Real Age Kicks

RealAge is a rather useful, albeit sobering website where you enter in countless details about your lifestyle, eating habits and attitudes and it tells you what age you really are.

I'm 37 and came out as 31, so I must be doing something right (unless I, erm, lied). My erstwhile personal trainer, on the other hand, came out as older than he actually is - and it emerges that this is because he has a very young child. Eiether that or he's a secret binge drinker, but I doubt it somehow; he has a slightly puritanical air about him which seems to suggest that he's a stranger to the day-long hangover.

More some other time about how and why I've gone off going to him. Anyway, prepare to be dazzled, and/or scared, by what is contributing to your premature ageing or your unnaturally youthful good looks!

I can't see clearly now the smoke has gone

There's a piece in Metro today about an 85-year-old man who fell and later died after leaving a pub to have a cigar. His son said that the new law in Scotland banning smoking in enclosed public spaces should be relaxed for the elderly and infirm. Fiddlesticks, I say. I'm sorry for his loss, but his father could have died on his way home from the pub or in any number of different circumstances. There should be no exceptions to the law. Okay, if some draconian law was brought in preventing people from, I don't know, drinking orange juice in enclosed public spaces, I might feel differently, but there can be no exceptions to a law that is designed to protect the health of others.

You might wonder what that has to do with weight loss. Okay, it was an excuse for a rant on a somewhat unrelated subject, but perhaps it reflects how evangelical ex-smokers can be. Or almost ex-smokers, although I smoke so rarely these days that I imagine in medical terms I would qualify as a non-smoker. Anyway, non-smoker, ex-smoker or part-time smoker, I feel something verging on joy that Scotland has passed such a common-sense law.

Breakfast like a queen

There's a saying that goes: "Breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dine like a pauper." Good advice, but sadly many of us don't have time to eat a great deal at breakfast, yet have oodles of time in the evening, exactly when one should be abstemious on the gorging-yourself-stupid front. I love breakfast though and, given the time, would happily eat a huge one (no double entendre intended). This blog entry is an excuse to describe in detail my perfect breakfast.

My perfect breakfast:

Champagne and a variety of freshly squeezed juices. Strong coffee with hot milk. American and English muffins (the latter toasted). President butter and strawberry conserve*. Stewed fruit with Greek yogurt and preserved ginger. Scrambled egg (strictly no milk) and chives. Crispy bacon, pancakes/French toast and maple syrup. Toasted cheese, ham and sunblush tomato ciabattas. Bacon, avocado and tomato baguettes.

And not a kipper in sight.

*Posh name for jam

Once you pop, you can't stop

A good diet always starts with a vow not to drink alcohol, although some (Fatfighter3, who has thus far been conspicuously absent from this blog, but who is still, I happen to know, successfully abstaining from alcohol and has been doing so since March 1 - Fatfighter3, correct me if I'm wrong!) are better at it than others.

Away on a business trip, I was forced to confront yet again the real reason why avoiding alcohol is essential to a diet - not, or not just, because of the loathsome quantities of sugar swilling in every glass (" it's just empty calories!"), but because with one drink - just one miserable glass of red wine - all my food-based rectitude and healthy abstinence go down the plug and I return to my hotel room, frantically scan the contents of the mini-bar for something healthy, and failing to find it, in quick succession wolf down a large packet of crinkle cut crisps and some ugly-beautiful chocolate-cum-Crunchie-cum-Malteser hybrid called, and I don't think I am making this up, Nobbles.

OK, so it was three, or four, glasses of red wine. But the principle is the same.

Note to hotels: why can't there be cereal or apples or porridge in the minibar?

Eau what a terrible title

A link to WaterAid, which has a handy calculator to tell you how much water you should be drinking for your body weight. I made a conservative estimate of six glasses a day. Oh no, it told me, you should be drinking 13- YES, 13, YOU APOLOGY FOR A HUMAN BEING - glasses. How am I supposed to do that? Does coffee count? How about the half lemon I've started having in the mornings? Apparently, gulping it down is almost as bad as not drinking it at all. I can't win.

I think my problem with drinking water dates back to primary 1, when Mrs Thorburn made me feel embarrassed for needing to go to the loo more frequently than my contemporaries. The reason was almost certainly tea, which my family drank at breakfast, lunch and on numerous occasions in between. My five-year-old system couldn't deal with a diuretic as well as someone older might. I now have a quite irrational fear of being trapped somewhere with a full bladder - for example in the middle of a row at the cinema - and being unable to escape. It only made matters worse when I was on a school trip to Orkney and endured the bus journey from Thurso to Inverness desperate for the loo and unable to think of much else, while my classmates slept peacefully around me. When it transpires that we need no more than one glass of water a day to be healthy no one will greet the news with more glee than me.

A simple slave of appetite

I still haven't weighed myself, but I do feel great for all the running. Just wish I could control the urge to stuff my face of an evening. Last night, though, all I ate was an avocado smothered in balsamic dressing and a pack of asparagus, moderately overcooked, swimming in garlicky butter. The kitchen was fragrant with the smell of fried garlic and I felt quite virtuous. However, Joe* came into the kitchen this morning, asked what the awful smell was and, being a bit of a drama queen, made a big show of holding his nose. Hmmph.

I read at the weekend that one's excess body fat is the result of an acid-forming diet and that in order to lose weight we should increase our intake of alkaline-forming foods. One simple way of alkalising your body is to drink the juice of half a lemon daily. As well as citrus fruit, other alkaline-forming foods are green leafy vegetables - no surprise there - sprouted grains and essential fats, especially omega 3. The same article suggested speeding up one's metabolism through exercise - no surprise there either - and by taking a kelp supplement, which contains iodine, essential to enable the hormone thyroxine to function. There's no shortage of kelp in Scotland, so I shall be down the beach on Saturday, stuffing my face.

*a Pea

On a losing streak

I'm currently in Australia, where everyone's gone mad for a programme called "The Biggest Loser" where people compete to lose the most weight in the full glare of TV lights. No indignity is spared the competitors and they are ruthlessly measured down to the last gram. The problem from my point of view is that it's as boring as hell. Maybe it's the people taking part, who seem to be a particularly humourless bunch, focused with unblinking narcissism on the goal of winning the competition. It's truly wretched entertainment.

One thing's for sure, I would rather eat my own head than appear on a programme like that. Imagine forever after being known as "that fat girl from the telly"!

Ill-fitting suit

My strategy suit doesn't seem to fit , so it's time I made some minor alterations. Two weeks ago, I outlined a seven point strategy . Points 1, 4, 5 and 7, on exercise, alcohol and sleep, are going swimmingly, but the others are proving difficult. The three areas I thought represented the greatest challenge - avoiding alcohol and white bread, and getting enough sleep - have turned out to be relatively easy. So my new challenges are:

1. Avoiding sugary food
2. Drinking 1.5 litres water/day
3. Avoiding carbs after 5

Morbid fascination

I saw a truly dispiriting, yet at the same time (somewhat) uplifting documentary last night about morbid obesity. It featured an American man who was a compulsive eater and who had got so hugely fat that all he could do was lie on a bed with his fat covering him like a big pink blanket. He went into hospital, went on a diet, had his stomach stapled and subsequently lost half his weight - down to a svelte 45 stone. That was the (somewhat) uplifting part.

It was narrated by a woman speaking in that cool English way which says so much without overstating anything: "Do you eat a lot?" she purred innocently, as the camera panned across a kitchen wasteland of empty supersize pizza boxes, industrial sized packets of crisps, upturned soda cans and half-eaten cakes. ("I have a normal diet", he replied.)

Twitter ye not

Out running in the woods once with my dad and sister, and surrounded by tweeting, chirruping, twittering and cheeping, my dad cocked his ear towards one particularly distinct "peep, peep, peep" noise. "That's a...that's a...hmm, I'm sure I know that one..." he said, as he struggled to remember the species of bird. The mystery feathered vertebrate was in fact my Timex 14:40 sports watch, set to bleep every minute. It can be hard to pick out its insistent peeping amid the cacophony of the woods and hedgerows. It's a hard taskmaster, my watch. Just as I've settled happily into the walk part of my run, off it goes, peeping away, reminding me that I'm not just there for a jolly jaunt in the countryside. A personal trainer at a fraction of the price.

It's all scone wrong

I'd like to think the competition for a blog entry title to rival "Picnic at Overhanging Flab" is hotting up, but judging by my latest effort (above), sadly it isn't.

This afternoon, for the first time since the regime began, not counting the odd tablespoonful of peanut butter (crunchy), which after all is good for you, and the slice of office birthday cake I was forced to eat last week, and the half bottle of champagne on Sunday after the races, and the canapes at a client event, and... er.... anyway for the first time since March 1 I gave in to what can only be described as a primeval urge and went downstairs for a large, hot fruit scone with butter and jam.

Oh, the shame.

What I really want to know is: where is Fatfighter3 in all of this?

I want a strategy suit with a jelly pocket, please

Title in honour of Ivor Cutler, who died a few days ago.

I don't think my strategy suit should have a jelly pocket: I want one with a sausage pocket, please. Especially now I am banned from eating them.

Picnic at overhanging flab

I still haven't got round to weighing myself. I know that my weight matters less than how I feel about myself, but I did set out to lose weight and lose weight I shall.

Overall, my body is in quite good shape, but there's still a lot of post-pregnancy fat - nearly four years on - hanging around my mid-section. In fact, it's in such contrast to the rest of my body that one of the canteen staff at work asked me when the baby was due. It does worry me that even if I tone up that area I'll still be left with a sort of overhang above my section scar that only surgery will fix. How vain, you might well think, but I am quite self-conscious about it and it's not the sort of thing you can hide by breathing in. It has occurred to me that they could have done a quick nip and tuck when they took my twins out.

Maybe one day, perhaps when I'm in my sixties, I'll have the money for an op. Until then, it's the best panty girdles my local haberdasher has to offer.

Bread and circuses

We have a tradition at work that if it's your birthday you bring in cakes, biscuits, chocolates, crisps and so on for everyone else. Although it's slightly perverse that way round, the tradition is so long established that it would be hard to change.

The problem is trying to resist said goodies when one is trying to lose weight. I've done badly today. On offer were M&S flapjacks, which bear more resemblance to toffee than to the healthsome chunks of oats our mum used to make for special occasions. Suffice to say, the M&S variety are delicious. And irresistible.

I suppose I'm consoling myself, and at the same time rationalising my greed, by thinking of how many calories I must be burning off or reducing by running and by not drinking during the week. However, I don't think I'm going to be weighing myself tonight, despite the fact that I'm one week into my weight-loss programme. I think I may just faint from the shock.

On the subject of bread, and wheat products generally, cutting down on those has made me feel a whole lot better and less bloated. I have yet to resort to wholewheat pasta, which, although anathema to many people, is really not too awful. Especially when teamed with lots of cheese. Yes, I did say cheese.

Nutbush City Limits

I've previously found it quite useful to have a bag of nuts and raisins on my desk so I can snack on them during the day - and at the moments when what I really feel like is a big, fat fruit scone with butter and jam. However I scarf the nuts down in such huge quantities that I wonder whether it's not doing me more harm than good - I still feel hungry, just nut quite satisfied (sorry).

My other tactic at the moment is to fill a litre bottle with water from the cooler and try to drink it during the day. Sadly the main effect is to bring home to me how little I'm actually drinking - there seems to be a half full bottle sitting on my desk at all times.

The other questions that's vexing me is Days Off. I read somewhere that you should give your body a rest from exercise at least one day a week. I really have no idea whether or not this is true; all I know is that it can turn in to an excuse to take every other day off, as I know only too well.

Redivivus interruptus

A health scare on Sunday morning put a halt to my programme for a couple of days. Without going into too much gory detail, I bled from - according to the doctor - a blood vessel in my upper respiratory tract. Like a nose bleed but through the mouth. Needless to say, I thought I was dying, and began to think about how to say goodbye to my children*. All, or most, of my strategy went out the window until I'd been reassured on Monday afternoon that it wasn't lung cancer.

Then my run this morning was almost cut short after a minute by a potentially nasty fall on black ice. Not to be put off, and desperate to road test my new running shoes, I took a different route. It was - and always is - worth it. The only other blip in an otherwise perfect day was reaching Tranent before I realised I had the Peas in the back of the car and should have been going to Ormiston. I wish I could remember what I was thinking about at the time, but I can guarantee it had something to do with food.

*the Peas

The treadmills of your mind

When at the gym it's best not to think too deeply about the possible inanity and/or futility of what you are doing, and the fact that you are doing it repeatedly, but instead to try to focus on the noble aim and/or dream which motivated you to go there in the first place.

I had an uncomfortable moment once when I was watching "Oz", a prison drama which, while otherwise excellent, has the slightly irritating conceit of having one of the characters narrate direct to camera the Big Life Events (this being a US drama) that occurred in the series. I was running on a treadmill, and the character began running on a treadmill, while talking about how we are all going nowhere on our own treadmill, as I ran along going, er, nowhere on a treadmill.

Quick! Switch over to BBC World before it all becomes too existential!

Gym'll fix it

I've been debating whether to join a gym. Running - about which it appears I could bore for Britain - is free, outdoors and almost spiritual. A gym, on the other hand, costs a small fortune, is indoors in artificially lit rooms full of stale sweaty air and is more a case of man and machine than man - or woman - in tune with nature. I used to despise people who drove everywhere but had to go - by car, naturally - to the gym to get fit. I wanted to shout: "Get a bicycle! Cycle everywhere and save not only money but the environment!"

I'm not saying that I feel all that differently now, but there is something alluring about the idea of "working out". I had a week's free pass to a gym in January, and although it was nowhere near as cool as my sister's gym in Hong Kong, where you can choose from a library of DVDs to watch while you work out, I felt like I was part of some sort of exclusive club. It's hard to put my finger on it, but it made me feel like I'd joined another sector of society: successful professionals who care about their health. There's more to it than that-perhaps it's that gyms are full of people whose parents weren't poor artists. It's about conventionality, and there's something attractive about the idea of conforming.

As for joining the gym, I'll wait until they send me an offer I can't refuse.

What I should probably never eat again:

Mmmmmmm.... where's the tomato sauce?

Fidget Jones's Diary

It's funny how a lot of these feelings about your own body are totally subjective. I had a long day with lots of exercise packed in to it today, and someone said to me "You look great. Your body shape has changed". So it made me feel a bit better about being heavier. The evidence is there that I've put on weight - my clothes are tighter - but people think I look great. How does that work?

I am quite determined to keep on with this. I've done it before and I can do it again. But I must confess I do have moments when I picture my life stretching ahead of me, knowing that I'll never be able to slack off. Sometimes I understand these people who just give up, slob out, let go. It's so much easier than all this discipline and watchfulness. Oh, but I loathe them too - and I think my attitude to fat people (surely, and sadly, the last socially acceptable prejudice) stems from this: it's just not fair that some people get to stop caring what they look like!