About 2 months ago I had one of those moments where you realise your own mortality, I really hate it when that happens. This tends to result in me attempting to give up beer, cigarettes and making sure I take out my earphones and look both ways before crossing the road. It usually only lasts a few days before the Drinking Buddy rings me for a ‘quiet pint’ which more often than not ends in us standing outside the minicab place at 5am singing songs from Phantom of the Opera.
Three weeks ago, however, was not so much a realisation of my own mortality, but a realisation of how I look in a bikini. Now I am, or at least I used to be, one of the depressing people who can eat whatever they want and not gain weight. There are pictures from when I was on holiday in August in which I look quite good, not page 3 model but good all the same. How is it so much can go wrong in 4 months?
Three weeks ago I saw a picture of me, same bikini but in December. By belly appeared to have grown about as far as my arse had dropped and I panicked. Big time. I rang the Fella in floods of incomprehensible tears and once he had deciphered what I was saying he attempted to convince me that I was absolutely gorgeous but we both concluded that being a little healthier couldn’t hurt. So I cut out all take away food and vowed never to get the bus to the tube station ever again.
To congratulate myself for my dedication to my own personal health (nearly) everyday for the past three weeks I am going to reward myself with, yes you guessed it, a McDonalds for lunch.
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