Week 18 : Back To Where I Was 12 FUCKING WEEKS AGO… Crap.

It sounds like I'm moaning, but I'm not really. I was fairly happy until I realised that I have been up and down for the last 12 weeks, and that I was this fucking weight in Week 6. That was a bit galling, if I'm honest. But what's done is done now. Can't cry over spilt chips and all that. (Even though I would proper bawl in that situation.)

So this week, I was fuelled by the loss of the past two weeks, which was a really nice feeling and is what good weight loss should be about. Last week I decided that I wouldn't be doing a fasting week, I would just be trying to keep an eye on it and exercise. 

On Monday, I headed up to Westfield (a massive shopping centre in West London) for a shopping trip with the BF. Of course, we don't actually shop together — that would be suicide (or murder, depending on how badly it went). We go our separate ways and meet up for food/advice. Seeing as we got there at lunch time, we started with some food (YESSSS!) so I had a very nice Lebanese wrap with fries, and then off I went to buy some knee high boots. Fuck me — there was nothing I particularly liked, and everything cost about £100. I wandered in and out of clothes shops as well, trying on the odd dress (MASSIVE mistake) and by the time we met up again for a sugary afternoon snack, it only took about three sips of tea before I started crying. In public. In the middle of Westfield. I know... I shouldn't have tried on any clothes, because I just felt so fat in all of them. And I definitely looked fat in all of them too. The boot shopping had also been unfruitful, so blurting out "I hate shopping so much. I really fucking hate it…" through tears and sniffs was the only thing I had the energy left to do. BF was excellent and talked me through it — he really is very good at helping me, I must say, especially in shopping-related incidents (he is a hardcore shopper). We worked out that I hate all my clothes and don't look the way I want to (this is a constant issue with me) and one particular thing he said really turned it around for me: "Why not just buy the clothes you see yourself in?". This might sound blimmin' obvious, but I have never worn the clothes I imagine myself strutting around in, mainly because I don't have the figure. 'Imaginiation Me' has much smaller hips than 'Real Me', so instead I wear what hides me a bit, or what is comfortable, or what I know, or what is safe. And this is where I have been going wrong. For years. FUCK.

Time to dig out my inner rock chick!

On the plus side, I was feeling so shit that I didn't even eat the nice pastry I was planning to. I had a 70cal Alpen bar instead, and some new-found enthusiasm. BF came round to a few shops and helped me pick some short boots (as they are trendy and cost less!) and made me realise the only reason I was buying long boots was so that they would go with clothes that I already own and dislike. Fucking stoopid. I ended up buying two pairs that I love, one of which is on the left. I wasn't going to get them, because the shop didn't do returns (I am a BIG returner — shopper's guilt), but then I just thought, "Sod it, I'll find something to wear with them cos they make me feel fucking AMAZING". It's just as well I did buy them because I later checked online — no size 6 pairs anywhere, and the ones I bought were also the last size 6 in the shop too. It was meant to be, people. 

Sorry — I'm a bit distracted by all the shopping excitement! I was feeling good when I got home (did I mention I treated myself to a new necklace as well?), and was also still quite full from lunch. So instead of having a big dinner, I had a buttered scone and a lemon puff and went to bed feeling happy and virtuous (although butter on baked goods is hardly something I should be patting myself on the back about). But anyway, no dinner — RESULT.

My mum and sister have just started 5:2 as well. I advised them that Monday and Thursday is a good split, but something had gone a bit wrong with their plans and instead they were fasting when I went over to visit. The reason this is bad news is because my mum cooks excellent food and I don't want her to be on a fast day eating soup when I head over there for my Tuesday dinner! Totally selfish, I know… Anyhow, they had eaten their meal, so it didn't bother them when I ate 2 enormous fajitas in front of them. I also ate four digestive biscuits right after with a cup of tea. I mean, who eats four?? I think I was mentally eating my mum and sister's share or something — even they were disgusted when they found out, so much so that my mum ratted me out to BF when we were both over there next. (Thanks mum.) The conversation later turned to snacking on 5:2 and my dad asked what the calorie count was for popcorn (we have an air-popper at home that he is obsessed with). Obviously, we did what we usually do and shunned him for his silly ideas (there is a reason he refers to the three of us as 'The Coven'), but actually, it's really not bad at all. 8g of popcorn is 31 calories — and that was about a cereal bowlful. It's an excellent snack if you get stuck!

By Thursday, the no-fasting guilt hit me, so I did actually squeeze in a fast day. Ish. I had a soup from EAT which was only 198 calories, and then a chicken and noodle salad from Sainsbury's that was really nice and only 292 calories — perfect if you are too lazy to cook. That day, I had 766 calories (I er, had a few snacks too…), which is more than I should have, but at least I tried fasting a bit. Especially as the next day it was my friend at work's birthday, and she was planning to bring in Krispy Kremes. 24 of the little bastards. On the right is a picture of one. My SECOND one. In a single day. Honestly, you can barely tell you have eaten them — they are like motherfucking clouds. I had already snorted half of it before thinking about taking a picture. Granted, it doesn't look that appealing here — sitting on a very unsexy paper towel, releasing it's grease everywhere (or is that my drool?)… But it was very appealing in my mouth. As was the Burger King meal I had on the way home, a bit pissed after said friend's birthday drinks. Sorry.

After all the extreme snacking, I was not sure I was going to lose any fucking weight, but somehow, I lost 0.8lbs. I was quite shocked, but I really think getting on the exercise bike has helped. Although it doesn't burn as many calories as running, I think that I was such a bad runner (along with the calf issue/asthma/butt pain) that my uber-slow jogging wasn't burning off that much anyway. And seeing as I have plenty of natural butt cushioning, I might as well make use of it. I'm a bit worried that as I have been going over my weekly calorie intake by quite a large amount for the last few weeks, it's all going to catch up with me in the next 7 days… I will need to be careful.

So, after losing this week (A-WOO-HOO!), I am now 11st 3.8lbs and the lightest I have been on 5:2, and probably the lightest I've been this year actually. I'm not entirely sure because I ripped up all my WW shit when I started 5:2… It's hardly momentous, but it's movement in the right direction. And that's what matters really. So next goal, get under 11st  — TALLY HO!

Junk In My Trunk — Bank Holiday Special

So, predictably I just got fat over the Bank Holiday. Well, everyone else was treating themselves — why shouldn't I? My boyfriend was stocking up on multipacks of tomato ketchup flavour crisps, and my friend came down from Leeds so we were buying nice food and desserts… Recipe for disaster, but like we all kept saying — "Fuck it, it's the Bank Holiday!" 

And now I am paying the stupid price.

To be honest, I don't feel that bad — stuffing your face on holiday is to do with human rights or something. I had planned on being more mindful, but only because my mate was staying and we agreed that we wouldn't/shouldn't go mental on foodstuffs and would instead try to be good. She has been doing WW for over a year and has now lost a total of 72lbs. Yes, it is amazing and I hate her. (I kept joking all weekend, "You jammy cow… You're so skinny… Don't lose more weight… GET OUT OF MY FUCKING FACE YOU STUPID SKINNY BITCH!" — too much?) 'Being good' went out the window, ooh… about 34 minutes after she got to mine on Friday. (FYI — it went out the window because we went out and got wrecked, NOT because I kept shouting abuse at her. Probably.)  But I was fine with the decision to pig out because, secretly, I wanted to eat as many different forms of potato as I could all weekend. And lots of melted cheese.

In an effort to line my stomach before we all went out for another friend's birthday, I ate my own body weight in pasta. I mean, seriously — I'm surprised I managed to get drunk at all. I remember shovelling it in past the point where I was comfortable, but I kept thinking "It's your first meal today… You need the energy… You will feel sick if you don't… etc", and just kept lifting my spoon right into my gob. Thank fuck I was wearing a billowy top. A good night was had by all — if you get a chance to go to an Ultimate Power club night at any point, TAKE IT! It's fucking awesome. And not a wanker in sight — I promise. http://www.ultimatepowerclub.com/

I also visited another friend over the weekend to finally see the baby she had at Christmas. I must admit, she was very cute and hardly cried at all (I love a well-behaved baby), thus moving me closer to getting over my baby fear. However, she did fart on my lap, so it might be more of a 'one step forward, two steps back' kinda arrangement.

But let's get to the good part!

Great things I ate this weekend: corned beef pasta with cheese (it is brilliant), a homemade fry-up, a pub Sunday roast, mum's chicken curry, two luxury hot cross buns with butter, a wedge of billionaire's cheesecake, a pretty fucking awesome smorgasbord, more buttery food round my mum's, and chip shop chips. Ooh, and salt and vinegar sticks.

Shit things I ate this weekend: Burger King Whopper.

Fuck me, I can honestly say that was the worst burger I have ever eaten in my living memory. I mean, it's worse than a crappy frozen burger you made at home yourself with your eyes shut, worse than something from a dodgy van — THE WORST. I had gone shopping with my mum and we stopped at Burger King for lunch. I was toying with the idea of a cheeseburger (I'm obviously lying. You know fine well that I was eyeing up the Bacon Double Cheeseburger — it's the Bank Holiday, remember?), BUT THEN my mum made the point that for the same price we could get a Whopper. For some reason, I agreed, but I wasn't quite comfortable with this decision… Now I know why! The initial excitement of seeing the giant Whopper box quickly died when I saw that the bun wasn't toasted (I don't think it's supposed to be anyway) and it was just crumbling everywhere (TOO MUCH BREAD!), there was loads of ketchup in it and friggin' lettuce all over the shop. And I bet it wasn't hot either. URGH. And because bad food choices make me unreasonably angry, I blamed my mum for the whole thing. In fact, my constant moaning put her off her Whopper entirely — she didn't even finish it. But I assured her that it was shit anyway.

In other news, I totally forgot to tell you about a new American cake I found out about — The Icebox Cake! I was reading something on the Huffington Post website and I stumbled across it in an article and did a bit of research — and by the end of it my mouth was watering so badly that I knew I had to make it 'on the immediate' (I stole this line from Girls). It's a very simple cake that requires no baking, but it does need a night to set. Traditionally, it is made with a thin type of biscuit that is very similar to the biscuit part of an Oreo, but they are hard to source here, so I found a recipe that used chocolate-covered digestives. You layer some on a plate, they spread lightly whipped cream on them, then layer more biscuits, then more cream until it starts to resemble a seven-layer heart attack. I then grated chocolate over it and sprinkled some glitter, cos I'm fancy like that. And the results are below.

You creamy little fucker…

The overnight wait was pretty brutal. I just wanted to eat the bastard thing, and no amount of fridge-opening and dirty looks in its direction was going to make it speed up. But by the next night, when I poked it with the giant butcher knife I had been brandishing for the last 24 hours, I could tell the biscuit had absorbed the cream and it was finally ready to slice. OH MY GOD. It was epic — a really, REALLY good cream cake, best served with copious amounts of warm chocolate sauce. So my boyfriend and I did what any two sane people would do — eat so much of it that we were almost sick. Yup — by the end of the evening, I was already thinking who I could give it away to because the thought of it (accompanied by the strange smell of warm cream on my top lip) was making me want to vomit. So, we set aside quite a big portion to give to my mum the next day — this rash decision was one that I would soon come to regret… 

After a night's sleep, we were ready for Round 2 with the ice box cake and suddenly what was left in the fridge seemed pretty paltry for two people in the mood for a creamy, chocolatey, biscuity fix. In fact, my mum had to prise her portion out of my clammy, digestive-covered hands. But that aside, I was pleased that the results were as good as they were. With a bit more decorative piping-bag work, I think I would happily serve this to guests. But I do have a confession to make — I got so obsessed with this dessert that I ended up doing some regular (but secret) cake-scaping of my boyfriend's remaining piece… It was worth standing in a cold kitchen for, I tell you. 

Although… if I had been caught, it might not have been worth it. Picture: me. In pyjamas. Shivering by an open fridge. Stealthily stuffing cake into my mouth. With my utensil of choice — a bright green plastic knife from a picnic set. Nuff said.