What’s the bet that Pippa Middleton didn’t look like me after Christmas? Cow. She of the perpetual pert bottom and women like her. I bet they spent all of the holiday season hungry, eating only spouts, drinking only water and revelling in the fact that they won’t wake up on New Year’s Day with an extra belly, diggy-in knickers and their tiddies keeping their shoes clean.
Well, I’m not like her. Today, with a nasty dose of bronchitis and my jeans button undone, I’m more like the supply teacher in South Park. I went to the sales by accident on the 2nd January and tried on three pairs of trousers in the size I should be. It was like trying to shove a king-sized duvet made of lard into a pillow case. I wasn’t about to be humiliated by some bloody trousers, now, was I? Chances were, those trousers were only on the clearance rack because they had been mis-sized anyway. They were badly sewn. THAT was the reason I couldn’t get them over my hips. Nothing to do with the chocolate and wine and crisps and cake and pudding and meat...oh, the extra meat! (I swear it took me about three weeks to go for a number two after all that animal protein.)
So I made a pact with myself to fight the flab an ounce at a time. I ate soup for lunch for THREE WHOLE DAYS. I went to the gym religiously for THREE WHOLE DAYS. Now we’ve reached 20th January 2012 and already I have lost ZERO pounds. My arteries are no more than cylindrical kebabs. Wanna know my diet secret? No. I didn’t think you did.
There is no point to this blog post other than I have started 2012 overweight and wheezing like Michael Hutchence in a tangerine/stocking-themed auto-love tryst: but without the fun or glamour. I hate January. I hate diets. And I hate diggy-in knickers. Happy New Year.
