It’s almost mankini season

I shouldn’t be revealing this but if I put it out there, I may be forced into action through guilt and shame.

I want to lose five kilos.

Since last August I have gained that amount of weight. It’s not a huge amount I realise. And it’s not like there wasn’t any extenuating circumstances. There were extenuating circumstances galore – namely the move back to Ireland, and even more importantly the fact that I quit smoking at the exact same time.

And I fully understand that being 5 kilos lighter or heavier makes no difference to my value as a human being.

Most people might not even notice it. I notice it however and I want rid of it.

Quitting smoking is the major cause of this mild weight gain. The nicotine cravings were intense for a while and I was concious not to shovel biscuits down my gob when in the midst of an intense craving. But even after the cravings have ceased, what are you meant to do with your hands. In the past I would spark up. Without that habit, eating is an easy and pleasurable way of occupying your fingers.  There’s also the theory that seeing as nicotine is both an appetite suppressant and a flavour killer, one you quit, food become so much tastier.

Then of course the return to Ireland made eating so much more fun. The range of junk food in Ireland is noticeably more extravagant that in Holland. I don’t know why that is. Supermarkets in Amsterdam generally had much smaller biscuit and crisp and breakfast cereal sections.

Healthier eating was not a concious decision – it was simply easier as you were not assaulted with such an array of junk when you went shopping.
Wonderful as Dutch people are, their takeaways are pretty grim. A frikandel is a supremely popular takeaway sausage snack. It is unutterably foul – some rancid, meat product. Otherwise you could have bitterballen – boiling hot, deep-fried meat paste balls. Meat source – unknown. Chips came with mayonnaise – a condiment I never warmed to.

But back in the homeland I was facing the constant presence of garlic chips and cheese. And battered sausages. Deep fried sausages covered in flour. What is not to love.

When I moved into Flatenemy’s lair in deepest, darkest winter, I would find myself comfort-eating battered sausages and all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet more than once per week.

Not every day. But more than I should.

The result is a waist size larger than when I left Amsterdam.

I point blank refuse to accept that this is merely middle-aged spread, and a natural result of turning forty. I’m not a subscriber to the belief that your metabolism slows down.

I am not going to do anything foolish like buying a weighing scales or going on a diet.

I will attempt to eat 3 regular meals a day and not to eat crisps.

My belt buckle will tell me if I am on the right track.

It’s now March. It is heading into mankini season. I need to try to be beach body ready.
My beauteous, blue coloured skin needs to be shown to its best advantage.

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