If You Ask Me

After a long, hard slog on the salad graft, fervently chasing the elusive bikini body all Summer, I’ve spent the last week falling spectacularly off the wagon and embracing the start of baggy jumper season by eating everything that wasn’t nailed down.

There are two very distinct stages of breaking your diet:

Stage One: After debating with yourself for the best part of half an hour, you decide to ‘treat yo’self’. You know the food in question will break your healthy eating streak/go over your calorie allowance/not fit in your macros, but you earnestly vow to work harder at the gym or be extra good tomorrow. It’s a test of self control, you tell yourself, and for a second you believe it.

Stage Two: Turns out you have no self control. Who’d have guessed. You throw caution to the wind and grab something else; in for a penny, in for a fucking pound after all. By the time your brain has caught up to your mouth you’ve inhaled a large pizza, two Greggs sausage rolls, a bar of galaxy and you’re currently stood with your head in the fridge, spoon in your sweaty little hand, eating a cheesecake out the box. No amount of ‘being good tomorrow’ will make up for this, so you mentally write the day off and crack on.

If your lucky this will happen on a Sunday night so you can kid yourself next week will be different. If you’re unlucky it’ll be around 10am on Tuesday leaving you with a whole week of “I’ll start on Monday” to look forward to.

diet starts monday


Nowadays there’s a diet for everyone; Cabbage Soup, Atkins, the one where you only eat Special K. There’s even diets that pretend not to be diets, like Slimming World, which promise you all the pasta you can eat – for a price. Then for the real hardcore among us you have the juice detoxes and the diet pills.

The time I gave a three day juice cleanse a try I was so hungry I called my ex fella a ‘cruel gobshite’ and told him to fuck off and die in the middle of The Asda cos he dared to buy cakes for a charity bake sale in front of me. When the ordeal was finally over I woke up after a heavy night of Prosecco and poor choices, cradling a pizza box with an empty yogurt tub in bed with me. No spoon though. I must have drank it straight from the pot.

Diet pills are no better. Seeing as they’re essentially pure speed, if you’re lucky enough to avoid getting the shits and spending the entire working day sweating and making excuses to ‘make a drink’ so you can sit on the toilet for another 20 minutes, you’ll be bouncing off the walls and one the verge of full cardiac arrest. And that’s taking the complete loss of brain to mouth function out of the equation – I distinctly remember calling my old boss “bro” in a meeting the first time I took a T6. I’ve never used that word in my life before, or after, that day – but apparently that’s what they do to you.

Anyway, with just three weeks until I touch down in Amsterdam, I’m back on the diet graft – knowing deep down that the only thing that’s ever really worked is exercise and consistency. But hey, god loves a trier.

So girls, if you too are climbing back on the wagon, I wish you the best of luck. And remember, swerve the jam before The Dam.

Until next time… x


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