Right. This is it. The last year I get wingey about being a stone over weight.
I've got an appointment with the fitness instructor tomorrow at 10am to get a new regime that tackles the saddle bags and the bingo wings.
I caught sight of myself out shopping last weekend and fair enough, I had a raging hangover, so my powers of deduction weren't as sharp as usual, but I swear to god, my upper arm was sagging over the top of my elbow when my arm was bent straight. I have the arms of a 50 year old. And not a Madonna 50 yr old with muscles (and probably a penis), but the arms of a 50 year old dinner lady. Most probably the one who got sacked from my middle school for stealing toilet paper by smuggling it out of the school, wrapped round her legs like old lady bandages under her tights.
Sweet Jesus, aging is a cruel mistress. Not only has my metabolism slowed down, it's practically going backwards. I spent the last few months training for another half marathon and admitedly, my fondness for 'carb loading' starting including less than wholesome items like entire buckets of haagen daas Baileys. But I was running a minimum of 24 miles a week and I wasn't losing any weight.
Don't even let me get started on my saddlebags. It's like I'm permanently wearing several pairs of those cyclist shorts with the padded arses and thighs. I'm like an inverted Chris Hoy. It's a wonder I haven't sponteneously combusted with all the friction my running must cause.
If I could just wire my big fat greedy mouth shut, this would be all so easy.
So, Tat's started to be mistaken for Karl Pilkington. I'm not sure how I feel about it. Sometimes I find it really funny, because Tat is in fact a grumpy, lazy Manc - so the fact they look the same as well is quite entertaining. But it's quite weird sitting next to Tat on the settee listening to him moaning about something and watching Karl Pilkington on the tele, moaning about the same thing.