Fading photos….but not faded enough

I made a nasty discovery in my mum’s old photo collection today…….me when I was fat.

I recall listening to Sara Cox on the radio one day when she remarked how old and inferior she felt when watching 19 year old girls walk by with amazing figures and not terribly much on. She described them as 100% prime beef with men all queuing up at a meat market.

This was not me at 19. Before university student life I had an OK figure, then I started drinking cider and eating at greasy spoons and trying to keep up with my boyfriend’s daily calorific intake. When I look back I recall it not being the healthiest episode of my life and that I may have crept up to a size 14, but the picture is shocking. I literally look like someone pumped me full of gas. Even my facial features have been lost to the landmass that is my bloatedness. Thankfully I can look back on it now and feel relieved that the wind didn’t change and that I didn’t stay that way. It is a shame though that I bhdidn’t look my best when my skin was still in its ‘youth’.

Now in my thirties I have finally grasped the concept of ‘my body is a temple’, yet i have lots of grey hairs, wrinkles  and a few saggy bits where things haven’t ‘sprung’ back to shape. Its all a little bit too late. But as you get older, concerns about your appearance hive way to preserving your health, which is why i am fitter and slimmer now than when i was in my teens……back then i did whatever i wanted and thought about the consequences later.

So to prevent me from ever ballooning like i did when i was 19, that photo is stuck to my fridge as a reminder whenever i get tempted away from an evening’s exercise or tempted towards sugary treats.

I decided not to put the pictures of my semi-naked mother (she seemed to like going topless on all of our family holidays) and my father with george best hair and a podgy tummy on the fridge. Some photos are best left in albums, or better still in our memories…..to fade with time.

I am blogging for Unicef. Thanks for reading.


What age is the best?

What age is the best? Well debatable that 32 is that good. I can’t complain. I think I am just still young enough to behave a bit recklessly:  speed, get drunk occasionally, listen to Radio One. As a parent though I am trying to be the cool Mum, which in my view involves the following:

– avoiding wearing too many tunics (done all too deliberately to cover up the hip and bum post-natal problem areas)

– I try not to embarass my 6 year old going on 16 daughter (not very successful on this one)

– avoid conversation with pushy middle-class social climbing Mums (not hard)

– Make a point of talking to the group of Mums that are often classed by the snobs as ‘have nots’ (easy as am one of them because I live in an ex-council house who cares?)

– Avoid Boden, Joules and other brands of a similar ilk like the plague.

Its very crude I know and probably come out looking a complete twat but I don’t care.

My friend’s oldest is about to embark on a career with the Royal Marines and he has been told the training he faces will be ’15 months of hell’. To an ambitious young man that sounds too good to miss. To a 30 something male with a mortgage etc that’s Ok providing there is a fuckin big pay cheque at the end. Our priorities change as we get older and that makes us more boring. Just like  switching from Radio 1 to Radio 2.

When you are 6 it seems, by observing my daughter, that the world is your oyster and anything is possible. Six year olds also don’t have a social filter when talking. As I discovered when she told the owners of our holiday property exactly how fast Mummy was driving to catch the ferry. Oh and reading my Dad’s rude card out loud in the pub without hesitating to say the word ‘arse’ as I mentioned in the previous post. I am now starting to educate her on what is and isn’t appropriate to say –  which results in  a barrage of questions – “why can’t I say that you did 130 to catch the ferry mummy?” ….”because they don’t need to know that”…..”why not”…..”because Mummy shouldn’t have been doing that speed”….”I keep telling you Mummy that you go too fast”. At this rate my daughter’s best time in life will be when she is finally in a role of authoritaaaa either as a headmistress or a cop. I am just going to have to settle with going too fast at 30.

This blog is intended to help raise money for Unicef by asking readers to kindly donate £1 when they like what they read – please visit my fundraising page at Unicef to make a donation.

Thanks for reading.