Call me sludgebelly

Rotund. Rubenesque. Slightly fuzzy around the edges. Call it what you will, it doesn’t escape the truth: Fat. Obese. Size 20 and 19 stone of the wobbly stuff.

Compared to some, that’s not too bad, but for the majority, for me it’s got to go. Not because of fashion or social acceptance, but because of four sets of acronyms.


PCOS, or Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, makes weight hard to lose. It also means conceiving is hard, very hard, hence the IVF. And to get that on the NHS my BMI needs to be 30 or below and I need to be 39 or younger. It’s 41.7 and I’m 38.5. I’m screwed.

Or not. And God knows, I love a deadline. This timeline means war. It means all the wishes and posturing and gibbering, dieting bullshit over the years comes to an end, starting 7th January 2013. This blog is records the journey.

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