Pre-Aussie slimming dramas - Chinese style.
Something that tastes this bad surely can't be good for you...
As I sit here typing away in a distinct Carrie Bradshaw fashion, I can't help but wonder about my dwindling sanity levels. It all comes down to my choice of drink... I'm not delicately sipping from a sugar-rimmed cocktail. I'm not even gulping a glass of water. No, I am forcing dank, dark green liquid down my fragile throat. You guessed it, all in the name of ‘healthy’ weight loss.
The tea smouldering away in my mug is Chinese slimming tea. An image of a slim woman stares up at me from the bright orange packaging. Oh, to be a cartoon character… who needs airbrushing when you call your illustrator God?
Before you cry “fool”, you need to know that I didn't buy the tea myself. It was a gift from a generous (or downright vindictive) friend. Either she's having a laugh or was blessed with abnormal taste buds.
Forget green tea my fellow Londonites - it's sooo yesterday.
You know what, to hell with this - I'm moving into tomorrow - and FAST! But first I need to visit the 'facilities'. Whoa! It may not be shifting cellulite but this tea sure moves something! Hold that thought.
Right, I'm back... where was I? Oh yes...
You may query the reason for my self-induced torture. Well, my latest fatal flaw involves believing every health tip I read and in this advice suckling society there's no shortage of reading material. I've become a vitamin popping, leaf eating, seed gobbling junkie. Does it work? Maybe... I don't stick with many miracle solutions long enough to find out. Honestly, my shoe collection is suffering! I'm spending my hard earned shrapnel on seaweed.
It doesn't take a genius to work out why my fixation outer beauty has suddenly escalated far beyond Everest; I am heading home to Australia in one week's time. I have seven measly days to trim down, tan up and prepare myself for the land of bikinis and beautiful bronzed siblings.
The situation has become so desperate that I even spent a large chunk of Sunday in the gym. THAT, my dear friends, is sacrilegious behaviour. I don't 'do' the gym and the gym certainly doesn't do me. The running machines jar my poor, not so little bosom, the sight of taught fitness freaks sends me into little lady paranoia and the personal trainers scare the living hell out of me. People who enjoy causing pain to innocent young cake lovers should be ashamed of themselves. Sure, they contribute to the beauty of our 'surroundings' but even security guards show more compassion than these ogres.
Anyway, to cut a long, sweat-filled saga short, I loved it.
I'll eat my words and not my cake... the gym and I have finally made peace. Sure, it may be just the novelty of having something new to moan about, but my post gym palpitations felt good. In fact, they felt great.
I may not yet look the part, but six weeks of sun and surf in the Land Down Under and I'll be the one laughing.
Enjoy your pale Christmas guys. I'd send you a hideously patronising postcard but somehow, I don't think there'll be time. Relaxation is a time consuming business you know.