As I write this I’m tucking into a family size tub of Ben & Jerry’s with no intention of sharing it with my family or anyone else’s. As I devour the creamy chocolate peanut butter yumminess I am desperately trying to remember what it used to feel like to sit down and not have my midriff tyre slump upwards to meet my nipples. The diet that will start on Monday is also being planned.  

Why Monday?  Because it goes without saying that diets always start on a Monday.  Imagine a diet that started on a Thursday or worse still on a weekend.  I’m struggling to think of anything more ridiculous.  Which means because today is Friday I can legitimately stuff my face all weekend long before Monday arrives. Perfect. It can’t just me who thinks on this level.  On a constant loop of disapproval, guilt and self loathing for eating everything in the fridge, emptying the biscuit tins and when everything has run out contemplating the dogs food.  Okay a step too far I admit, but you know where I’m coming from.  I don’t think I’m alone in feeling this.  

Monday.  First day of planned diet.

7.30am – Natural yoghurt with berries and a sprinkle of oates.  

Lovingly prepared the night before with  unwavering commitment to the cause of losing 3 stone in a week

10.30am – Hungry but fighting it.

Or is it boredom?  Or habit?

1pm – Chicken salad

Delicious chicken, not so delicious salad, unless it’s blathered in mayo and that sort of defeats the object. Eat the meat and leave the salad.

3pm – An apple.  A Fucking apple.  The leftover cheesecake from last night’s tea is calling to me from the fridge.  If I’m being honest, it’s been doing it since 7.31am this morning.

6pm-  Omelette

Everyone else is devouring a roast dinner.  Not trusting myself to have just the meat and veg because I have no self control, and it’s not the same without yorkshire puds,  a mountain of crispy roast potatoes and lashings of gravy,  I listlessly poke at my omelette.

8pm – 3 oreos, an Alpen breakfast bar and a twix.

All eaten while my head is still in the cupboard and therefore secret and therefore doesn’t count.

8.03pm – Mixed berry cheesecake

Also eaten inside the fridge and therefore also doesn’t count.  And it’s been shouting its head off all day at me so really I’ve done well to last this long.

This is a random sample day of any diet I’ve ever done in the last 15 years.  Starts strong and with devotion to the flat tummy that is within my grasp, if only I could stop the secret eating.  It is unfortunate that this continues through the night. A regrettable habit that began during pregnancy 13 years ago and refuses to leave. I can set my watch by it.  

The sample diet above is a huge step forward from the pills and potions I would try in the old days.  Anything that promised an instant drop of 3 stone in a week, was mostly made up of speed, and only let me eat 4 peeled grapes before I was full, I was buying in bulk.  One time I got this diet powder that you had to mix with water to make the most repulsive drink to ever exist.  It had the consistency of wall paper paste and was brown.  The sort of brown that would emerge should you  nutribullet one of your own turds. Not the most appetising thing and rather difficult to swallow due to the thickness.  The idea was that you should drink 3-4 glasses of this filth during the day, I’m assuming to keep you full, then your evening meal should consist of 300-400 calories.  I look back now and laugh in the face of the turdish tinged glue.  The idea that anyone would even consider this now seems outrageous.  Absurd even.

I have found with getting older and feeling more settled that I have become accustomed to my body. The saying ‘comfortable in your own skin’ makes sense to me now.  Let me explain.  

*I’m married – And although at times Husband pretends to hate me I know he actually thinks I’m alright.  He likes my body, even the wobbly bits, and especially when I was pregnant which I found a little bizarre admittedly, until I started to understand.  The body is beautiful.  Even if it’s not a size 10.  Even if it has stretch marks and bumpy bits and absolutely when it’s on the brink of giving life.

* I have 2 beautiful children – This wouldn’t have been possible without the cooperation of my body.  Despite the years of abuse like drinking, junk food or lack of exercise it still worked its magic and produced 2 healthy babies.  For that I will be eternally in awe.

*In recent years I’ve come to understand that I’m okay – I’m slowly learning who I am.  Not everyone’s cup of tea, I fully accept that’s alright and don’t try to be.  I’m kinder to myself on all levels and not just in relation to my body.  I cut myself slack when my favourite jeans don’t fit anymore and instead of crying and feeling terrible about it I’ll just buy bigger ones.  I’ve also acquired a keen nose for anything in the world of fashion that resembles a smock, a burka and anything in tie dye.

*Being more aware of what is important and what isn’t – Going through certain life experiences and struggles has allowed me to open up my gaze and look at things in a new light.  It has allowed me to see the beauty in life and people I never had the time or the inclination to previously when I was too wrapped up in shit like how thin I could be. 

I honestly quite like my body these days.  It’s bigger and flobbles more than it did.  On weeks when I’ve gone hell for leather with baking, and eaten it before it makes it to the baking tin, I have struggled to see my lady bits from a birds eye view. My boobs and arms are bigger, Husband compares my back to that of Jeff Capes regularly horrid man but I don’t mind. 

 It’s ok. 

 I know now that bigger does not mean less beautiful.  Everyone was made to be different shapes and sizes.  How tedious would it be if we all were exactly the same size and had identical bodies. Like the vast majority I still have moments of hatred when I wish my stomach was flatter or my arms slimmer.  There are still times when I plan strict diets to lose 3 stone in a week but these are short lived.  We should love our bodies, not hate them.  Celebrate their uniqueness and respect their resilience and under no circumstances be ashamed of them.  Our bodies are responsible for giving us our babies, fighting off illnesses and  dragging us around day in day out without agenda. And for this we should be thankful.

Scenario: You are asked to make a short video congratulating a work colleague for 15 years service that will become part of a montage.  When the finished article is released onto the group WhatsApp chat you realise everyone has left heartfelt messages and filmed their actual selves except for you who is a Snapchat talking sausage roll.

As discussed previously, personal hygiene hasn’t been my strong point this year.  Given the choice of bathing, preening and applying makeup for a video message or becoming a talking sausage roll where only your eyes and teeth are visible it’s a no brainer for me.  So when I was asked to contribute a short congratulatory message on our WhatsApp group I could think of nothing better than disguising my not so attractive appearance by becoming a Cooplands sausage roll.  

 I may have also indicated on the video message that because I have worked there longer (ok only 1 year longer, but longer is longer so …) than her that I was therefore in charge of her, making me her direct superior which I thought was hilarious when I did it, only realising later that it looked as though I was saying that length of service determines your authority in the workplace, which I sort of was but only as a joke.  Then I remembered that our manager has been our manager for less than a year.  Little bit awkward.  

It turned out though that she loved my message, even if it was delivered by a delicious pastry treat containing pig’s tails and eyeballs so that was a relief.  She also assumed that the comment about me being her direct superior was a joke (it wasn’t, I am in charge of you, and you must do everything I say – you know who you are).

I love nothing more than a good Snapchat filter.  I have a variety of favourites that I use to communicate with certain friends. Instead of calling or texting them like a civilised human, I like to record long rambling messages as a head of broccoli or a carrot.  Strangely it always seems to be a fruit or a vegetable.  Anyway, this is my recommendation for the week.  Choose a friend who you want to catch up with and then carefully select a Snapchat filter to record a long and drawn out message about nothing. Some of us on Instagram have already had a little practice this week following the Snapchat challenge I set.  Send them it and you will either be rewarded with a response from a talking chicken nugget or similar which I have to say always lifts my spirits and lets you know without doubt that these are ‘your people’. Or, they will decide you are a complete Fucking weirdo and ghost you.  In my experience there isn’t usually much of an inbetween.  Just for reference, in these instances these are not ‘your people.’

Good Luck.

Scenario: When your brother confides that your children are the sole reason he has chosen to remain childless.  He admits he loves them and they are little angels but the variety that have come straight from the guts of hell.  His pet name for them, ‘The hells angels’ now makes a great deal of sense.

My beautiful little ankle biters can be a trifle overbearing sometimes.  I accept this. Loud and shouty and more than partial to mischief, you’d be forgiven for thinking that I feed them a bag of speed each morning for breakfast, but this aside I still didn’t know if my brother was joking or not.  He has managed to remain childless and now in his late thirties it’s probably unlikely he will be a dad which is a shame because he’s the perfect candidate to be a parent in a big kid meets protector sort of a way.  He does have step children though so his potential to air his parenting talents haven’t been totally lost.

 Then I remembered a particular visit my brother had made to my mums when we had been there.  It involved my then 6 year old boy who was going through a phase of pulling down peoples pants from behind when they weren’t looking because he thought it was hilarious. Which lets face it, is always funny in any situation.  He had claimed more than one victim with this killer move including  but not limited to my Father In Law.  The time he had done it to his Grandad, everyone in the living room had got an eyeful they didn’t want.  Grandad had been carrying a tray of tea at the time which rendered him helpless and made it impossible for him to pull his shorts back up straight away which was a bit awkward but totally brilliant at the same time! 

 My ankle biters had terrorized my brother from start to finish during this visit and it was nicely concluded with my 6 year old giving him the biggest wedgie I’d ever seen a thirty something get from a small child, quickly followed up by his signature pant pulling move.  It is probably important to note that this happened on the driveway in full view of the neighbours in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.  It is also equally important that I mention my brother had made the unfortunate decision to go commando that day.  After remembering this little nugget I realised the probability of him being serious about why he was childless was fairly high.

 I don’t hold this against him, far from it in fact.  To me it is a huge compliment.  My anklebiters have personality and I love it. I appreciate that my life would most likely be easier and less frustrating if they were quiet, well behaved and didn’t earn themselves titles like ‘The Hell’s Angels’ but honestly who wants that?  Strong personalities are something to be celebrated and without a doubt an asset in this world we live in.  I’m sure over time and with the introduction to high school, college and various other life adventures that they will be brought down a peg or two so I feel grateful for their strength of character because one day they’ll need it.  It’s also a bit of a relief to all involved that my boy seems to have outgrown his love for making family members do involuntary moonies so relax people, no need for those very tight belts anymore.

Eliza x

Question: When is the ideal time to bump into an old college friend that you haven’t seen for the thick end of 10 years?

 Is it when you are unshowered, unshaven (chin hairs protruding), unmade up without a scrap of make up and totally uninterested in anything that’s happening around you because you are concentrating on picking up your dog’s poo that is far from solid on a public footpath?

No.

Is it when you are sporting unflattering see through black leggings and therefore showing off your wild hairy beaver because in the absence of knickers the little hairs are poking through in the same way they do when you are abroad on holiday in your bikini and you’ve trimmed with the nail scissors in a feeble attempt at being well groomed?  

No.

Lets say , just for fun, that the friend in question is tall, slim, unimaginably glamorous and clad from head to foot in designer wear. More impressively (to me) clean freshly washed designer wear, including a shiny  pair of Hunter wellies with matching socks.  

It would appear that although none of the above are textbook perfect situations, you don’t get to choose so it’s tough shit when all of them come true at once on a family dog walk on a Sunday morning.  My mum doesn’t even go to the petrol station for a pint of milk without a dash of lippy and a bucket full of style, making her look like she has marched straight off the front cover of Vogue, just on the off chance she ever crosses paths with her neighbours’ brothers’ wifes’ cousins’ cat, so if she knew that I’d been caught out in cheap leggings, a dirty coat and the 10 year olds beanie hat she would be mortified.

 It was a beautiful frosty morning, the field at the back of the house was white over and begging to be explored with excited kids and boisterous dogs in tow.  In reality Husband and I had no other choice but to threaten the children in order to make them move out of their bedrooms and cooperate in joining in on family dog walking fun, something we try to make a habit of each Sunday morning.  Amongst cries of ‘’I’m not coming, you can’t make me’’ and  ‘’I hate the outside, stop ruining my weekend’’ we managed to shoo them both up the drive and into the white field.  We had decided to walk across the field  at the front of our house, up the public footpath, passed the farm and back around the country lane to the back of our house.  I do this walk with the dogs a few times a week.

Husband never ever picks up dog poos, it makes him gip so I get lumbered with the job every single time.  We had made it roughly half a mile from our house and I was already carrying 3 full dog poo bags so when our big old American Bulldog squatted for the fourth time  I had to negotiate 3 other bags,  a crazy Frenchie and two of those stupid extendable leads that you could easily hang yourself on.  Husband and the kids had knobbed off up front to do ‘grannie slides ‘ (WTF a grannie slide is I don’t know but it’s what Husband calls them) on the ice leaving me to struggle alone.  Imagine my sheer overwhelming delight when bent over mid poo grab a voice bellowed ‘’ OMG I thought it was you!!’’

Spinning around crap in hand, I came face to face with my best pal from college.  Her looking like a glamorous celebrity not a day over 21 and me looking like a middle aged homeless prostitute in a hand knitted beanie brandishing a dog poo like it was a weapon.

Despite generally not giving a flying fook about what people think about me, all I could think about was how horrendous I looked in comparison to this goddess standing in front of me.  After what seemed like an eternity of pleasantries including an introduction to her new husband I managed to excuse myself and escape.  

Once again alone with Husband, the ankle biters and the dogs. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  My people. 

 I hitch up my mucky leggings, wipe my nose on the back of my hand and look lovingly at Husband, grateful he’s not judging me like I was just judging myself when he says with a huge smile ‘’So that’s what it’s like to have a wife who looks after themselves’’

Fucking unbelievable.

Last year when the first lockdown in March snook up on us and smashed us over the head with a frying pan, I had to stay off work to look after the ankle biters like a lot of mums and dads.  Although it was a strange time which took some getting used to, we all seemed to bed in quite nicely to lazy days of reading, avoiding housework, eating 67 times a day and loosely attempting to keep the homeschooling up and running. I stopped wearing jeans or any clothing that was tighter than a loose jogger or pyjama set, and this included my bra.  Never a huge fan of the brazier anyway, this was the perfect opportunity to set fire to it and never let it near my bangers again, and that’s what happened.  For 7 marvellous months my boobs swung low and free without a care in the world and without apology, so imagine my distress when come September I had to go back to work in a formal situation where the freedom of jiggling boobs and rogue nipples was strictly forbidden.  

Picture this … you have made a special effort to leave your home, taking your life in your hands braving COVID to go and pay a cheque in at your local bank.  You are greeted by the cashier tits first and nearly lose an eye.  Probably not what most customers are looking for. 

 The necessity for a restrictive bra, tights and that little bitch you call a work dress now 2 sizes too small following lockdown was mandatory.  I knew my waistline had expanded slightly as a lot of people’s had but I just wasn’t ready for how much.  I’m now the not so proud owner of middle age spread and I don’t really know what to do about it.  Ideally I’d do nothing and it will disappear on its own but that’s probably not going to happen which is why I had 2 options to choose between.  

 1.Purchase the second hand dress that was for sale on the works internal internet which was 10 sizes bigger than my own and had specially modified extra large sleeves. An ideal addition to accommodate the bingo wings.

 2. Wear a double duvet cover.

I was beginning to think the only viable solution to escaping this fate was to fake my own death. I love work, or rather the girls at work. It’s like getting paid to go and see my friends 2 days a week but we’re not going to mention that to my manager. I have discovered though  that I love home more.  I like not washing myself, not wearing makeup, smelling bad without judgment and most importantly not having to wear a bra.  

Letting my tarts swing and clap together at will is very liberating and not something I want to give up in a hurry.  Maybe I could persuade work to introduce bra free Fridays?  The only other alternative is to meet my end by being involved in a fatal boating accident (because every film I’ve ever watched involving the faking of a death ALWAYS involves a boating accident).  It’s not a decision to be taken lightly, it will require some careful thought. Just know that if you see on the news that an abandoned boat has been found unmanned in the North sea in suspicious circumstances close to where a half burnt woman’s body was retrieved, that I came to a decision.

Firstly, THANK YOU FOR COMING, lovely to have you here!  I decided to start this blog because for as long as I can remember I have always enjoyed a good story.  In fact, in my opinion there’s nothing better, and over the years I have talked the ears off my friends and family with stories which usually begin ‘’ You’ll never guess what happened ……’’, so I thought it was about time I branched out and found new people to talk to death.  Not actual death, don’t panic, to my knowledge no one ever died of being talked at, but then there’s always a first time so watch your back!

Once you’ve had a bit of a mooch through this check out my ‘about’ page to find out all my dirty little secrets.  This is my first blog and there will be many  more so if you like a bit of jackanory time and want to come back then that would be spank me on the arse fantastic. If you are wondering what sort of shite I will be drivelling on about, I can tell you that you can expect to see rantings and ramblings about some of the following things-  

*Stuff that happens to me or things I observe on a day to day basis that make me think, Fucking Hell I’ve got to tell someone right now before my head blows off.  This could be anything from an excellent outfit choice by a random member of Joe Public that i’ve caught sight of, to my youngest child telling the Asda cashier ALL of my secrets. There will probably be more than one or two accounts of little incidents that have occured  like when I nearly ate a floating turd by accident in a pool in Eygpt or got trapped in the automatic door at the bus station.  I may mention Husband when he has done something particularly nice or has annoyed me so much that I am plotting his slow painful demise, and of course I will let you know when my little ones (that are actually not so little anymore – currently 9 and 12) say inappropriate or rude things because anyone who says that inappropriateness (is that even a word?) isn’t funny needs an immediate operation to have a sense of humour transplant. sibling arguments, pets (usually our 2 dogs).  One is quite old and smelly but beautiful and we love him.  The other is a small French Bulldog that we rescued last year.  She is basically mental and has a plan for world domination, despite this we love her too.  The attempt at parenting that Husband and I are constantly stabbing around in the dark at will also be mentioned frequently I imagine.

*Toilet Humour.  It’s my fave and there will be plenty.  

This isn’t an exhaustive list but it gives you a clue. I’m hoping that this blog will attract like minded people that like to laugh, who don’t take themselves too seriously.  I’d like it to be a place that makes you feel better after a shitty day or just somewhere to come when you feel like you want to hear a friendly voice.  I want everyone who visits this page to know that it is a place of support, in particular women supporting women because as a woman I don’t think there’s ever a time when you shouldn’t.  It definitely WON’T be a place that will be full of stories about perfect families that live in perfect show houses with perfectly behaved children, mainly because I have precisely no experience of any of these things.  My house is messy, my children argue and say things like ‘’Mum has a willy’’, which I don’t by the way, and shock horror Husband and I sometimes have a good old slanging match but I wouldn’t change any of it.  I am exactly where I want to be.  I am probably wearing a 3 day old stained loungewear set in a house that hasn’t seen a hoover in a while but that is still exactly where I want to be. I’d maybe like my loungewear to be cleaner but you cant have everything.