Fat Pains

There’s nothing more cliche than middle aged women talking about how they’ve put on weight, so let’s do that. Then I’ll remark that policemen are getting younger.

I have been putting on weight though, big time, a whole size in the six weeks of placement so far. In my spare time I examine the extra folds of flesh that have appeared. I’ve seen these old friends before at the time the scale points to the particular weight at which they appear. I’m considering labelling the dial differently. I could go with ‘triple chin point’, ‘rings don’t fit’, ‘knee agony threshold’, ‘additional fat-pad on upper thigh’, ‘impossible to buy shoes’, ‘cinema seats uncomfortable’ and many more disgusting options. It’s disappointing that in spite of all of the experience of all the disadvantages, I still eat the food that piles it all on. Will you have joint pain or cake? Cake please, and two paracetamol if you would be so kind.

It’s been worse this time. I’ve had pain in the hips, knees, foot arches and a strange new pain in the back. Not the spine, but sort of the side of the back. Not there, down a bit… Also, I have an odd sensation that I think may be a hernia. And can you have earache as a result of putting on weight because if so, then I have?

I don’t know if it’s my age, or my weight, or maybe just because I’ve been slightly low, but my body feels as worn out. Nurses are supposed to be stoic, but I’m not a nurse yet so there. Worryingly, if I don’t coax my body into better shape, I might not be able to be one. I’ve run out of cake now, so I’ll never eat any again. Not even the French Fancies that are on special offer £1 a box. Well…not until tomorrow.

I went to the supermarket for lunch last week. They’ve put the prices up, but as if to compensate, they’re displaying the calorie value of all the meals and drinks. I can’t see it helping sales. It’s somewhat offputting and let’s face it everyone knows that cheese and bacon burger with chips is not going to help you lose weight even if it comes with salad garnish. I always had the fish and chips. Now I know that’s 1075 calories, with a side order of shame. It was nice though. I was good this time. I skipped the peas.

By the way, I left my car parked on yellow lines by accident and didn’t get a ticket. I blame all those young policemen.

Extra-Extra

Spotted in front of me at supermarket checkout:

Skeletally thin man with extra-extra-thin crust pizza.

Behind him: 

Me with two tubs ice-cream and two crème eggs.

Do you think there could be something to the calories in calories out approach? Nah, it’s a metabolism thing, obviously.

Anyway, must dash, doing proper uni revision and that second crème-egg won’t eat itself.

Breaking the Silence

Hello. I’ve been a bit quiet lately, haven’t I? Time for the fun to recommence.


I’m now two weeks into my first nursing placement, and I’m zapped. The work feels all consuming at the moment, and there’s lots I would like to write about. The big snag (aside from lack of energy) is the rule around confidentiality . I’m unable to write about patients for all of the obvious good reasons, and also unable to write about the placement provider. The reasons for this are a lot less clear to me and I suppose that’s why I feel reluctant to write anything at all for fear of crossing an invisible but deadly confidentiality line. At some point, I’ll talk to someone and clarify the position, but I don’t know who to talk to and feel that it’s an obscure thing to address given that I can’t exactly explain my reasons, vanity aside, for blogging.

At times like this, trivia‘s the thing. It turned out that smart-casual was more smart than casual and so I had to get some new clothes. Then I realised I would have to iron them because wrinkly is not smart. I gave up ironing six years ago with my last office job, and it has been quite a shock to go back to it. I’d forgotten how oppressive it feels to stand there passing a hot implement over wrinkled fabric for an hour at a time, struggling with where to put the seams, noticing the bits I missed only when the garment is on the hanger. I’m aware that some people like this sort of thing, but they must be masochists, and that’s not me being judgemental, it’s just true. The whole smart effect is ruined by the by the necessary nursing shoes. In spite of this, I’m developing a fondness for the super wide, super comfy foot enveloping lace-ups with the squishy insoles. They are guardians of my twelve and a half hour days. My feet haven’t hurt, but the lino corridors are hard on the hips.

If you change jobs regularly, you’ll be familiar with the problem of lunch. Every workplace has its own facilities, customs, cheats, temptations, obstacles and comforts. There’s never a way of anticipating them, and it’s necessary to feel foolish on breaks at least a couple of times during the first weeks, as a right of passage. My new workplace has a lovely staff canteen, serving cooked breakfasts and hot lunches. It also has vending machines. There are three breaks in the twelve and a half hours.
The availability of food presents all manner of dilemmas for a fat woman on the edge of huge. I find it very hard to resist grease, but there is bacon before me, at 9am when I’m tired and vulnerable. The scent of it reaches out along the corridors to the wards. Sometimes patients ask us to fetch some. Being a creature of habit, I dare not approach the counter. Eight weeks of bacon sandwich every morning and I’ll be a size up for sure. Ditto the vending machines which feel like gambling, but with a sure sweet win. I’d never stop at the occasional treat, at 5pm with over two hours to go, it would be a mars bar and crisps. So, for this employer, and as a kind of commitment to nursing (also because I’m copying a fellow student who’s lunchbox I admire) I’m embracing the healthy packed lunch. I take fruit, nuts, a cereal bar and a sandwich. I drink water. I am seriously considering a short walk at the teatime break, for the benefits of fresh air and sunlight. Don’t worry, I’m not about to do meditation, I’m not sick. Although…….



By the way, I’m on the local radio tomorrow at 11am. Don’t worry, the fame won’t change me.

Fat Hippie Recruited

Nick and I made it to town before lunch today, a bit loved up and enjoying the autumn sunshine so warm that we went without coats. Outside of the library, we were approached by a young woman wearing a pink hat, peace symbol on her cheek. She offered me a rose. I was a bit bamboozled. Was she drunk, or manic, or (worse) selling something? She complimented me on my Billy Bragg tee shirt and said I would definitely be into peace and get where she was coming from, she was into ‘food peace’. It was starting to look really bad, and Nick was already edging away with his book bag.

Now, I should tell you that I have a face for salespeople. It combines withdrawn, grumpy and aggressive and I find that if I use it alongside a firm ‘NO’ it puts off the most determined of utilities reps in a millisecond – best for them, and best for me. I was too late to use it this time. I had somehow engaged, and given the stall that she pointed out with the link to the Coventry Peace Festival, I was starting to relax. She asked us if we had weighing scales and asked how we felt about them. I lied and said that we do not (we do, but they go unused). She suggested that we might feel apprehensive, tense, and have low self esteem, but we wouldn’t feel like that about her pink fluffy scales. It was then that Nick abandoned me.

I found myself persuaded to get on the scales which read motivational statements where the numbers should have been. For me it was ‘you are perfect’. Then came the rub. Would I like to come to educational classes where I could learn about food, not about slimming but about a new way of enjoying all foods?  It was to be run by a voluntary sector organisation in conjunction with the NHS. My health was being promoted. I took the leaflets and the proffered rose.

 Half an hour later, when I met up with Nick, we talked about it. He had been quite put out by the ‘low self esteem’ bit, but I had been properly outreached in a way that I wouldn’t have been if the same dietician in a blue suit had said ‘you are overweight, stop eating cake’. I had been correctly identified in the street as a fat hippie who never got into eating spinach and beans. I was almost tempted to try out the classes.

Then, we went for fish and chips, and I felt so much better.

The rose looks very nice in my kitchen window though.

Eat Eat Eat

The diet is going well. I hadn’t been out to a cafe for a while as when I do, I find it 100% necessary to eat food that is sugary, fatty or both. I am a bit phobic about salad I haven’t made myself, believing that it won’t be properly washed or will be cross contaminated and I will contract e-coil and salmonella poisoning at the bite of a lettuce leaf. Much healthier to chow down on saturated fat, so pass me the chips. The problem with the café avoidance for me is that I find them good places to get a bit of work done. Yesterday, off I went to the supermarket, and there I was at the café, being as moderate as I could be, reminding myself that I am fat because I eat too much of the wrong things, and that thin people eat the right amount of the right things. I need to copy those people.


Four youths caught my eye. Three boys and a girl, slender, immaculately dressed, Japanese looking, seemingly happy to be exploring the exotic delights offered by the Morrisons café. They looked at the sandwiches, but went off again, returning with bags of cooked chicken from the deli. I thought they probably weren’t aware of the ‘these seats are for customers of the café only’ rule and anticipated their being moved on. They were left to it though, while they drank juice from cartons, and tore apart the greasy chicken with fingers and teeth. It was a feast, and I was taken aback at the quantity they consumed. It was almost all over and the chicken bones were being bagged up. Two members of staff were approaching. They were carrying trays. Were they going to speak to the Japanese eaters on the way to another table? No, the two trays were for them. Four large all day breakfasts with toast. The chicken had been a starter. I saw the plates they left behind on my way out. They had eaten everything up. Except the tomatoes.

I don’t eat the tomatoes either. Perhaps my mistake is that I don’t eat enough fried food?

Tuesday 1.9.09

Welcome to September. I'd better make the most of it, because when the clocks change, it will be true to form if I'm grumpy. I didn't make the most of it, even though most of today was sunny. There was a sudden thunder storm at around four this afternoon, with lightning and the rain coming in through the french door. I remembered (or might have imagined) a sudden storm at Squire when I was a little girl. I was up at the far end of the garden under the old pine trees so I stayed dry. I remember deciding whether or not to be frightened, and I decided not. I've never been frightened of lightening, even after it hit Squire's chimney the year I went away to college and that half of the house was demolished. No-one was even hurt, although another day, what with the hot bedding sleep arrangements there, one or more of us would have been killed. It makes some sense to be afraid of lightening, and yet, it's one of the few things, along with the dark and being stuck in a lift that don't scare me. I used to have a friend who was terrified of the fluttering of pigeons' wings, but I hardly think that confidence around feathers should be counted in my trophy cabinet of courage.

Today, I made up a new recipe. I sometimes forget I can cook. Trouble with it is, I don't enjoy it all that much, the transitory nature of creating foodstuffs just doesn't give me a buzz. It didn't start off in a very promising way, but turned out good, so for posterity, the recipe goes like this: (serves 4)

• 1/4 packet yellow split peas, soaked overnight and boiled for 1 hour


• 3 large onions, chopped fine


• one large chicken breast cut into small cubes


• one tin chopped tomatoes


• one broccoli head cut into small florets


• half teaspoon chili powder


• two cloves garlic, crushed


• two teaspoons coriander paste in oil


• packet wholemeal pitta bread

Fry off onions and chicken in chili and garlic until soft, stir in drained split peas and tin of tomatoes. At this point, it looks like vomit, don't worry. Season. Cook down on low heat for around half an hour. Stir in coriander paste and adjust seasoning to taste. Add broccoli, cover and continue to cook on low heat for further 15 minutes. The mixture should be a fairly thick paste resembling refried beans, if not, take the lid off and allow to reduce further. Toast pitta breads. Spoon the mixture into the pittas. Enjoy. This would go nicely with some salad, but it isn't necessary. Substituting spinach for broccoli would also be good.

Anyway, the food went down well, everybody wanted seconds, so I was cool wife and Mum. Yea, go me. Tomorrow home made cherry cake? Yeah right.

Monday 31.8.09

Bank Holiday Monday, so Nick has been at home. I have to admit, I've spent a lot of the day sleeping so that I didn't wake up in time to make dinner. We went out for takeaway at KFC, which I've been obsessing about. It's finger lickin' good, must be the secret blend of herbs and spices. Or, it could be the fat, salt, and tiny chickens. I know it's not a good thing at all, and yet I crave it. Having had a plateful, I wanted another. My jeans are a bit tight too. What's that about? It would be too spooky if there was a connection. I know there can't be because chicken breast and sweetcorn are so good for you. Truly, the only thing about KFC that makes my soul feel bad is that it comes in plastic carrier bags. Madness in Colonel Sanders' name.

I've also been trying to find myself something to study part time at college as a warm up to (hopefully) uni next year. I has thought I would do a couple of AS levels but at over £500 each, it seems like too much money to invest. I'm having trouble understanding which computer courses might be useful, but this seems like a possibility. I also fancy finishing my BSL that I started pre-illness. Mainly though, I want something to get me back into the habit of writing essays. As usual, I've left it late and it's make your mind up time.

I've also looked in my diary to see that there are lots of nice treats coming up. Dave Gorman next weekend, Stuart Lee soon. I also bit the bullet and bought one ticket for Tim Minchin at Warwick Arts Centre. It was the last one left, and expensive. I'll have to go on my own but think it will be Ok high up in the newly built gallery of the Butterworth Theatre. I think his audience is likely to be fairly young, but still, I want to go. Hope Nina isn't too jealous, I haven't told her yet.

Nina is fine. She's enjoying Skegness, in a caravan with A and his family. H's friend went home on the last train to Brighton. I was more gruff than I should have been, but worry that it's a late train for a girl to get, the train system tends not to be too good on a holidays and connections go awry. She said her Mum was OK with it, and hey, it's not my kid.

There's a lot that should be done. Let's see where tomorrow leads.

Tuesday 14.7.09

Given yesterday's fall into the shaft of despair, I awarded myself a very, very slow day today. Got up at 11am, had a leisurely shower and ate cereal for breakfast. I don't usually like cereal but like the name 'Trim Flakes', it should be the name of a suave American TV doctor or detective, I think. The name did nothing to impart flavour to the cereal, but I felt smug that I had eaten a more healthy breakfast than half a box of French Fancies or a bowl of home fried chips.

I retreated to the sofa, browsing the tv and internet simultaneously, and soothed myself with a liberal dose of QVC, which I haven't done since my darkest days of depression years ago. Dawn Bibby is still there with her mumsy persona flogging bits of coloured paper for 'crafting' as opposed to 'paper craft'. There was an hour of L'occitan bubble baths and stuff. They have a lovely shop in Solihul, populated by the affluent and fashionable (I bought something from there once, a long time ago), it seemed incongruous that these £20 body lotions were being flogged to the QVC audience of pensioners and agoraphobics. Worst of all is the QVC fashion, deeply unflattering even on the size 8 models, and hideously overpriced. "This is trendy", said the presenter, gulping on her deceitful tongue "Loving the pink".

It did the job though, so that by the time Nina got home from her half day at work, I was relaxed enough to hear about her having been approached by a stranger who pestered her and then offered her £200 to go to his house. A passing Police car pulled up, so no harm done, and maybe none intended. Scary though. I wish we didn't live in a city. We do though, and either way, life is full of risks, real and imagined. Holly also had a story today. she had been chauffeured in the Mayors car. Nick was amusingly jealous. The tales made for a happy family teatime, but I was distant and crotchety having tried to get some housework done. It sapped all of my energy within half an hour, and by the time I served up tea, my head was swimming. Nick learned his lesson from yesterday and didn't dare ask for bread or make comment on the quorn burgers (which were virtually indistinguishable from chicken in my opinion).

I had been snappish with Nick and felt bad about it. When I came to bed, I tried to explain, but he was in the mood to make jokes and try to make me laugh. I said that I thought we were falling apart as a couple, which I have felt for a little while. His perspective, as it turns out is very far from my own, so I've been reading things into his behaviour which aren't there. I'm a fool, and he's such a good man. I let him sleep while I stayed up for a while, mourning the loss of the years when we would kiss each other goodbye every morning, and the times when I would bring him elaborately constructed sandwiches at lunchtime for no reason other than we loved and missed each other even during ordinary working days. Selfishly, I suppose I feel insecure and want a little romance. I don't know what Nick wants from me as he talks almost exclusively about work. He has never been demanding though, so perhaps he is content, or would be if I fed him on bread and butter and meat.

Monday 13.7.09

As I wrote today's date, I couldn't remember what happened yesterday. It has all come back to me of course. We went to the Dogs' Trust open day. H was late home, I was in a bad mood and then ended up in the sun without a hat. I capped that by being rude to Nina who didn't deserve it. In the evening, I put a picture of Richard Herring up as my screensaver. I never even did that at the height of my Billy Bragg obsession last year. So, that's me fully regressed to my teenage self.

Today, I tried to tidy up and get shopping. I was very low on energy and nearly fainted in the supermarket queue. It took three attempts to put the shopping away. I couldn't eat my tea, was feeling sick. Maybe I'm coming down with something.

Certainly, I'm a bit down, and not good to be around. Can't say anything right. I'm conscious that Nick wants me to get a job. Trouble is, I'm in no state. Confidence once again low. Deeply tired and unfit. I just don't know a way out of this.

The mostly veggie diet with slimming attempt continues. It is making me deeply unpopular with Nick who is at the point of wanting to sabotage it, asking for a full English breakfast for tea. I cooked him bacon, poached eggs, oven chips and beans for tea. He got cross when I asked him not to have bread with it (he had eaten two slices of toast when he came home). I haven't seen him all evening, he's been in the room next door working. How strange that we fall out over such small things, making them far greater points of conflict than they should be. I think that because I'm low, I'm seeing cracks where there are none. I hope it's not that I'm low because the cracks are real. Either way, I need somehow to do better. This would be reversing a six year trend though, so I don't see any possibility of fixing myself.

In summary: my life is fucked.

Wednesday 8.7.09

Well, I did promise myself I'd get off my arse today. Thankfully I made good on it, although not in any spectacular way. I feel better for it, but then again, I felt better anyway, otherwise I couldn't have got on with stuff. QED.

I forced myself out of bed early and look Darcy for a walk. We did the full 2.5 miles around the Memorial Park, clockwise. It was as much exercise as I've done all week, and my muscles were rebelling slightly, but I persevered. Darcy was very happy and ran the whole distance in the way that I remember running a walk with adults as a child. I would run on ahead (in fact I would usually skip) then stop to examine something, by which time the trailing adult would arrive and I would run on again. Darcy also did the child's trick of stopping at forks in the path and looking back as if to guess the route.

I rarely walk in the morning and was impressed that people seemed to be in a good mood. Darcy jumped up into the middle of a couple holding hands. He was a bit muddy and they could have been annoyed at his breaking up their romantic moment, but they laughed in stead. Quite a few young people were about, I think because GCSE's are over. Three young men were in the skateboard park, not on their boards, but reclining on a ramp sharing bottles of pop and their i-pods. Darcy ran up to them and gave us all a joyful moment when he failed to make it to the top of the ramp and slid down backwards with a scraping of nails. There was a nice woman with a learning disability out with her friend. She wanted to pet Darcy and was charming in a witty way. She told me that they were going shopping next, which was my plan too.

I managed a healthy supermarket shop and resisted cakes, chocolate, crisps, and pastry. It was a bonus that the shopping was cheaper as although I had bought extra fruit and veggi burgers, I didn't buy any meat. Swings and roundabouts though I had to buy a new bathroom caddy from B&Q. The previous one has broken apart due to rust and it has been bothering me for almost two weeks. Finally, there I was at B&Q. The caddy, in a new style, was almost £13. Ouch. Funny how I would think nothing of spending that much on a take-away meal to last the night, and yet find it expensive for something that will be used every day and last two years (if it lasts as long as the last one).

I had lunch out and read the paper which was devoted to Michael Jackson's funeral. Again, I failed to be moved. I was impressed to read the sensationalist reports that me are now redundant, lab-grown sperm are the future. MJ would have loved that possibility I'm sure, given that his children have turned out to be biologically related to neither parent. It looks as though they were loved though. He protected them from the glare of publicity for the most part. Unlike his family who have thrust them right in to the spotlight. Poor kids, especially Blanket who will have to contend with having lost his Dad and with having a difficult name. I'm glad that our kids have almost grown up. If they lost us, they would be Ok. It's a morbid thought but true. Heaven knows what they would do with my fabric and their Dad's aeroplane books though. We'd better stay alive.

Thursday 2.7.09

So much for blogging every day. I have been truly under motivated, not just about writing, but about pretty much everything. The weather has been unusually hot all the way into the evening and overnight. I haven't coped with it at all well. I'm not sure if my asthma is to blame, or if I'm just not as fit this year as last, or maybe I'm just not motivated. Whatever the cause, I've been irritable and lethargic. It's not a winning combo.

Nina's birthday was nice and low key after the busy weekend. She liked all of the prezzies we got her, she hadn't asked for much, so she got all of her wishes. In order to be a bit healthier, she has decided to go veggie until Christmas. I've agreed to help out by adjusting the family menu as much as is reasonable. It will be a great thing if she pulls it off, not just for her, but for all of us. She has been quite determined so far. Hopefully she will be better at being a veggie than I am at blogging.

Thinking about it, I've been rubbish at communication in general, there's a lot I want to talk to Nick about, but haven't found the right time, even though it's quite mundane stuff. I've resorted to writing him a ten point note. I resisted the temptation to type it up report style and email it to him. It's still an option though.

I hoisted myself off the sofa to take Darcy for a walk this evening. The memorial park is preparing for the Godiva Festival. The tents, fair and walkways were there, as well as a field of large camper vans. Unusually, there was litter everywhere, so I had to keep Darcy on his lead. He wasn't impressed, but was glad to get out of the house. He has been suffering from the heat worse than me, and has taken to lying flat out on the tiles in the hallway. If the weather keeps up, I might try that next.

Wednesday 10.6.09

An eerily productive day today, considering I got very little done. A contradiction for certain, but true. Grey matter firing up nicely.

I was up in good time today but took the computer back to bed thinking I would get some writing done. I didn't, but read some interesting stuff, including a lot more for Richard Herring's blog, Warming Up. He has kept it up every day since 2003 which is an enviable achievement. On top of that, a lot of it is a good read. I'm up to November 2006. http://www.richardherring.com/warmingup/

An hour or so of my afternoon was taken up on Facebook with my friends S and E riffing tea and cake jokes off each other. I think we made up a lot of good stuff, shame it gets lost in the ether. Will it work reprinted here?
S: "I tried to commit suicide by sticking my head in the oven but there was cake in it."
D: "Was it Death by Chocolate?"
or this?
S: “My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far today, I have finished 2 bags of M&M's and a chocolate cake. I feel better already.”
D: "Shit, I was done, mine just told me to have a milky drink before bed. He suggested he come over to administer it, but I couldn't afford the fees."
I think you had to be there. We had a good time though.

I had run out of teabags. That never happens. Tea is very, very important to me, and I felt strange without it. Like when I used to leave the baby with someone. Something big was missing, except it wasn't big, just some dried leaves in a paper pouch that can be soaked in water then thrown away. I had a very brief thought that I wouldn't go and get more, just as an experiment to see what happened. I've temporarily given up several foodstuffs over my lifetime: meat, butter on bread, junk food, chocolate, cake, pastry, milk in tea. Never tea itself though. As I was thinking this, I was drinking a cup of skimmed milk. Why am I always so fat? I drink skimmed milk for goodness sake. Surely the French Fancies are not betraying me. Only 105 calories each they tell me. That's for one serving, a box of eight surely. It was the shortest giving up of a foodstuff on record, twenty seconds. I went out for teabags. There was never any doubt.

Later that afternoon, I sat in McDonalds with my notebook and my first cup of the tea of the day. I couldn't write anything, but was feeling observant. There was a man with a small child, about a year old. I watched him put her safe in a high chair. He left his keys and credit card on the table and disappeared. Seconds later, he was back with a balloon that he tied to her dress. She pulled on the string a few times. He shared his fries with her, picked up her hat twice when she had looked up at the balloon and it had fallen from the back of her head. The two were engaged with each other but absolutely silent. It was like an exercise in non-verbal communication, quite beautiful.

In a communications contrast, there was a shouting, masculine, midlands accented voice. With the tones that an adult will only use towards a child. "You're so disgusting, you're the only one in here doing it, STOP DOING THAT. You will be taken out YOU WILL BE", a reverberating slap, shrill screaming. It was enough to quieten the place down.

Went to B&Q to get a loo seat. Not much has changed, and I remembered the aisle numbers, go me. Nick was great and fixed it on as soon as he got home. I also bought a big load of bin bags as I aim to throw out some old clothes tomorrow, feeling a bit inspired since Nina and I did all the good work yesterday. Tomorrow I might feel different though. It's time to get on with stuff. That's for certain.

Tuesday 9.6.09

Feeling 100% better today. Nina came home earlier than expected, and although she was feeling a bit cross about working patterns, I was glad of her help to get the house sorted. She was up-beat and pleasant about it. We did a better job than I would have done on my own, and in less time too. I made the mistake of spraying febreze though. I genuinely prefer the smell of dog, and it set my asthma off. I never learn.

All of the scrubbing was in honour of H's visit. Nina and I went up to the supermarket for bread and milk, but mostly to get posh biscuits. Nina asked why H's visit merited the biscuits. That's a difficult one. I don't say I need an excuse but sweet stuff, but nice biscuits is largely about being middle class. I got the aspirational 'The Best' range of ganache filled Belgian biscuits. Yummy and showy offy. I knew H would like them, and that she would laugh at my pretentious but delicious purchase. H and I had a nice time, although I got a bit too emotional thinking about the first time she became ill, and made a bit too grand an apology about not being as helpful as I should have been. It was as though I had been drinking, I made a right tit of myself. I had been drinking, but only tea. Anyway, she took it in the spirit I intended and I hope it doesn't put awkwardness between us in the future as we are maybe going to see Billy Bragg.

I know you won't think me such a tit if I tell you that strawberry French Fancies are back in the shops. The special summer edition ones, all pink. I am not embarrassed to say I bought two boxes. Life is sweet.

Thursday 21.5.09

It seems as though the depression of yesterday was a blip. I woke up feeling good this morning, and cracked on with some proper writing, 2000 words by the end of the day. It is helping that S has asked to read some as it is making me get on and write it up properly as opposed to its being half in my head and half in very scratchy notes. I was listening to Morrissey's back catalogue while I was writing, and thinking of my old college friend Julie. How we loved Morrissey's first solo effort Viva Hate. I still can't decide what I think he meant by the lyrics of Bengali in Platforms.

I was outraged that the local free paper delivered the BNP's pre-election mail shot. I would boycott the paper, but don't see how I can as I don't actually buy it. The fringe parties seem to be getting a lot of publicity this year. There is a right wing Christian fundamentalist group, and a pro-car lobby as well as UKIP and the Liberals. They all scent the blood of the much knocked about Labour party. I can't wait until it's over. There's no good result to hope for this year. This is only the European elections anyway, and because I've made no effort, I've no clear idea of what the person representing me might have to decide on. I expect there's expenses though.

I ate a whole family sized Dairy Milk Caramel bar this evening and I feel horribly sick. I'd better not make it a habit. I had pie for tea as well, so that's enough calories for the week. If I carry on, I might start a pro-fat lobby for the next elections. French Fancies could be my sponsor, I could declare them as income and expenses in one.

Thursday 7.5.09

I couldn't face cleaning the kitchen today, so in a return to a past lifestyle almost forgotten, Nick, H and I went out for tea to the Harvester. I was able to disguise this slice of laziness by telling them they deserved a treat, H having done well in her coursework and Nick being super-breadwinner (Nina was out with P). Harvester was my suggestion based on having seen an advert in the paper weeks ago that told me they still had the special deal if you order before 6.30pm. They had that same deal when we had our last meal at the Harvester. That was a millennium ago. H couldn't remember ever eating there, but we did, for a lot of the mid-late 1990's, about once a month, drawn in by the facilities for family dining, the cheap tea-time deal, and the salad bar. Would it be the same? Nick and I were excited to find out. We were trying to be ironic, but we were kidding ourselves, we were genuinely excited.

It was the same. Or, at least, so much the same that we had to work at it to find the differences. The carpet, I think was exactly the same red and cream pattern designed not to show the dirt. The tables and chairs were the same. Farm-house country-style pine with upholstered seats. They were more a mix of styles than they had before. Harvester seems to have decided to replace some, but not all of the seating, which left us sitting at odd heights. The restaurant area was divided up by partitions with glass-free windows, these were in place last time we were there, but they had been re-painted cream (they used to be terracotta, as far as I recall).

Drinks were prompt. Nick got himself into a tizzy and couldn't cope with the choice, so I ordered him a pint of Bulmers Cider that arrived with ice cubes. H and I stuck to diet coke. I noticed that we could have had elderflower coolers though, or smoothies. You couldn't get them in the 90's, young people don't know they're born....

The menu, you should have a look at for yourself. I think it's fair to say, it doesn't scream 2009. http://www.harvester.co.uk/ . The salad bar was in the same place, serving the same stuff, right down to the blue cheese dressing and the strangely appealing crunchy fried onions. You can still have as much salad as you like, and as many bread rolls, although they weren't as good as they used to be. We had a starter that was a platter of chicken wings, breaded mushrooms and prawns, and sweetcorn. The best bit was the bar-b-q sauce on the chicken. It was all a bit greasy, but appetising in its way. For main, Nick went for the bacon burger, which was an enormous burger with cheese and a half a slice of gammon on top. H went for scampi, which was er, scampi served without the traditional bread and tartare sauce, cooked at too low a temperature which made it greasy (I suspect the fat could do with changing). I had the combi of spit-roast chicken which had a steamed quality, and a half rack of ribs which was tender and tasty, covered as it was in bar-b-q sauce. All of the specials come with chips or chips and all the salad you want. We were too full to attempt pudding, and that is saying something as we're talking the Richards family. I don't remember the old menu, but I don't think it was much different. It came to under £30 all in.

Weirdly, the customers were the same. Middle England low key respectables, mostly eating in groups of 4-6, most tables with a child or two. The odd table of work colleagues were there, out for a self congratulatory character assassination of workmates who hadn't come along. The change of the clothes and hairstyles was the giveaway. Most of us seem to have stopped wearing sportswear to dinner.

We were trying to come up with changes, but we weren't doing too well. The staff uniforms had been updated, with an all black dress code supplemented by almost floor skimming white wrap around waist aprons (sort of bakery style, I suppose). I have to assume that the dress code also said the aprons should be grubby, because they universally were. The music was mostly recent, Amy Winehouse is doing good trade. That's about it though.

I'm not sure that it should matter that not much has changed. The place was busy enough for 6pm on a Thursday. No sign of the credit crunch. Little Chef's lesson is that food businesses need to adapt to survive. In the words of Sam Cooke (and Barrak Obama) change is gonna come, maybe.

Tuesday 5.5.09

I'm still obsessed with French Fancies. I bought another box today, and began to think it had all gone too far when I justified myself to Nina by saying that I was trying to manage on a box every other day.

I'm beginning to think its the colours that are the attraction. The pinks are just so perfectly pinky pink. Girlie pink, sugary pink, the colour of pink sugar mice, and pink beads in little girls necklaces, the colour of the frivolous and the feminine. The pinks are the best. Next best are the yellows. Sunshine and daffodils and the centre of a daisy. They have a faintly lemony taste, which puts me off them just a little bit. Who needs the taste of fruit? Thankfully, they don't taste of banana (or maybe it would be better if they did), I find the taste of banana flavouring repulsive, so I wouldn't be able to eat them then. Last to go are the browns. They are vaguely cocoa flavoured, but although they taste nice and I should love them as they represent chocolate, they look a bit dull next to their more cheery friends. I shouldn't hold that against them though, as after all every group of friends has a 'quiet one'. Last year, there was a limited edition range all in pink, and I missed the browns (although inexplicably, I didn't miss the yellows).

I was buying a cardie at the supermarket and Nina did our regular debate about a colour that may be blue but in my eyes is definitely 100% green. I got to thinking that its over a year since I've done any sewing. I've done no patchwork since the project that I started just before I went to Cornwall. I abandoned the cross stitch of an eagle within weeks of moving in with Nan, there wasn't enough light, and in any case, I was fed up with all of the shades of brown.

I have a theory that colour is the reason that almost all cross stitches that are made up look tacky. Those bright clashing, cheery colours are the most enjoyable to work with, and it matters as cross stitch unless you are a super-quick pro, happens at about one hour per square inch. There are only so many hours a day anyone wants to look at brown. Its a shame that for home decor, stitched pictures of cats on backgrounds of pinks and yellows has never caught on.

My new hobby seems to be french fancies, maybe I should go back to sewing. I can't just yet though, there are still two pinks in the box.

May Day, Monday 4.5.09

What no blogs? Spent a mellow weekend with the family, less Nina who went on a last minute adventure to see student friends in Liverpool. Have eaten way too much in the way of sugary food and takeaways. Apart from a fifteen minute walk through to woods by Hersall Common (bluebells a treat), have had no exercise. Went to open mic night at Tin Angel yesterday, very overcrowded, couldn't get to the bar, but felt like a proper mum taking H out.

Time for another french fancy.

Thursday 9.4.09

Eating has been a lifelong obsession of mine. A drug I can't help but take. The food addiction took hold big time today, and big is no doubt the effect that will have been created. This is a shame as I just bought a new pair of rather snug jeans. I have read that keeping a food diary can be a good thing. I intend to shame myself with what follows, but I have to say up front, I can't remember everything I've eaten today, so I think we need to add a third on. Indigestion pills at the ready then............

2 x white toast, 2 x burgers, ketchup

3 x thin slices ham

slice of cheese

1 x potato cut up and shallow fried, plenty of salt and vinegar

slice of cheese

full portion special fried rice from Chinese takeaway

1/3 bag prawn crackers

chocolate macaroon

1/2 tub fresh raspberries

chocolate macaroon

chocolate macaroon

unlimited cups of tea with milk

Erm, you did notice the fruit didn't you?

I feel better now knowing that anyone who has read this far is feeling pretty good about their own eating habits. You're Gillian McKeith to me you are. But don't worry, you don't look like Gillian, you look quite nice.