I feel different. And not just because I no longer lie awake at night any more worrying about flat-repossession and being turfed out on the street with Billy Smith and those bloody Le Creuset pans. It’s as if Gabe’s presence has exorcised the ghosts of the past. Despite the shock discovery that I’m sharing my home with a stand-up comedian, I feel happier. More positive. Thinner.
It’s Thursday evening after work and I’d popped into Boots to buy some cotton-wool balls when I noticed one of those electronic weighing machines. Impulsively I decided to weigh myself. Which is why I’m now staring at the digital display in astonishment.
No, that can’t be right. I peer closer, forehead furrowing. I’ve lost five pounds? For the past couple of months I’ve been trying vaguely to shift the weight I put on at Christmas. I’ve been jogging – twice – I’ve bought a yoga video that I’ve got every intention of watching, and I’ve been sacrificing my breakfast pain au chocolat from the French pâtisserie on the corner for All Bran, which tastes like cardboard. It’s hardly a major lifestyle change but now suddently – poof – those few pounds have gone. It’s amazing. Unbelievable. Weird.
Puzzled, I prod my stomach. I don’t feel any thinner. But it’s difficult to tell and, admittedly, I have been under a lot of financial pressure recently. Isn’t that when you lose weight? Doesn’t stress gobble up calories, a bit like Pacman in those old computer games?
I take the computerised ticket, step off the scales and walk to the cash register. For once there’s no queue and, feeling a little ping of pleasure, I plop my cotton-wool balls on the counter. Yep, that must be it. I knew there’d be a sensible explanation. I mean, it’s not as if weight can disappear magically overnight, is it?
Beaming at the sales assistant, I pull my purse out of my pocket. The lucky heather drops out. How did that get there? I’m sure I left it at home.
‘That’ll be one pound twenty-five,’ prompts the assistant.
‘Oh, yeah . . . Sorry.’ Stuffing the heather back into my pocket I happily count out my change. Whatever the explanation for my weight loss, I get my wish: no more All Bran.
Leaving Boots in a cheerful mood, I cross the main road and walk quickly through Notting Hill. I’m meeting my brother Ed at the Wolsey Castle, a gastro-type pub just round the corner, and as usual I’m late. I speed up. Ed’s a real stickler for time-keeping and I don’t want one of his lectures before I’ve even had the chance to order a gin and tonic. Though to be honest, I’m anticipating a lecture. He called me yesterday and said he wanted to ‘talk about something’, which, translated into Ed-speak, means give me a talking to, his favourite starting-point being, ‘Why haven’t you got a pension plan yet?’ which probably gives you some idea about Ed.
But when I turn the corner into a street lined with shops and restaurants, I catch sight of something that stops me dead in my tracks. Pink, satin and with an adorable peep-toe: they are the most gorgeous pair of shoes I’ve ever seen, just sitting there in a window display, waiting for me to walk past.
I step back to see the name of the store – Sigerson Morrison. My heart soars. I adore this shop: it’s always chock full of the most exquisite shoes. Which are completely out of your price range, Heather, pipes up a stern little voice inside me. I feel a tug of disappointment. But, still, there’s no harm in looking. I lean closer. Which is when I see the sign. ‘75% OFF’.
My stomach somersaults. I’m not a shopaholic, although, yes, I sometimes get a physical urge to dive into the changing rooms at H&M with armfuls of clothes. And, yes, I often don’t need to buy anything, putting it on hold is enough. It’s the sense of ownership, the comfort of knowing that it’s yours if you want it – without the commitment. I guess it’s a bit like getting
It’s Thursday evening after work and I’d popped into Boots to buy some cotton-wool balls when I noticed one of those electronic weighing machines. Impulsively I decided to weigh myself. Which is why I’m now staring at the digital display in astonishment.
No, that can’t be right. I peer closer, forehead furrowing. I’ve lost five pounds? For the past couple of months I’ve been trying vaguely to shift the weight I put on at Christmas. I’ve been jogging – twice – I’ve bought a yoga video that I’ve got every intention of watching, and I’ve been sacrificing my breakfast pain au chocolat from the French pâtisserie on the corner for All Bran, which tastes like cardboard. It’s hardly a major lifestyle change but now suddently – poof – those few pounds have gone. It’s amazing. Unbelievable. Weird.
Puzzled, I prod my stomach. I don’t feel any thinner. But it’s difficult to tell and, admittedly, I have been under a lot of financial pressure recently. Isn’t that when you lose weight? Doesn’t stress gobble up calories, a bit like Pacman in those old computer games?
I take the computerised ticket, step off the scales and walk to the cash register. For once there’s no queue and, feeling a little ping of pleasure, I plop my cotton-wool balls on the counter. Yep, that must be it. I knew there’d be a sensible explanation. I mean, it’s not as if weight can disappear magically overnight, is it?
Beaming at the sales assistant, I pull my purse out of my pocket. The lucky heather drops out. How did that get there? I’m sure I left it at home.
‘That’ll be one pound twenty-five,’ prompts the assistant.
‘Oh, yeah . . . Sorry.’ Stuffing the heather back into my pocket I happily count out my change. Whatever the explanation for my weight loss, I get my wish: no more All Bran.
Leaving Boots in a cheerful mood, I cross the main road and walk quickly through Notting Hill. I’m meeting my brother Ed at the Wolsey Castle, a gastro-type pub just round the corner, and as usual I’m late. I speed up. Ed’s a real stickler for time-keeping and I don’t want one of his lectures before I’ve even had the chance to order a gin and tonic. Though to be honest, I’m anticipating a lecture. He called me yesterday and said he wanted to ‘talk about something’, which, translated into Ed-speak, means give me a talking to, his favourite starting-point being, ‘Why haven’t you got a pension plan yet?’ which probably gives you some idea about Ed.
But when I turn the corner into a street lined with shops and restaurants, I catch sight of something that stops me dead in my tracks. Pink, satin and with an adorable peep-toe: they are the most gorgeous pair of shoes I’ve ever seen, just sitting there in a window display, waiting for me to walk past.
I step back to see the name of the store – Sigerson Morrison. My heart soars. I adore this shop: it’s always chock full of the most exquisite shoes. Which are completely out of your price range, Heather, pipes up a stern little voice inside me. I feel a tug of disappointment. But, still, there’s no harm in looking. I lean closer. Which is when I see the sign. ‘75% OFF’.
My stomach somersaults. I’m not a shopaholic, although, yes, I sometimes get a physical urge to dive into the changing rooms at H&M with armfuls of clothes. And, yes, I often don’t need to buy anything, putting it on hold is enough. It’s the sense of ownership, the comfort of knowing that it’s yours if you want it – without the commitment. I guess it’s a bit like getting
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