Do or Diet

It's D-Day. Time to jump - well, belly flop - on that dieting bandwagon again.

It's more depressing than a fun sized Mars Bar.

I've had to work really hard at not being fat for 25 years.

I'm short, so every wobble shows. Plus, I love eating and I hate exercise.

Despite the silver stomach lining that Norovirus weight loss brings, the pounds have crept back on after too much slobbing in front of the TV.

"Let the pig see the trough."

Diet whore

Which celeb endorsed regime will I try?

The one that Scary Spice pushes? Maybe I can wear that leopard print catsuit after all in the name of girl power.

Or a leotard like Rosemary Conley or Madonna. I could confuse people with an ageing face, yet a youthful bod - like a female Skeletor, or Gillian McKeith.

What do you mean you don't know the grapevine Gillian?

Perhaps I can try a food replacement diet and survive on a calorie controlled combo of shakes, bars and soups. It worked for Pauline Quirke. What she gained in years she lost in weight.

Meal replacements are as tasty and satisfying as fly paper. They cost an arm and a leg - and the hand that you will end up gnawing because you are starving.

Over they years I've tried them all. No carbs. Calorie counting. The toast diet , blood group diet. Cambridge, South Beach, North Birmingham.

I may have lost weight temporarily, but the side effects were rancid. Spots, fainting, wind, halitosis. I felt like a guest on Trisha.

Take the soup diet. It made my breath stink and turned my wee green. My family started calling me Grotbags when my face started to go the same shade as broccoli.

Starvation - It isn't a proper diet until you're emaciated, end up in A & E next to an accountant with a can of Lynx Africa accidentally stuck up his bottom, and hallucinating that Doogie Howser MD is your assigned doctor.

Quick fix diets left me feeling tired, lacking in energy, deprived of pleasure and fantasising more about food. Like a WB cartoon where everybody turns into a joint of meat, only it was chocolate for me and I really had to stop when I mistook the cat's tail for a Curly Wurlie.

Trouble is. I love food. When I am eating I obsess over the next meal. Thin people don't do this. It's hard to survive on a lettuce leaf. I need a substantial meal. Enough to feed a grown man, preferably Dolph Lundgren portions.

My husband is naturally thin. It's not fair.

When he orders a curry, I dissect the menu like it's a double glazing contract and look for the least tasty/filling/ option. Hopefully, the kids will inherit his skinny genes and not my elasticated maternity ones that could house a family of four - and their pets.


There are always extreme measures like a gastric band, hypnosis, acupuncture, jaw wiring or amputation.

I watch all the trashy shows like Botched up bodies, Supersize vs Superskinny, You are what you Eat. Well Dr Gillian (fellow colleague of Dr Fox, Dr Hook and Dr Howser) in that case, I am a peanut butter chunky Kit Kat, and I'm not afraid to admit it.

Maybe I can fool people that I'm slim. I found a pair of 7 inch heels that I once wore as Magenta to Rocky Horror this elongates the body, stretches out the fat and gives the illusion that I am Jerry Hall. More like Ben and Jerry's. More on this in the blog: http://thenews-on.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/shape-where_4.html

Fat fighters

I'll stick with the only diet that works for me - Weight Watchers - because I can still enjoy booze, chips and chocolate. Just not all together, or in large amounts, unfortunately. I don't pay for the classes anymore, but I do follow the points system, where each item of food has a points value.

I could go on Mastermind with my specialist knowledge of points. Magnus could hold up matchbox sized portion of cheddar and I could reel off the number four like Matt Damon in A Beautiful Mind.

Plus, I'm great fun to go out with, jotting down every morsel of food that passes my lips in my food tracker diary.

You say potato, I say deep fried with a side order of onion rings, please.

I was a skinny child, but piled on the pounds in my teens. I confused being a vegetarian with simply eating potatoes - namely chips

At 16 I joined Weight Watchers, stuck to the plan, lost weight, bought clothes and snogged boys.

Content in my first long term relationship, I ballooned, while he remained skinny. After he dumped me, I lost loads on the heartbreak diet - the best plan of all!

Over the next 15 years or so, I maintained my weight by joining a different Weight Watchers class every year. I was sensible-ish in my eating habits and knew more than 20 different uses for Ryvita and low fat cottage cheese.

Does my bum look big in this?

Then I became pregnant with twins, piled on five stone, gained a belly as wide as I was tall, scoffed everything in sight, "I'm eating for three!" Yes three ice road truckers named Dave who dine at Bab's Caf all day.

Supersize me!

During my C-section instead of asking my hubby sensible questions like, "Can you see any gore yet?" I slurred: "Don't let them see the size of my stomach," as I lay beached, with all my ladybits and innards on display like a calf on a butcher's slab.

I pleaded with the 20 or so medics present to do a tummy tuck and quick bit of lipo while they were down there.

Afterwards, I assumed the weight would drop off immediately. But a year on and I was still rocking the maternity tabard look.

"The pounds just dropped off running around after kids," they said in magazines. In that case, because I have twins, I should look like Kate Moss, I thought.

Instead, I was stuck - Augustus Gloop style - up the slide at Ankle Biters Playcentre, being de-wedged by a caterpillar mascot that looked like a giant purple penis, to the sound of small children singing the theme tune to The Teletubbies.

Something had to give. It did. The arse on my reinforced pregnancy jeans. During the walk of shame back to the high chaired seating area.

So I re-joined WW and became a gold member; finally reaching my target weight after 20 years.


Ab Flab, sweetie...

But I haven't necessarily stuck to the plan since, which has resulted in some weighty moments.

Last year, I starved over Christmas and was miserable. Just because I had to meet some old college friends.

I wanted to look so different from the chubby Anna they had once known. But after all that suffering, I discovered that half the group had cancelled and that the reunion consisted of just three.

It reminded me of the scene in Absolutely Fabulous, where Edina fasts and brings in the marines in a desperate bid to lose weight when an old nemesis drops by, only to discover that her formal rival is now blind.

Fortunately, this Christmas I had woman flu and spent the entire festive season in bed and comatose. Thus resulting in a pretty impressive weight loss. Result!

Why do I want to be thin?

My clothes hang better. I look and feel more confident. But, because I have been big, I don't want to go back there. I still bear the scars of two Chelsea Girl shop assistants having to assist me out of a size 14 ra ra dress. "'You're gonna have to use those nail scissors," Trace, one said, as the other tried to liberate me from the garment.

I just want to feel comfortable and to not look down and think an alien is bursting out my stomach.

So here we go again.

So one last supper please. Diet starts Monday!

Shop 'til they Drop

First it was Woolies. 

Now it's HMV and Blockbuster.

The major high street stores are closing and it feels like the end of an era.

In order to explain my dismay, can I get a rewind?

Hanging with the boys

It's probably 1987. We’re on the top of the bus travelling into Birmingham for the sales.

I'm rocking double stonewashed denim, even though it's proper '80s cold outside.

I’ve already slipped on my bum by Kwiksave, thanks to my white stilettoed Bacon’s boots.  

Some of the fifth year boys are behind us. They’re calling me Glen. Medeiros, because I have three layers of greasy Constance Carroll lip gloss on.

And they’re trying to set my hair on fire.

God, we fancy them so much.

Town is the highlight of the week - TOTP aside.

Hanging around the shops, looking for boys in the new indoor shopping centre, or Mall as Helen’s snobby mom calls it, followed by tea (sorry, Helen’s mom, I mean dinner) at McDonalds.

I've got some returns. My totally selfish mother bought me some embarrassing comedy Garfield Slippers from Clinton Cards. Gonna swap them for a Brat Pack calendar.

Must visit Our Price to spend a £5 gift voucher. Don't need to buy Top Gun because my friend has two video recorders and we have a pirated a copy. 

Need to go to Mark One for a £2 top, the indoor market for a turquoise mascara, Harry Parkes (because one of the sales assistants is fit) and get back in time to neck cider outside Thresher.

Buy, buy

You see, those stores were part of my youth. Along with:

Woolworths – Where else could you buy a 7” Amazulu single, pick and mix and Tungsten screws? 

After the boys were born I would visit for Easter Eggs and JML must haves like a back fat corset and a revolving tie caddy.

Blockbuster – My ex wanted to rent 'Roadhouse'. I preferred 'Dirty Dancing'. We compromised on 'Ghost', even though it needed rewinding. 

We got a great deal: £25 for a mega box of popcorn, 4L of full fat coke, plus a pre-owned copy of License to Drive.

My first proper membership card – way before I joined the Music and Video Club (MVC). Although the bouncers at The Hummingbird would not accept the blue laminated card as a valid form ID.

HMV - Birmingham boasted three. My Saturday ritual; meeting my mate John and rummaging around the stores for the latest gatefolds, picture discs and imports from Europe. 

In 1989 we bunked off school and queued for hours at the better of the two, yes two! New St. stores to meet Depeche Mode. 

However, the record signing and my trilby hat, made Midlands Today. Our geography teacher looked a bit sus the following day.

A special mention to the original Clinton’s, Athena, which I was shocked to discover is still alive and well.

Viva Sad Sam, Love is… , Forever Friends and arty black and white stills for people like Helen’s mom, who appreciate dinner, malls, and Sade.

Athena, you set the net unfeasibly high.

Flashing lady tennis player : Women have to pretend they like sport, go knickerless and have an itchy - yet pert arse - like two tennis balls in a sock, instead of a binliner of beach inflatables.

Sensitive new man with child:  Let’s see if you’re still so chuffing calm and fresh when a screaming newborn keeps you awake all night with acid reflux and spews all over your freshly immac-ed chest.

Retail between their legs

They will join the long list of other dearly departed stores in Brum, including:

Midland Educational - Not sure if this was actually a Midlands only shop and if there was a Scottish Borders or  Brighton and Hove Educational, for example. 

This was a haven for set squares, spiral bound notepads and enough dewberry scented pencils and Hello Kitty notelets to satisfy my teenage stationery habit.

John Menzies – The stationery lovechild of the above and WHSmith. 

My friend once dared me to stuff a load of James Dean postcards down my coat and leg it, but I chickened out when Rebel without a Cause started to cut into my Tammy Girl training bra.

C&A – My favourite Clockhouse ski jacket (not much cause for it in Birmingham, but it looked ace with my Farahs).

Lewis’s department store - a bit like John Lewis, only they let poor people in too.

Past Times - Where else could you buy a mock Victorian Camay necklace, flower fairy soaps or a replica Titanic manifest?

The point of no returns

Course, I have my suspicions about Wilko and BHS. And WHSmith, where I spent hours pawing over The NME, Melody Maker and the rude bits of Judy Blume’s ‘Forever’.

I’m a tad confused. Some shops go into administration, but then remain open.

I don’t know who owns what anymore, and I’m scared to buy anything incase I can’t take it back.

Peacocks stopped honouring exchanges and returns the week I tried to take back some leopard print control pants. I argued that the gusset sticker was still intact, but the unenthusiastic assistant merely muttered something about being out of a job and destitute by the end of the week.

His mother’s voice

However, I’m guilty as charged.

I can't tell you the last time I went into the likes of HMV/Blockbuster, due to the digital age of downloads.

But I still remember the feeling of elation and anticipation at queuing for hours for the release of the first Suede album or the buzz of pre-ordering a SNES.  

It’s a rites of passage.

When I go into town I will make a concerted effort to take the boys into a record shop and tell them to ask for the 12 inch, extended remix, on blue vinyl of 'Star Trekkin’ Across the Universe', along with some blank C60 tapes.

Back to the Old House

You can’t go home again.

As I learned the hard way when I re-visited my first childhood house, some 26 years later.

I’d driven past it many times.

“This is where Mommy grew up,“ I told the boys.

“Can we go home now?”  they pleaded, as they interrupted my tales of Grifters and ackee 1-2-3.

I’d often imagined walking around the three bed semi as an adult, both out of nostalgia and curiosity.

When I saw it was for sale I had to view it. The house was calling me.

I felt a child-like excitement. And nervousness.

Would it be as I remembered?

I had a vivid picture of how the house should look, gleaned from photographs and memories.

Ok, so now it had all mod cons that we could only have dreamt of, like central heating and double glazing, but would there be any remnants from 1973-1986, like a Blue Peter style time capsule bursting with half pence pieces and Angel Delight?

Would I feel an instant connection to a warm and familiar place?

Pulling up outside that winter’s night, I felt a sense of trepidation. Not only because I wasn’t a legitimate viewer, but because of what awaited.

I had built this up to mythical proportions, to the extent where I expected my mother to answer the door in a Perdy do and bell bottoms, holding a cup of Mellow Birds.

This suburban crescent - now littered with cars - was once clear enough for Mom’s rusty Triumph Herald to go careering down one icy morning.

It was safe enough for a bereft infant to toddle along as the wind blew her favourite sun hat out of her grasp forever.

Now I was back outside number 16 in a woolly winter hat, to cover up my roots.

Welcome home 

“Come in,” said the woman, ushering me into the bare hallway

Who are you and why are you opening my front door?

“Did the agent explain it is a bit of a project?” she joked.

No - this house was my mother’s pride and joy. It was immaculate when we left.

My heart pumped rapidly and I felt giddy as we walked upstairs.

First, my parents’ chintzy room. Once so large I would sleep alongside Mom and Dad’s Divan on a zed bed when we had guests. Now so small and unrecognisable. The fashionable built in MFI wardrobes where presents were stashed (and secretly unwrapped then re-wrapped by me) now ripped out.

I paused outside my brother’s box room, expecting to hear the sound of a Spectrum game failing to load. But inside, the Aston Villa pictures had been replaced with DJ posters and the captain’s cabin bed was now a gaming zone.

Finally, my cosy room, where I had played with Sindys and Care Bears, and listened to Nan’s bedtime stories.  I looked up for a hole in the ceiling where Dad’s leg had broken through the polystyrene tiles - cartoon style - during a mission to the loft.

Maybe if I peeled back the purple EMO wallpaper there would be a trace of my Pierot décor.

But it was beyond recognition.

Ironically, the only room that seemed familiar was the bathroom, with the same pale pink suite, minus the scent of Dad’s Aramis and the Fairy Liquid that doubled up as bubble bath. Fortunately the dermatitis hasn’t lasted.

Hopelessly devoted

The once through lounge had reverted back to two rooms. No red velvet wallpaper with matching curtains, pelmets and tie backs, just magnolia, plasterboard and neutrals.

The three bar fire where I would huddle as my hair dried was now an exposed hearth decorated with plastic flowers. The brown TV that sent me running behind the sofa when the Dr Who music came on, was now a flat screened, HD giant.

“When we moved in 12 years ago this room was completely artexed. We had to take it off by hand,” the owner revealed, aghast.

Ha! One last remnant of my parents’ 80s interior design. Refusing to go without a fight.

I had not expected musical layouts.

Our psychedelic purple and orange kitchen - home to countless Vesta meals and Tupperware bowls - was now a stark, make shift dining room and the back door was boarded up.

The kitchen had moved into the dining area of the once through lounge. A sink sat propped up where my piano had been; unfitted units were balanced in the spot where the record player sideboard had resided and where I had spent hours singing along to my brother’s gatefold Grease album. We now stood where the dining table had lived - the heart of so many Christmas dinners and birthday parties.

Not in Kansas anymore

I felt like a stranger in my own home.

What have they done to you? 

This neglected and debased shell did not look like my happy, loving childhood home.

Now it was the sad and lonely set of a family breaking up. yet I had so much love to give it.

Our break-up home came later. But once, here, we felt solid, like these four walls.

In the night garden

A lack of night vision and minus temperatures didn’t stop me dragging the vendor outside.

Dad’s luscious green lawn had been churned up for vegetable patches. His rockery and rose garden long since removed. I was pleased to hear the damson tree still flourished.

I wish it was light. And warm.

So I could picture my puppy Sacha bounding up, or feel the molten 70s sun as my cousins and I splashed endlessly in the paddling pool while our moms sunbathed doused in Crisp and Dry.

The garage, the scene of many a Halloween party - hadn’t altered.

There it was - the dark, cobwebbed mechanic’s pit that Dad had ear-marked as our fallout shelter in the event of a nuclear strike. It petrified me as a child.

The drive where Dad propelled me on a stabiliser free bike and I felt that first joy of riding - and falling off.

Back inside I had the chance to walk around on my own, looking for clues - perhaps some initials carved into a mahogany sideboard or height chart marks on the door. Nothing, not even an old copy of Look-in.

Jumpers for goalposts

As a child we knew nearly everybody in our part of the road. There was always somebody to play knock and run with or to cycle to the shops alongside for a Tip Top.

Today, I barely acknowledge my neighbours and playing out the front, let alone roaming the streets, is strictly off limits.

I recalled the net twitching Joyce and Ted, shooing my brother and me off their half of the shared front lawn. Still, they were pensioners and we were rumbustious kids.

That’s why it floored me when the vendor said:

“The neighbours are lovely. There’s Joyce…” I waited, but there was no “and” anymore.

I pulled down my hat and hoped the seemingly timeless old lady wouldn’t recognise the grown up girl, and out me as a bogus buyer.

One last look at the house and the road, once lined with tables and strewn with bunting for the Silver Jubilee. But no moustached Dad and the other male neighbours cross dressing as women today, in name of Queen and country.

Back to the future

Crestfallen, I headed back, lamenting my childhood.

What did I expect, a never evolving household frozen in time, like an episode of Tales of the Unexpected?

There was too much emotion and high hopes cemented in those bricks.

My family’s time in the house is gone, but our hearts and heads can return whenever they like.

I opened my front door to where my children were waiting.