The world was good again. I could cope.
That feeling never lasted very long. Or rather, it lasted for as long as the chocolate bar did, which was generally under one minute. Then, hard on its heels, would come the crashing low of disappointment and self-recrimination. Why had I caved in? Why had I let myself down? I was never going to lose weight now, never. I was too weak, too spineless to resist the cravings. I would be a fat, miserable blimp for the rest of my life . . .
Oh well, I would say after a few hours of this. Never mind. I should have known I would fail. And anyway, what was so wrong with being fat? I didn’t care. It wasn’t a crime to be overweight, was it? I wasn’t hurting anybody or doing anything wrong.
At this point, I would stuff the diet books back onto the shelf where they sat with all the other self-help rejects, and I’d blot out the bad feelings of guilt with a nice cup of tea and a biscuit.
And so I went on until the next diet, and the next plunge from the optimistic I can do it this time! to the inevitable I’m such a loser self-loathing.
It had become something of a pattern, a loop that I couldn’t escape from. So you can imagine I didn’t hold out an awful lot of hope for FatBusters. I was always rubbish at maths at school, and the thought of counting calories was enough to turn me cold. Plus I’d never been one for sticking at things, right from when I was eight and gave up ballet lessons after two weeks because my leotard was itchy. As with the diets, I started projects, but could never see them through. And the thing about dieting was that it seemed to take for ever to get results. I just didn’t know if I could keep on denying myself all my favourite treats for the sake of a measly pound here or an inch there.
Still, this time I had the ultimate motivation, didn’t I, what with the wedding looming. Like it or not, I was going to have to grit my teeth, stock up on cardboard-tasting rice cakes and ignore the chocolate bars in the newsagent. I really, really, really had to do it this—
‘Jess?’
I realized Phoebe was looking quizzically at me. It was Friday, and we were in the tiny staff room. I’d just eaten my packed lunch – tomato salad and some grapes – and still felt famished.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Only you keep sighing to yourself. What’s up?’
I put on my best smile. ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’
She narrowed her eyes, not looking as if she believed me. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Hey, did I mention my birthday drinks to you, by the way?’
‘No,’ I said, trying not to watch as she bit into a huge tuna baguette. I loved tuna mayonnaise. And bread. And butter (salted, preferably). And . . . Stop it, Jess .
‘Well,’ she said, finishing her mouthful, ‘it’s my birthday tomorrow, so I’m having a bit of a crawl. We’re starting off in the Star Bar for cocktails, then a few in the Slug and Lettuce, then off to Planet for a dance around our handbags. I know it’s short notice, but some of the girls from here are coming along – Maisie and Jasmine are up for it, if you fancy joining us as well?’
I’d been distracted by the mention of the Star Bar – wasn’t that a kind of chocolate bar from years ago? – and only managed to get out an ‘Umm . . .’ while I tried to think. I had a feeling Charlie was going out with his mates tomorrow night, leaving me alone in front of the telly.
‘Go on,’ Phoebe coaxed, licking a blob of tuna off her thumb. ‘It’ll be a laugh, a load of us girls out on the town.’ She glanced around and lowered her voice. ‘And I haven’t asked Louisa – you’ll be quite safe.’
I thought quickly. Booze was dead calorific, but I could have slimline tonic water all evening, couldn’t I? I didn’t have to be pissed to enjoy myself. And Phoebe was really nice – being out with her would be much more fun than sitting in watching Casualty or Big Brother on my
That feeling never lasted very long. Or rather, it lasted for as long as the chocolate bar did, which was generally under one minute. Then, hard on its heels, would come the crashing low of disappointment and self-recrimination. Why had I caved in? Why had I let myself down? I was never going to lose weight now, never. I was too weak, too spineless to resist the cravings. I would be a fat, miserable blimp for the rest of my life . . .
Oh well, I would say after a few hours of this. Never mind. I should have known I would fail. And anyway, what was so wrong with being fat? I didn’t care. It wasn’t a crime to be overweight, was it? I wasn’t hurting anybody or doing anything wrong.
At this point, I would stuff the diet books back onto the shelf where they sat with all the other self-help rejects, and I’d blot out the bad feelings of guilt with a nice cup of tea and a biscuit.
And so I went on until the next diet, and the next plunge from the optimistic I can do it this time! to the inevitable I’m such a loser self-loathing.
It had become something of a pattern, a loop that I couldn’t escape from. So you can imagine I didn’t hold out an awful lot of hope for FatBusters. I was always rubbish at maths at school, and the thought of counting calories was enough to turn me cold. Plus I’d never been one for sticking at things, right from when I was eight and gave up ballet lessons after two weeks because my leotard was itchy. As with the diets, I started projects, but could never see them through. And the thing about dieting was that it seemed to take for ever to get results. I just didn’t know if I could keep on denying myself all my favourite treats for the sake of a measly pound here or an inch there.
Still, this time I had the ultimate motivation, didn’t I, what with the wedding looming. Like it or not, I was going to have to grit my teeth, stock up on cardboard-tasting rice cakes and ignore the chocolate bars in the newsagent. I really, really, really had to do it this—
‘Jess?’
I realized Phoebe was looking quizzically at me. It was Friday, and we were in the tiny staff room. I’d just eaten my packed lunch – tomato salad and some grapes – and still felt famished.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Only you keep sighing to yourself. What’s up?’
I put on my best smile. ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’
She narrowed her eyes, not looking as if she believed me. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Hey, did I mention my birthday drinks to you, by the way?’
‘No,’ I said, trying not to watch as she bit into a huge tuna baguette. I loved tuna mayonnaise. And bread. And butter (salted, preferably). And . . . Stop it, Jess .
‘Well,’ she said, finishing her mouthful, ‘it’s my birthday tomorrow, so I’m having a bit of a crawl. We’re starting off in the Star Bar for cocktails, then a few in the Slug and Lettuce, then off to Planet for a dance around our handbags. I know it’s short notice, but some of the girls from here are coming along – Maisie and Jasmine are up for it, if you fancy joining us as well?’
I’d been distracted by the mention of the Star Bar – wasn’t that a kind of chocolate bar from years ago? – and only managed to get out an ‘Umm . . .’ while I tried to think. I had a feeling Charlie was going out with his mates tomorrow night, leaving me alone in front of the telly.
‘Go on,’ Phoebe coaxed, licking a blob of tuna off her thumb. ‘It’ll be a laugh, a load of us girls out on the town.’ She glanced around and lowered her voice. ‘And I haven’t asked Louisa – you’ll be quite safe.’
I thought quickly. Booze was dead calorific, but I could have slimline tonic water all evening, couldn’t I? I didn’t have to be pissed to enjoy myself. And Phoebe was really nice – being out with her would be much more fun than sitting in watching Casualty or Big Brother on my
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