be the case when Charlotte has her sleep over in a couple of weeks. That I truly am dreading. Four little girls + junk food + no sleep = Uber Brats. Do you think it would be wrong of me to lace their pop with Fennigan and Night Nurse?? Why is it that I feel the need to lay on such activities? In my day (apart from the job down't mines and sharing a bed with eighteen others) birthday parties were simple affairs with jelly, icecream, pass the parcel a spot of musical chairs and then hometime. Two hours tops. Why then am I allowing my children to have these protracted events which consume half of my week? Probably because I am trying to overcompensate for the lack of time I spend with them and the cereal dinners they have five nights out of seven.
Anyway I really wanted to report to you on my efforts to date with regard to the body weight. As at yesterday I had lost a total of 17lbs, which isn't the target I had set for myself (remember I said I wanted to be 11 stone 7 by 31st March?) but I am happy with it nevertheless. My clothes are all fitting much better and I'm beginning to feel more human, less blamange. Yesterday I was prancing around the bedroom naked in an endeavour to get Chris to notice the changes. He did actually say something, along the lines of "yeah I can really tell you're getting thinner" which was nice until he followed it up with "but you have got to do something about the backs of your legs". I think he was referring to the off road terrain look of my cellulite, which I admit is hideous, but a bit of a dumb statement from a man who is desperate for conjugal rights.
If he thinks my legs are lumpy, veiny and unattractive he should perhaps take a look down at himself sometime. And I don't mean his feet either.
Spot of sobriety, for those who dislike features of themselves. I was at school with a lovely girl named Maggie. Natural platignum blonde, figure like Barbie, perfect legs, very modest, blushed crimson when flattered. Maggie got bone cancer in her leg aged 21 and it was amputated. She died aged 22 and her childhood sweetheart husband, Graham, was gutted. Tramped the world for 12 years before he could settle again. Maggies death cured me of any real hang-ups over looks I had. My legs not perfect, but they function. Simples.
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