After the excesses of Las Vegas realisation has finally struck that I am a bloater. Nearly 5 years of living the life of an American has caught up with me. When I first sat in restaurants here I just stared at the portions with disbelief, but now I scoff the whole bloody lot unashamedly. So to celebrate my impending move to the island of Bermuda, known for its short wearing beach activities, I am planning a diet.
I’ve never been very good at diets, I’d just cut out the bread, or the beer, or the burgers and that would do, mixed in with a tiny bit of exercise and footy and I was good. But no more, my ankle (still swollen by the way, and still a tiny bit sore) injury hasn’t helped but is not an excuse because I have been on the journey to pot-bellyhood for a good year now.
The reason I am telling you this is, well it’s a blog, and two, if you are in on it, then I can’t pretend that 6-7 pints of Stella, or a tub of Ben & Jerry’s won’t matter. So after reading the magazine on the plane with all those silly gadgets in, I’m going to invest in some snazzy exercise contraptions, watch what I eat, drink less and cut out the excess, oh and the sandwiches, because I do love a loaf of bread.
There now you know.