It’s been a while, sorry about that! Most blogs I read usually issue an apology and continue on their way, but somehow I think that after all but abandoning my blog a mere two posts in, my dear readers (hi mum!) might not have noticed my absence. I will give an explanation whether you are expecting one or not, as it’s only polite to do so. I was the recipient of some sad and shocking news regarding a dear colleague of mine, and it threw me more than I expected. Other people’s private lives are, of course, their own business and I would never dream to air anyone’s laundry in public, regardless of my readership, however as an inexperienced writer I found it nigh-on impossible to keep recent events from affecting my writing so the only logical solution was to stop.
I’ve missed this. I feel like you and I used to sit down for a cup of tea and a biscuit and have a nice chat about Life, The Universe and Everything. And once we were done talking about Douglas Adams, we would laugh at my terribly unfunny jokes and proceed to ooh and ahh at shoes and dresses. So, without further ado, I shall pour us a nice cup of Earl Grey, and get the cookies out of the oven.
Ironic, really, as the subject I wish to discuss with you is the dreaded F-word. No, not the rude one synonymous with copulation, but the other, much nastier one: Fat. The problem is, you see, I have started feeling fat recently. Now that I’ve said it, we can move on.
Really. I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably rolling your eyes and muttering under your breath. I would be too, if you’d just said it. Because that is the problem with that word – it is relative. It is so very relative, because to each individual it means something different. To an ASOS model, I am most probably a whale, because their idea of a woman’s body is frankly skeletal. H&M, on the other hand are most proud to be using a “plus size” model in their bikini campaign. The problem is that to me, being 5’9″ and a size 16 is simply “in proportion” and not “plus size”. And if no one had told me she was “plus size” and just showed me the pictures I’d never have guessed. I would very much love to see a normal sized girl in one of these campaigns for once: 5’2″ with a sizable arse and smattering of cellulite, and maybe just a bit of a paunch from being unable to say no to pudding every single time. It that too much to ask?
But I digress. My F-word issues are far more to do with my overall health. I used to have a very active job, where I was on my feet nearly all day and did a not insubstantial amount of physical labour to boot. Now I am office bound 5 days a week, and work is a 25 mile round trip from home, so walking to the office isn’t an option. Between sitting on my ass all day and driving to and from work, I have found myself over a stone heavier than I have ever been. I have always been fairly happy with how I look – my squidgy bits are in all the right places, and the ones I dislike, Mr Bubble claims to never have noticed. But now I have reached the point where I have to choose between exercise and self-loathing. With enough demons to contend with, I bought myself some trainers and downloaded a considerable number of 80’s power ballads from iTunes, and officially became one of those people who runs. I am hoping that the routine of thrice-weekly jogs around the meadows, peppered with my existing hobbies of Yoga and Pilates will do the trick nicely. I promise not to become an obsessive. I do not have a target weight, and my target size is “until I can button my jeans all the way again,” so I’m probably doing it all wrong.
But there is just no way I am giving up cake.
Life & Cakes 