"My friend has just lost four stone in weight ..,”
... said a work colleague.
With my interest immediately awakened, I asked her what miracle diet she found so that I could pinch it and follow it and worship at her heels.
“Didn’t eat,” replied my chum, matter-of-factly, stuffing her fissog with toast.
(It took all I had not to lick the butter off her chin.)
“She was only allowed to drink water and take these tablets from the doctor. Did it for 100 days, bang on.
“Cost her £76 a week though for the pills.
“Only now she wants to try something different as she says she’s not losing it fast enough.”
Not only was I staggered to learn she was getting fat-busting pills from the doctor which were prescribed to be taken with an ocean of water – hello? I don’t think this type of quack can be found on the NHS – I couldn’t believe that she hadn’t put anything in her gob for 100 days.
I’ve known girls in work to “fast” for a bit – or detox as they fancily call it – which involves nuts, seeds, hot lemon “tea” and a plateful of smugness to go.
They’re always all slimmies too, the kind of girl who needs a drip feed of lard rather than drip-feeding themselves rabbit food, all in the name of cleansing.
And there I was thinking that cleansing was just something you do after taking your make-up off. Silly me.
But not eating for 100 days?
That takes real dedication, and real stupidity really.
Putting the moral/medical argument aside, what kind of life would you have if you denied yourself anything, let alone something?
The basic rule of thumb for anyone who wants to lose weight can be summed up in a small sentence with big meaning: If you eat less and move more, you’re going to lose weight. Simple eh?
Yeah, but not if you make a meal out of it like I do.
Anyway, back to the water drooler in the midst of a calorific drought ...
My reluctant admiration for said faster was tested when the story teller described her as thus: “Anyway, she was huge. Really fat. I couldn’t get over the size of her the last time I saw her.
“And then she lost all this weight and looks, well, okay now. She’s still fat, mind.
“But nice fat, if you know what I mean.”
Nice fat. Now there’s an idea for an internet site if every I heard one.
I wondered, not for the first time, what “huge, really fat” looks like. And did it resemble me. Sorry, but I can never resist.
So I asked her to quantify it.
“Oh you know....” she said, eyeing me up in that most terrifying of ways where you know what’s coming and are bracing yourself for the insult.
There followed the shoulder shrug/head to one side combo, which seems to be international language of “lumper”.
“A bit like you. Only...”
What? Only what, I wondered, as the shrug/nod mish-mash took over her upper half once again.
Better looking? Fatter?
Bigger? Smarter?
Smaller? Taller?
Married with seven kids?
WHAT? Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, shrug, nod, sigh.
Go on, say fatter. Go on! You know you want to.
“She’s blonde.”
I breathe a sigh of relief until the Give Us A Clue type action jabs at me once again as friend sucks her buttery fingers as if to punctuate the point.
“Blonde, and smaller. But what she’s done proves you can do it too, doesn’t it?
“Shall I ask her the name of her doctor, Han?”
I wanted to tell her to stick the name where the sun don’t shine but, lady that I am, I just said I didn’t think the “plan” was for me as I don’t like water, and have a fondness for chewing.
Oh, how I laughed; and, oh, how she scowled, the word “defeatist” being swallowed with her last crumb of toast.
“That’s where you’re going wrong then,” she added.
“Denial is the way you want to go. Works every time. And what’s 100 days of not eating but drinking loads of water out of your life anyway?”
A lot of missed chicken kebabs, I thought. And too many trips to the toilet.
