After all my complaining about my diet not working, and though the scales still tell me, stubbornly, that I’ve only shifted probably 2 pounds in the last two months, I am somehow getting trimmer. Not thinner, you understand, but trimmer.
I know this because when I bought this oxblood miniskirt from Zara about three weeks ago I had to really breeeaaathhe in and think about sticks and knitting needles and Rizlas in order to get it on. And when it was on it was quite uncomfortable. Now I can get it on, get the zip all the way up and I’m not hopping from foot to foot all day long, desperate to take it off. I mean, it comes off and the cosies go on as soon as the kids are in the bath, but until then I can stand it.
But it has come at a price, my friends. No booze. No bagels. No patisserie (WEEEEPS LONG TEARS). Yesterday I took the kids to my mum’s house and she was making Welsh Cakes and they sat all hot and creamy and delicious, on the side and the kids all fucking stuffed themselves with them, all slathered in butter. At one point Sam had one in his mouth and one in each hand. You don’t understand… they are the taste of my childhood; Welsh Cakes for me are not just food – they are sunlight, they are life, they are my mother’s love. And I didn’t eat one.
Dinner is mostly vegetables. Sometimes fish and vegetables if I’m lucky. We had braised cabbage the other night. That’s it. Just braised bloody cabbage. Tonight we might have chickpeas!!!!!!!
I’m not even allowed rice cakes. But I DO have Ryvita. I went to Bill Granger’s place in King’s Cross the other morning – (I do so love an urban regeneration project) – and I did not have the ricotta hotcakes, I did not have the corn fritters with bacon – I had the vegan granola with coconut yoghurt.
But, you know, when you’re on a bit of a miserable diet because you don’t want to be flabby round your middle, you can get used to the diet as long as it’s working. When you see results, suddenly you don’t feel like such a pathetic fool. You feel like you’ve got goals and you’re reaching goals and it’s all about all these bloody goals. Hard work is alright if you get rewarded for it. And after 35, there are no quick fixes.
Like Madonna said: “There are no shortcuts to being Madonna.” Bet she’s got goals, even at 150 or whatever she is. So Amen to that.