If you can’t say anything nice… 

This will just be a quickie as I’m really tired. Oh and I’ve been on the Sauvignon and my head is a bit woolly. 

I’m on a mission to be nice. Specifically to bring nice to social media. 

There’s so much mean around and there’s no need for it. You can say something nice to someone and really make their day,  how much better is that than bitching, bullying and pulling people to bits? 

I’m only human. I don’t like everyone in the public eye. Or at least I don’t like the way everyone is portrayed  they might be quite nice in real life. I make an exception for Katie Hopkins, she’s just vile, but most people are probably victims of their own PR. Oh and Donald Trump. I’m happy to be opinionated about him. 

I don’t always like the things I’m invited to like. I follow a lot of plus size bloggers and sometimes one of them will wear something I really hate. But the thing is, it’s all about personal taste. I’d never comment negatively, I prefer to zip it and only comment on what I like. Big people up, tell them they are fabulous and look awesome. How little effort does it take to compliment someone and how good do you think it makes them feel? 

I’m not about saying insincere nice things though. If I complement your blog  your look  your baby pictures or your art it’s only because I genuinely like it /them. Otherwise what’s the point?  But if I don’t like something, I won’t say anything. Because if you like it  you’re proud of it and it makes you happy, what would I gain from saying something mean?  Nothing. I hate to hurt people’s feelings. 

I think we should all adopt a policy of spreading some love online. Tell people you LOVE what they’re doing. Complement their hair, their kids, their blog posts, their iPhone photography ability. Be nice. Life is too short to bring each other down. 

And now I’m going to bed. Have a great weekend. 

sarah in 1993

Ugly fashion choices I have made

It’s day two of my ‘how long can I keep up blogging every day’ challenge to myself, and today’s post is inspired by Facebook. More specifically, a post added by my lovely friend Lindsey, who I’ve known since I was in my teens and therefore has seen many of my unwise fashion decisions.

She posted a photo from about 1993/4 in which to be fair you can’t see much of what I’m wearing, but while we were trying to work out when it was taken, I dug out an old photo of me from 1993 from the wedding I thought it had been taken at. I was wrong, but when Mr saw the photo lying around, he actually thought it was my Mum, In fact I was only 22. Want to see it? Are you ready for the bright green monstrosity?

Nicks wedding

OK, I may have lost my waistline since 1993 but at least I gained a bit of fashion sense…eventually. The story behind this outfit was that I got married in 1993, and this was what I chose as my ‘going away outfit’. I bought it from Mum’s Empire Stores catalogue and carefully accessorised it with a bag in a completely different shade of green. Someone should have had a word.

The going away outfit only needed to travel 50 miles down the A14 in my (now ex) husbands red Ford Fiesta. We went out for a wedding meal at the local Beefeater, and then spent our first married night at home before driving to Derbyshire. I don’t think I took the lurid green outfit with me.

The second picture is the oldest. I haven’t got many from 1996 onwards as I chucked most of the pictures of me with husband number two and the people I used to be joined at the hip with. There’s plenty to go on from my early days though. Like this one from 1988.

Sarah with a perm

In case the full horror of this outfit hasn’t hit you, I have a perm. And I’m wearing dungarees. There really is no justification for this look, although there was worse on that trip – one of the boys dressed up in a top of mine along with full make up and spent an entire evening in drag. I was 17, on my first solo holiday abroad with a load of teenagers from different countries, and no, there’s still no excuses.

By 1989, thankfully the perm had grown out. But my fashion sense was still in its infancy and so it was no surprise that I thought this beautiful example of the Christmas jumper  was a good idea. This photo proves otherwise but at least I can say that it was ironic. Can’t I? No, it wasn’t. I loved that jumper.

Christmas Jumper

The early nineties were not a good time for me. I seem to have been lured into Novelty T-shirt territory, but in my defence, I’d just got my first Top Shop card and gone a bit mad thinking it was free money so I could spend it on whatever tat I wanted.

Me in 1990


The picture quality is awful as I’ve tried to crop a couple of other people out of an already quite small image…but you can see the horror of the Piglet tee. It was incredibly hot when that was taken and I remember sweat trickling down the back of my shorts at one point. I had a stunning dress that I bought at the same time, it was a really gorgeous boho style floral dress that I looked lovely in, but of course there’s no evidence of that, only the Piglet tee.

Sometimes I accessorised this look with incredibly large hoop earrings that got caught up on everything. Note the nasty white plastic watch, too.

sarah in stars dress

I think this is from 1994.

Only because my hair is still quite long and I had an unfortunate accident at a salon the following year that made me look like a mushroom.

So, the stars and moons dress. What’s not to love? It’s second only to the juicy fruits leggings that I bought in 1992 in the ‘unusual clothes I have worn’ category. This dress came from a gorgeous little boutique shop in Cambridge, which sold way overpriced clothes. I wanted to buy something from that shop and I think this frock was on sale. There’s no other reason for it, nobody else wanted to buy it, so I did.

I seem to remember I also treated myself to the most difficult to walk in platform wedges at the same time and I used to walk from one side of Cambridge to the other in them to get to work. Amazingly I never broke any bones but it was a good 2.5 miles. I don’t know what happened to the dress. It should have been saved as a reminder of what happens when posh boutiques have sales and reduce their stock so that I can afford it.

OK, so this is what happened to my hair in 1995.

Sarah has bad hair

The sunflower tee was just about acceptable  but I decided I wanted a change and so I had my hair chopped off really short. This wasn’t a good move, as you can see. Luckily, it grew back.

So from 1996 onwards I haven’t got many pictures. That’s what you get for airbrushing bad memories out of your life, you lose a few comedy moments at the same time…Since 2008 when I split up from the person who was either in or took most of them, there have been a few cringeworthy outfit choices but the beauty of digital photography is that it’s very easy to delete them!

I have had a trawl for a giggle and found one last gem though.

Australia 2010. It had been a very cold winter back home, I’d clearly put on some extra covering. But in Australia it was DAMN hot and so the cropped linen trousers and short sleeved top came out. I can’t remember if the boys had a full length mirror. If so, I blame this unfortunate outfit decision on jet lag.

Sarah in Oz

On a positive note, my hair was FANTASTIC.

I’ve actually quite enjoyed going back through my photos and having a laugh at myself. I have got plenty more pictures of me in dubious clothes or with bad hair but I think you get the gist of it. These days the fact I’m bigger tends to restrict what I wear to the point that really bad, unusual or ‘eclectic’ styles aren’t always an option but no doubt there will be pictures in the future that I’ll quickly delete and make a mental note never to repeat…

What’s your worst fashion disaster? Can you top any of these?

Activity tracker hates me

My activity tracker hates me


Activity tracker hates me

That’s me after a run. Okay, it’s not me, I’m lazy, haven’t run since the last time I was about to miss a bus, and I bought a Jawbone Up a few months ago to motivate me. I’ve since come to the sad conclusion that my fitness tracker hates me.


Well. At first I had it set to nag me every 30 minutes if I hadn’t moved. This was called an idle alert and it vibrated the  bracelet helpfully to remind me I was being a lazy cow. Except that I wasn’t really being lazy at all. I was on a train, or a bus, or a deadline. The problem was that it didn’t know that my lack of physical activity wasn’t always down to Eastenders and Netflix, but most of the time I was doing things that paid for luxuries like a smart phone with a Jawbone app that nags me.

I soon turned that function off. It made me feel  guilty when I WAS being lazy and  just annoyed me.

I loved the nifty sleep function. I really like getting geeky and seeing how  much sleep I’ve had, dream sleep, deep sleep and light sleep. As I expected, most of my sleep is light, which is  my beloved’s farts always wake me up! Its a great function…until it starts nagging you to go to bed. “Smart Coach noticed you’ve been going to bed late recently” and “Try to go to sleep before 9.53 to get enough sleep”

I’m 45! It’s a while since anyone’s told me  it’s past my bedtime.

Even better, if I do defy smart coach, it tells me off. “You missed your bedtime!”


Another reason my activity tracker hates me is that I don’t do 10,000 steps a day. I mean, sometimes I do. But you know, rain, cold, work, Hollyoaks. So it tells me how many steps I do and helpfully adds, “You haven’t been  your normal active self today”

Smart Coach is a sarcastic cow.

If my heart rate is a bit high when I wake up, it helpfully suggests that I might like to drink more water, do some yoga or go to bed early. I was probably just having one of those awful nightmares about spiders. Or my ex husband.

So why can’t I just take it off and stamp on it? It’s because when I do hit my step target, sleep for eight hours and drink eight glasses of water, I feel like I’ve achieved something. Until smart coach tells me I missed bedtime AGAIN…

If you want to torture yourself with your lack of activity or erratic sleep habits, find out more here…. https://jawbone.com/up




Writer girl 

You can take girl away from the magazine but you can’t make her stop writing. 
I’ve got a massive creative surge going on right now and I’m trying to decide what to do with it. My business website is being redesigned, and apparently a WordPress update has sent the whole site into meltdown so it could be in maintenance for some time. 

For research, I started reading my Professional Beauty magazines and I really got the urge to write magazine features again. I used to love writing features… Finding stories, getting inside information, interviewing interesting people and getting things from different angles. I know it was just spa and salon magazines,  not anything heavyweight,  but I adored it. The whole process of putting a magazine together was just absorbing and I learned so much. 

Being freelance I do get to work on magazine features sometimes but most of my work is web copy and blogs. They have rules that features didn’t. SEO rules. Word count. Click bait. It’s a different ballgame. 

I still write for trade magazines, mainly health and social care but I yearn to write something meaty and dare I say glamorous?  I want to create a magazine of my own one day, online if I have to, but indulge my writer girl habit in interviews and actually finding out interesting things that people might not know. 

I’m also getting urges to get more artsy and creative with pictures, photos and design. 

I suppose the best thing about being freelance is that I get to do whatever I want with my business. Watch this space… 


Happy Birthday Dad



It would have been Dad’s 75th birthday today.

It’s been almost a year since  we said goodbye to him, and I wanted to write something, but rather than wait  the anniversary of the day he died, I  wanted to celebrate his life, on the anniversary of the day he was born. It seems so much nicer. So here’s my birthday letter to my Dad…

Dad, its not the same without you . I still think of the house in Ipswich  as ‘Mum and Dad’s’ and I catch myself saying it out loud sometimes too. Mum has a cracking picture of you on the landing, your eyes seem to follow me around the room and you have a knowing smile on your face. Mum says that sometimes  if she has a bad day and she’s looking at  the photo, she tells you to stop smirking. I thought that might make you laugh.

I know you believed in Jesus and heaven, and that  you had faith you’d end up there eventually. I remember you being quite impatient to go there, this time last year. I hope you found your heaven. I hope you’re enjoying yourself,  swapping anecdotes with Terry Wogan, Victoria Wood and Caroline Aherne. I think you might be a bit wary of David Bowie and Prince though -but I’m sure they’re lovely.

I’m sure I can feel you around sometimes. Often if I’m upset or frustrated I can imagine you giving me that look, the one that meant you really wanted to tell me what to do, but thought better of it. I think to myself, ‘I wonder what Dad would say’, when I’m stuck. I think about you  whenever I see a robin – they seem to show up a lot. Remember your last Christmas when you decided to collect just about every Christmas robin ornament you came across and put it somewhere in your room? You proudly showed off your little collection when you came home from the hospice and it was just the two of us, and we had a laugh at  the daftness of it all.

I’ll always be glad I had that week with you. I did my best to spoil you, and you were on good form that week. I’m very glad you decided not to drive again though. That drive back from the garden centre was a bit of a white knuckle ride!

I hope you’ll be proud of what I’ve achieved this year…it’s not been the easiest year but the setbacks have just made me more determined. You said that I should stand up for myself more, and that I could have a lovely life if I stopped doing what everyone else wanted me to. I’m working on my people pleasing. Officially a work in progress. If you’re watching over us, you’ll  also know that me and Moley could do with a hand sometimes, too. It’s not been plain sailing this year…is it ever?

I miss you every day, Dad, we all do. Jenny bought you a present from the garden centre for Father’s day, Mum is taking flowers to church to remember you on your birthday. I’ll be thinking of you, and smiling at good memories. You in that Fez, doing magic tricks badly. I’ve still got that Fez.

Dad's fez

Remember the Christmas parties where you insisted we all had to dress up? The gleeful way you joined forces with Andy B to annoy me and Mum with Barron Knights songs? Playing the Stylophone with me (Mum found that in the loft the other day, shame about the whole Rolf Harris thing)

I could go on and on. As time passes, more little memories pop up. I wish you were here today, wanting everyone around you and to be centre of attention on your birthday.I wish I could give you one more daft card and a nice pressie, and go out for dinner with you and Mum to celebrate. I know we’d end up at the Westerfield Railway, and you’d probably have the belly pork. With a glass of something alcoholic, seeing as it was your birthday.

So I’ll raise a glass to you today, Dad, on your birthday. Love you, miss you. Happy Birthday








Monday- it’s a bit warm


I’m off to sunny Diss in Norfolk today, to talk to a potential new client. It’s always good to get new clients on a Monday, it sets you up for the week. I’m in a good mood today, despite being hot and bothered, and dreaming that I had slugs growing up my nose last night. The dream was so hideous that I decided to stay awake and lose at Yahtzee on my phone instead of trying to go back to sleep. 

So here I am, in the sunshine,  waiting for the   10.24, eavesdropping and wondering when the young couple sitting on the bench next to me will realise that their  baby has done a  monumentally smelly poo in his nappy. Because I’ve  noticed. As has probably everyone else on the station. Please don’t sit too close to me on the train. I don’t deserve that. I’m a good person.

The pooey nappy reminds me of  a story I heard about a dopey  mum of a five  year old who when she was asked why the child was still on nappies, replied “she’s shown no interest in her potty! ”

She probably thinks it’s an ornament. Sit her on the thing until the poo is forthcoming and she’ll soon get the picture. Poor baby will get mercilessly teased wearing nappies when she starts school. Like I was when I wet myself in the playground because a few girls were holding me down and tickling me to see what happened. I had to wear navy blue knickers from the lost property. I was only about six and I knew the true meaning of humiliation already.

Anyway, off I go to Diss to seek my fortune. Fingers crossed smelly nappy baby sits at the other end of the train and my negotiations go according to plan. Have a nice Monday!

The 40-something lament


I don’t know if any of you read the piece by Miranda Sawyer in The Guardian recently?

If not, here’s a link.

Miranda Sawyer’s Piece in the Guardian

So I read this, all the way through, and I realised I’m not alone!  Death Maths is actually a thing.

At 45, Miranda has two kids and tortures herself thinking about how old she’ll be when the youngest is 18. I don’t have any, and I don’t realistically expect that to change, which is something I’ve struggled to come to terms with. But the mathematical equations around dwindling fertility and the % likelihood of me ever getting pregnant are just as scary as death maths. So Jennifer Aniston might be pregnant at 47?  That little voice tells me I might have another two years. But really?  Nah.


I swore I’d never be that person who complained that music of today all sounded the same, but I’ve tried so hard to stay up to date with what’s in the charts and you know what, I AM now that person.

Every now and then I’ll go onto Spotify and check out the Top 50. I tell myself I probably like some of it. But then as I look down a list of songs by artists I’ve never heard of, all featuring other artists I’ve never heard of, I make it to about number six and then retreat to my eighties and nineties play lists.

Don’t get me wrong, I know there’s some good stuff out there, I just don’t seem to have the time to look for it any more. My NME days are in the past (even though I follow them on Twitter) and I can’t get XFM on my DAB radio anymore. Is it even still going?

It hardly seems possible that it was only six years ago that I went to Glastonbury. I absolutely loved it. Muse, Damon Albarn, Paloma Faith, Slash, The Lightning Seeds, Faithless, Florence and the Machine, Biffy Clyro,  Dizzee Rascal, Editors … There were so many bands I wanted to see that I missed loads.

Last year I just laughed at Kanye West.

This year I’m thinking that watching Adele in the rain doesn’t sound like my idea of fun.

Falling apart

If you read my last post you’ll know all about my body woes. I said to someone yesterday  if it’s not overactive or underactive it’s probably dropped off. That’s my body, right there.

The standing desk is on its way. I ache everywhere. I sprout hairs in unexpected places, like three in one mole on my cheek and that lone one on my chin that appears from nowhere.

But I still get spots!  What’s that about? I’m forced to accept that if by a miracle I ever lose weight, I’ll look old. Chubby cheeks take years off you. I don’t have much in the way of wrinkles but my eyes are a bit droopy and my sight isn’t as good as it was.

On the upside, the doctor said I have a less than 2% chance of heart disease or a stroke in the next decade. My blood pressure is fine, I’m not diabetic, my liver, kidney and thyroid tests were all fine and my cholesterol is nothing to worry about.

So  is being 45 the start of the decline or a chance to look at where I’m at, where I want to be and plan how to get there?  Expect a few more blogs on my own personal forties experience… I’d love to hear about yours too!


Ouch – the unglamorous story of my insides.


Another morning seen in with the dawn chorus can only mean one thing. I dared to have a few glasses of wine last night and my stomach didn’t like it.

It’s not glamorous but my life has been blighted with IBS and acid reflux for at least 15-17 years.

The first time I remember getting heartburn was after a very indulgent two weeks house sitting for my late Aunt Wendy in Brighton in 1999. Not only did I pig out on chips and doughnuts, but she lived very close to an ASDA with a late night off licence and on site bakery.

My weight was probably an issue at the time too, I think I was nudging 14 stone, but otherwise a pretty healthy 28 year old.

The first time I realised I might have IBS was on holiday in Canada six years later. It had been a stressful few months for one reason and another and I started to notice that every time I ate breakfast, which I didn’t always do at home, I needed to run to the loo.

It wasn’t a MAJOR problem until I got divorced in 2008. My insides went into stress fuelled overdrive and when I could eat, after my appetite came back, I was in the loo straight afterwards. I remember a particularly horrible bus journey on holiday in Australia with my brother… I’ve never run so fast and prayed so hard the public loo was bearable!

I go through stages with IBS. Stress makes it unbearable and I live off Immodium for it. Another habit I’ve developed is adding codeine to the medication, so when it’s bad I’ll be on Solpadine and Immodium to keep it at bay. It’s a bitch of a condition, I never know when it’s going to be bad and I can get the telltale cramp that means I have to go NOW at any time.

I told you this wasn’t glamorous.

With the reflux, it started getting worse in about 2012. I’d struggle to work out (I was going to the gym regularly then) because as soon as I got moving the acid would gurgle up. If I was really unlucky I’d have an IBS attack too and have to cut the treadmill session short. You think I’m making it up?  Oh, I wish.

The doctor gave me medication for it which I’m still on. I would love to come off it, but the rebound is painful. I don’t dare do it unless my system is calm… And it’s not at the moment.

The stress of the last few years left me constantly medicating the problems. The reflux isn’t so bad unless I really overdo crap food and alcohol as the meds keep it at bay. The IBS is massively unpredictable and painful. The fact it’s IBS-D (work it out) also means it’s likely I’m not absorbing all the nutrients I should, which probably accounts for why I feel so bloody knackered half of the time. PPI meds for reflux also interfere with absorption of some vitamins.

I’ve been doing some reading and apparently IBS and reflux are also linked to joint aches and pains (tick)  headaches (tick) and lethargy (tick)

It’s got to the point where I want my life back. I’m sick of knowing that if I indulge in a nice meal and wine, I’ll have a restless night, stomach pains and have to either dose up on Immodium or spend the next day in close proximity to the toilet.

My plan, difficult as it’s going to be, is to soothe my insides with a combination of diet, exercise, stress relief and… Intermittent fasting!

The first steps are the hardest. Two weeks with zero wheat, dairy, caffeine (no coffee????) or alcohol. Just to see what happens  to my symptoms. At the same time, two days on 500 calories a day or thereabouts, to give my digestive system a rest.

I could really do with some cheerleading; it’s not a diet and it’s not about weight loss but it’s going to be restrictive which is a red flag for me. Still, it’s just two weeks to see if it makes a difference. If it does, I’ll probably want to carry on just for the relief!

Sorry if this one’s been TMI. It’s 4.27 am, I probably should try and sleep. Just need to get to the bathroom…

Seriously, WTF?


I try to stay positive. I like being positive, it’s where I want to aim for with my mood. Sometimes I miss, but that’s OK.

Anyone who has the Internet or a TV knows that 2016 has been a bitch of a year. We’ve lost some gorgeous people, talented, clever, kind and funny people, the likes of which we’re unlikely to see again.


It sucks, but at least we can comfort ourselves with the knowledge that they lived. And their deaths, sad and unexpected as they were, were mostly unfortunate fate, or illness.


2016 just feels so sad, and I’m so angry right now. I’m finding it hard to watch the news these days; I have done for a few years now. Terror attacks – Brussels and Orlando. Why?  Why the effing hell do complete maniacs do it?  I suppose the answer is; they are complete maniacs. Don’t start on religion because massacre isn’t a religious thing  it’s an ego thing. These fcukwits actually think they are doing something honorable by massacring completely innocent people. That’s not religion, it’s totally fcuking madness. Evil. Whatever you want to call it.

How in God’s, Allah’s, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s name can it ever EVER be honourable to murder people out having fun in a gay club, just because you don’t like seeing men kissing, and have an issue with homosexuality?  For the record, I have no issues whatsoever with men kissing men, or women kissing women. There’s not enough love in this world, celebrate the hell out of it wherever you see it, is my feeling on the issue.

Why murder people just going about their business?  Or on a Tunisian beach?  Or at a rock concert? Shopping? People just enjoying their lives, having fun, not hurting a soul. It’s a sickness, a deep deep sickness in their soul  one that normal people just can’t comprehend.

But for me, it’s not even just about that. 2016 has such a feeling of negativity about it, a lot of people I know feel the same way and are working hard in their own way to try and make things better but it’s like an overwhelming tide of sewage flowing through a pretty garden; the shit covers up all the flowers.

The politics of 2016 is divisive and nasty. Brexit. Will I be glad to see the back of that referendum?  If you’re for leaving, that’s your prerogative… I’m firmly in the remain camp. But why so nasty?  Not you, personally, I’m sure you’re lovely. But the level of hostility and nastiness I’ve seen on TV, social media and everywhere just makes me sad. Disagree by all means but enough of the fighting. The people I associate with Brexit are Nigel Farage and his merry UKIP band of negative, xenophobic, misogynistic scaremongerers, Boris “I will be PM even if I have to make up statistics on the EU” Johnson, Far Right politician Marine Le Pen from France, and of course, Donald Trump.

Oh God, the Trump. A man so hateful that he used the murder of 60-plus innocent people this weekend to push his anti Islamic agenda “We’ll have no Muslims allowed into the USA” and claim victory on Twitter, thanking people for congratulating him on his stance. He also took the opportunity to make the bizarre claim that if MORE of the people in the Pulse nightclub had been armed, there wouldn’t have been so many deaths.

Really?  Quite apart from the ethics of letting any frigging idiot with a grudge have a gun in the first place, how exactly would being armed have helped the people in that club?  They didn’t realise what the noise was until people started falling after being shot. They were in a club. Probably had a few drinks. Maybe popped a pill. It was dark. They were confused and terrified. Just give ‘em all guns and that’ll solve the problem, right, Donald?

How about you stop treating deadly weapons like status symbols, introduce effective controls on who is allowed to have them, and ban people from buying powerful killing machines?  Arming hundreds of people in a club wouldn’t have prevented the tragedy.

NOT fcuking arming the homophobic toss piece that decided on a whim to murder innocent people  now THAT might have avoided the carnage.

Sorry if this isn’t my usual cheery, think positive post but I’m angry. I try to tell myself the world is full of amazing people (it is) but these are testing times and pretending this awful stuff isn’t going on is getting impossible. I love this world. I truly believe that there’s so much beauty in the world, so much good in people and that there has to be a way to pull together and out positive all the shitty things that bring us down. But how?  What can we do?

The Dalai Lama said “The world will be saved by Western women”  – that’s a big responsibility!  But maybe, just maybe, he had a point. 



Hello. It’s me.

I just wanted to drop by and talk really honestly about something that’s really important. To me, anyway.

There was a headline in the media today, saying that studies have shown that telling kids they are fat makes them gain weight.

No shit, Sherlock.

Here’s a link for you The Guardian

I’ll say it again.

Telling kids (or their parents) that they are fat makes them more likely to gain weight.

If you’ve read Gorgeously Full Fat, you might recall that my happiest, most relaxed periods around food have been when I’ve been trying to ignore my weight and learn to eat whatever I actually want. I learned this from my time working with Sue Thomason, a very wise lady who has had a massive impact on my life.

The Food Philosophy

Her Food Philosophy makes so much sense. I’d talk about it all here but I don’t want to steal her thunder and there’s so much research – 20 years of research in fact. As soon as I saw that headline today I thought of Sue.

Sue’s website

She passionately believes that the obsession with weight, fat, obesity and body size is THE MAIN REASON for the obesity problem we have. Think about it. We’re constantly bombarded with weight loss adverts and stories, body shaming, government warnings about obesity and the NHS. we’re getting a sugar tax. It’s crap. Fat isn’t making us fat, Sugar isn’t making us fat. Obsessing over our weight is what’s fuelling our weight gain because our natural reaction to being told we’re fat is to think we’re not good enough and we need to start restricting what we eat.

As soon as we start restricting, or even thinking about it,our subconscious brain kicks in. “Oh shit, food’s in short supply, I’d better send her out looking for it.”

All you can think about is food.

You know how your pet dog scoffs all his food as soon as it’s put down, and if you’re eating something he will beg for more minutes after you’ve fed him? He’s not hungry, but his doggy brain knows that food is in short supply, He doesn’t know when he’ll next be fed, so he gets as much as he can, when he can. And when he notices that plate of scones on the kitchen counter unattended, well they’re history. I’m talking about you, Benji.

But we’re humans and not dogs!

Humans aren’t so different. We use our free will to restrict what we eat to a point and we can be quite successful for a while but that pesky subconscious will kick in eventually and it’s almost as if someone else is in your head, making you eat crap you don’t even want or enjoy. You binge on autopilot because you just want to get as much food in you as possible to relieve the stress that you’re under psychologically. You feel better for a bit, as the food is being demolished. Then…”What have I done?”

gorgeously fiull fat doughnuts weight loss


Remorse, guilt, disgust.

You ‘feel fat’. Your body image and self esteem plummet and you blame yourself for being weak willed. More news articles about fat people ruining the NHS. More celebrity fat shaming. More diet ads. You’re fat, you HAVE to lose weight. it’s your moral duty. You’re a mess. You want to be slim, your life will be so much better if you are slim. So off you go again.

Aaaaarrghhhh! I can see it, and I get it.

Is the world getting it? The media? No, I doubt it, because the media, women’s magazines in particular, NEED us to hate ourselves so that we diet. There’s a massive industry that relies on us wasting money on diet programmes, shakes and products. They also spend a lot of money advertising in magazines, so you’re not going to get many magazines refusing to run diet and weight loss adverts!

What can we do?

All we can do is make a stand. Even if you’re fat, refuse to make that your focus. Stop hating yourself, Focus on something else and refuse to waste any more money on diets. If you feel you need to lose weight for health reasons, try giving yourself s complete diet holiday for a few months and see how you feel. Focusing on weight and losing it is what’s keeping you fat. It sounds daft but it does make sense. The obsession about what you can and can’t eat, calories, fat, sugar and the rest (don’t get me started on ‘clean eating’) makes your brain think that it’s going to be going through another famine, makes you want to fill up on fatty, sugary and banned foods because it knows they are in short supply, and makes you eat crappy things you probably don’t even like.

By refusing to get dragged into it, accepting yourself as you are (yes, that’s the bit I’ve been stuck on more than once and for years at a time) and focussing on all the other good things about life, you’ll starve the weight loss industry rather than yourself, and quite possibly end up eating less because you’re only eating what you actually WANT.

Rant over. Does any of that make sense to you? I’d really love to know what you think.