Who ate all the pies?

Due to my ongoing laundry crisis I have been sleeping in the fairy princess room of late. It has sheets & pillow cases & other similar luxury items currently missing from my bedroom. And since my bathroom has been a work in progress since the summer, the bathroom scales have been in my bedroom. And unused. But last night I was dancing round the house naked to kylie (as is my want after an ale or three) and I happened across said scales. And in a moment of weakness I climbed on. After adjusting my belly so that I could actually read the scales (not a good sign) I was suitably horrified. I wont go into the numbers but on my little chart I have strayed well into fat bastard territory.

And Christmas looms. When I will doubtless celebrate the birth of a Jewish radical in a stable manger in Bethlehem 2000+ years ago by consuming my entire body weight in sprouts and eating more quality street than you can shake a stick at. Yup, in four glorious days of gluttony I will pile on another stone. Which given this years starting position will make me – wait for it – Morbidly obese. Well there’s a whole new territory where I really don’t want to go.

Now last year, in an effort to lose some weight I actually stopped drinking for a month in January. And boy was I a miserable bastard. But the terrible alternative appears to be exercise. Oh god, why didn’t you take me whilst I was still young and pretty. (Ok, I‘m still very pretty and very glad you have spared me, but oh for the metabolism of my youth).

So I fear I must dig the old weight machine out of the garage. And use it for something other than hanging shirts on. Welcome to OMR hell.