How much more...

Now that the Easter Eggs are a distant memory, marked only by a spot on my chin and a bin full of purple foil, I thought I'd update you as to how it's all going at the Binland Diet Club.  It's been three months since we started, so it seems as good a time as any.

I have now lost just over a stone, and am fast approaching dangerous territory.  When I started, I was 13 something, and by Monday there's a good chance I might be 11 something which is a bit of an achievement I suppose (says the woman who could eat an M&S triple pack of Walnut Whips given the chance).  

So what's the dangerous territory, I hear you all ask.  Well, at this point in a diet, you have to ask yourself which part of you needs to look better.  

Your face or your backside?

You either choose to keep a bit of padding around the old rump, thus softening the face a little, or you fight for a backside all pert and tight, and end up with a face like Dot Cotton (not a good look at 91 let alone 55).  So I figured that as I am more likely to wear loose trousers and sensible drawers to work than a balaclava, I would choose my face.  In days of old, I would strive to get into the single figures where my weight was concerned, but now I am older and wiser I can't see the reasoning behind looking like an anaemic Twiglet in my middle years.  Let's face it, there is not one person on this planet who is going to look at me and exclaim, 'Never mind the haggard old face, just look at that arse!'  

And anyway, who wants to be a skinny Grandma (if that ever happens) known as Nanny Spike?  I want to be the cuddly one with a bosom like a bolster (this needs working on) and legs positioned at 45 degrees with copious amounts of skirt material preserving any modesty which might be left by then.  I don't want my grandchildren sitting on my pointy knees and complaining that it's like cuddling a stick. I want to look robust and safe, and not like I could be swept away in a stiff wind, tearing down branches and shop awnings as my sharper than a knife thighs whip through them willy-nilly.

So sensible it is, and I shall be quite happy with being a loose size 14 rather than an asphyxiated size 16 (on a good day).  These are UK sizes of course - it makes perfect sense for the American equivalent to be two sizes larger.

No wonder they love shopping over here...