So, Garry and I have finally admitted aloud to each other, and to our pals, that we have, munch by munch, become a pair of big fat pigs. We’ve agreed it’s time to shed some blubber before we wind up wedged inside The Basement for good and the telly people come to make a body-shock documentary series about us.

I can imagine it now… Scene 1:  Home video footage, 2004. EXT. Botanic Gardens, Glasgow. Carrie Not The Kind Of Girl You’d Marry and Garry skip hand in hand along the foot path. Carrie Not The Kind Of Girl You’d Marry is wearing a strappy vest, Johnson’s Holiday Skin and big sunglasses. Garry is wearing a striped shirt and a funny hat. The couple swing their arms and laugh as they frolic in the park. Garry picks Carrie Not The Kind Of Girl You’d Marry up, throws her over his shoulder and spins and spins round in circles while Carrie Not The Kind Of Girl You’d Marry giggles and screams and kicks her legs and play-punches Garry’s back. Note: They are both wearing jeans and they can both walk, skip, run and bend over in them. Note too, they each only have one chin.

Cut to…

Scene 2: The Basement, London, 2013.  Carrie Not The Kind Of Girl You’d Marry is lying on her bed trying to shove bits of herself into a pair of wool trousers. For every flab bump she crams in behind the zip, another blurps out over the top of the waistband. She flails around like Smokey Cat at her fattest (RIP). Eventually, after an hour or two of trying to dress herself, Carrie gives up. She wraps her body in a clean duvet cover from the airing cupboard. Garry is working at his desk in the kitchen. As he leans back to make his bum comfy, the chair breaks and he lands on the floor with a thud. Carrie Not The Kind Of Girl You’d Marry wants to help him, but she can’t bend over far enough to reach his hand. Her multiple chins are in the way. Her tummies are in the way. Everything’s in the way. Garry tries to crawl towards the sofa, but every time he tries to shuffle himself upright, the waistband of his jeans crushes his lungs and he flops on the floor again. Unsure what to do, Carrie waddles to the cupboard and produces two bags of butter brioche. She falls backwards on to the floor and lies beside her husband. She hands one bag of brioche to Garry and keeps the other for herself. They lie there, with their bags of sweet bread, cramming entire rolls into their mouths at once… “Do we have any maple syrup?” asks Carrie.

That’s right, reader(s).  I have joined the WeightWatchers program.  Actual WeightWatchers. I shan’t be attending meetings (I’d rather stick marrows up my nostrils) but Garry and I will be holding our own little support group every Monday.  We’ll weigh each other and say things like, ‘I think you’ve learned to use the WeightWatchers app very quickly. Well done!’ and ‘I think it’s ok to have eaten 14 points worth of Hula Hoops because you had a tough day but using food to control mood is something we each need to work on’. We’ll pat each other on the back for our efforts and we’ll offer extra congratulations if the back feels less flabby.

It’s day 6 and no one has died. As in, I haven’t and neither has Garry. Actually, we’re having quite a lot of fun. Food is Fun.  Who knew breakfast was a real thing? And lunch? Wow! People really eat those. This week I’ve been enjoying breakfasts I’d only really ever heard about on Pinterest – all natural yoghurt and fruit and sparkling water with pastel stripey straws in and cups of nettle tea.  Seriously. That meal really happened. You can check my ProPoints Tracker if you want.  It’s all on there. All but the paper straw.  I didn’t eat that.  It’s not so hard not to eat blocks of lard or fistfuls of sugar but I’ve had to store the bread in the freezer to stop me from dipping an entire loaf in a bottle of delicious, delicious olive oil when the mood turns dark and snacky. Pasta, pastry, potatoes, bread, pizza… Oh how I love thee. Carbohydratey things will remain among my favourite things forever – and I’d be daft to think otherwise – but in order to shrink myself back to my normal size, I need to learn about alternatives to the usual stodge fest I shove in my face most nights. I can’t store everything in the freezer…


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