Shame Diet

February. One month into the year and only six months until brother- in - law &co tie the knot. No wedding stone has been left unturned. It looks like it will be the wedding of the year. Yet again I am faced with the envious prospect of dressing myself on a shoestring, a rather wide shoestring at that.

So I have once and for all decided that enough is enough, I must take the bull ( being me) by the horns and sign up to a slimming club. I really would rather poke my eyes with pins than partake in weekly public shaming ritual, I have never been a fan of humiliation.

No doubt none of these slimming clubs would suggest doing such a thing either, but frankly for me to stand on scales in front of myself is shame enough without doing it in a hall full of people! Shame-dieting has got to be worth a try.

Maybe just like an alcoholic or a drug user, admitting publicly that I have a problem is probably the first step to recovery.

With this in mind I head out the door with sulky toddler to my first weigh in.

First impressions are not too bad, I see an orderly queue leading to a rather slim clipboard lady forwarding fellow dieting cattle to the scales. Thankfully by the time I reach the front I see a sign warning others to stay back while one is being weighed. I attempt to exhale as much as possible to ensure accurate reading from scales - all that extra air has got to take off at least half a pound. Much to my disappointment the only thing this seems to achieve is light-headedness, a beetroot complexion, and an extra pound.

I move on to hear motivational talk. This is not really doing much other than make me feel hungry and provoke wailing toddler. Giving an apologetic nod to the speaker I make moves to manoeuvre tantrum from hall. In haste he trip’s and gets nosebleed. Great.

On the bright side with all the embarrassed sweat I lost I must have rid that pound.

Roll on next week, or should I say rolls off please.