Chapter One
Don't you just hate diets? Well maybe you don't. You're probably one of those people who never need to go on a diet. Generally I couldn't care less about dieting but now that I am on a diet it is a completely different matter. After tipping the scales at just over ten stone I've finally decided it's time for drastic action. The problem is I keep changing my mind about which diet to be on. I never realised there was such paraphernalia that went with dieting. You know the kind of thing, watching everything you eat, counting calories or counting points, measuring food in those colourful measuring pots and trying to get as much out of them as you can. Not to mention those embarrassing weekly weigh-ins. Then there is the awful food. Eating salads instead of proper food and making your own vegetable soup. Talking of soup, I did try the Cabbage Soup diet. It seemed so easy. Personally, the stink in my kitchen and the amount of time I spent in the loo put me off that one. Then, of course, there are the wonderful diets. Chef-made meals diet, homemade meals diet, and tiny portion diet, eat all you like diet, not to mention the low carb or high carb diet. Or you can go on the carbs on Tuesdays but not on Wednesday diet. I rather liked the sound of the 'Ducan' diet but I seemed to end up with the 'Ducant' diet.
Then there are the marvellous magazine articles with headings like, 'Eat Yourself Slim.' Oh yes, I like the sound of that. You can choose whether to diet online or offline, or you could just have a milkshake and forget about food altogether. It's all so confusing. And why do we do it? I don't know why you do it but I'm doing it to keep the man in my life because I am sure my boyfriend is seeing someone else, and the someone else is far skinnier than me. When, of course, I should be doing it for myself. But, starting a diet three weeks before Christmas is not only very bad timing but sheer stupidity. I'm Libby by the way and I like to think of myself as slightly curvy rather than fat, although some days I must admit to feeling huge. My best friend Issy is blessed with a metabolism that allows her to eat anything and I could gladly kill her. I only have to think marshmallow and I look like one. She, on the other hand, is one of those women who can polish off a plate of fish and chips with a bread roll on the side and still manage to lose a pound. However, it doesn't seem to improve her temperament.
'Sod off.'
It's Saturday night and three weeks before Christmas and Issy, somewhat inebriated, shares some Christmas spirit with the carol singers outside my cottage. I am mortified and tell her so. After all, you just don't tell the Salvation Army to sling their hook do you, especially when they are singing 'Onward Christian Soldiers.'
'That's my bloody point. If they are the Salvation Army then I'll eat my Christmas hat. And if they are going to sing outside your front door they should at least sing carols. Since when has Onward Christian Soldiers been a carol? Hark, I do believe they have now turned into Mariah Carey,' she says scathingly.
Embarrassed beyond belief, I attempt to inject some Christmas cheer by offering mulled wine and homemade mince pies. After all, one of us should show some Christmas spirit, especially to the Salvation Army. I open the door to be met by three youths and a ghetto blaster. They hungrily devour my offerings while I stand shivering. Honestly, it's Christmas, what happened to goodwill to all men? I love Christmas and the lovely warm cosy feeling you get at this time of the year. I also adore Christmas shopping and the crowds and I happen to love those garish houses that seem to be hopelessly devoured by Christmas lights and huge reindeers. Oh yes, Christmas isn't really Christmas without all that tacky stuff. And I like carol singers, real carol singers, that is. I am more than happy to give them my mince pies but fake carol singers are something else.
'Now you can sod off. I don't want to hear this rubbish. If you have to play rubbish at least play sodding traditional rubbish, then go and find your mince pies somewhere else.' Issy, queen of tact, shouts from the living room.
