Casting a sideways glance at myself in the mirror last night, I realised enough is enough. I have less than four months until I shall be bikini-clad on the beach in Turkey and the thought of this currently puts the fear of God into me like nothing else. I have thighs wobblier than Smart Price jelly and my tummy, now that's in serious need of some work. Put bluntly, there are enough folds in my pouch that I could discretely nurture a small wallaby, possibly two.
So I go for a jog this morning, me and my belly. Just a short run in the dark with the dog before work. Apart from walking most of it, I'm out of puff and my hips are aching like I'm done a marathon in the bedroom with an A-lister. It's a start I suppose and I leave the house for work feeling enthused and proud of my efforts.
Arriving at work, still stiff and suffering, I'm starkly reminded of what I am striving to achieve... my workmate Ali is sat at her desk with a flat midriff and pert boobs. My boobs went south a long time ago, and while Ali claims her 50 year old twins are pert enough to pass the Bic Test I'm left feeling dismayed that mine would fail without a second thought. Now the Bic Test I'm told, is a marker for a pert chest - if you can hold a biro under your boob, it's sagged. Ali reckons she has a 100% drop rate. I'm jealous. Never mind carrying one pen, I could probably manage a whole pencil case, worse still my handbag. I'm mortified. I've got 15 years on Ali and yet her tits peer out of her top like she's just had implants and follow me round the office like the eyes on an antiquated portrait on the wall of a stately home. They're always looking at me.
Taunting me. Look at me!
I'm off to cry into my tea.