On New Year's Day, I sat in Pizza Express with Tom, Betty and Dolly finishing my final mouthful of pizza and announced to Tom that I was going to get back to a size 10 in 2011 (an ambitious statement). I wanted to go straight to the shops and buy an exercise bike after we'd eaten . As I ate my way through an enormous portion of Tiramasu, I felt guilt-free, knowing that my diet was going to start just as soon as we left the restaurant, and that the blood-type diet (recommended by my very skinny sister) and an exercise bike were going to solve all my weight problems.
So with the bike assembled and proudly in-situ, I sat and stared at it in wonder and awe: 'Wow my very own excercise bike, why didn't I ever think of getting one before?' I then got to work and began to research on the Internet exactly what this blood type diet was all about. At first I was horrified to discover that being Blood Group O, foods such as bread, cereal, dairy, eggs, citrus fruits, and bacon, were all forbidden. Having worked out that I could eat mackerel and kale for lunch and supper every day, I was genuinely baffled about what I could possibly eat for breakfast, other than wine and chocolate, both of which are allowed in this diet. I discovered that a slice of bread is around 100 calories and an After Eight chocolate is only 35, which meant I could eat three of them for my breakfast, instead of my usual toast, which was now forbidden anyway.
Satisfied with what I could and could not eat, I stepped onto the bike, which I cunningly placed in front of a window, and began pedalling. As I sweated and puffed my way through 4 miles, while gazing out of the window and imagining myself gleefully cycling through fields and woods, I became a little bit obsessed with the calorie counter. I worked out that having burnt off 200 calories I could legitimately go and eat a further two breakfasts (aka six After Eights), and so I did just that.
At the same time as buying the bike I also bought an Abs Roller. I thought that for someone like me, who cannot normally do even one sit-up, this artificial aid would be the answer. Betty's frustration at seeing me lying on this contraption, huffing and puffing and failing to lift myself off the floor by even one inch was very obvious, and she marched over to me, pulled me up with the bar that goes across, really aggressively and fast, and when I was obviously completely done in and out of breath she said 'Come on Mummy five more then we'll stop'. My stomach, neck and back are now in agony.
And speaking of Betty giving me a complex, the yoga dvd that I was given for Christmas is a big hit with her. She insists on putting it on every evening before bed, and effortlessly and bendily carries out all the routines, while I sit on the sofa with a glass of wine, visualising a size 10 me, and watch her.
