War on Waist

Advances in the War on Waist have been reduced to an inch-by-inch battle involving high-intensity hand to mouth combat. Keeping hunger at bay is no game, it's a nasty but necessary business. Inches are falling from Man Mountain indicating continued progress on the low-calorie crusade. Trousers no longer cling to the Lard Lugger's calves. Belts, well there's only one that fits and it has transformed from a tight-fit to being more than a foot too long. And cuddles from the kids, not to mention the Commander in Chief, have become cosy encounters rather than arm-stretching grapple clinches. All in all, it's a shoulder shrinking, chin chiselling (I wish), rear reducing, thigh thinning, calf condensing, success. So far! But what about that big, wobbly, overhanging, jelly belly that's causing the most serious problems, or some of them anyway. The Incredible Bulk might be much more mobile, much more awake, much more enthusiastic about life, but, a settled sensible diet...

Stress seems to burn calories faster than a money-grabbing con artist burns bridges. So the Resident Teenager came to the rescue of the weight-loss campaign by very kindly popping into hospital for an operation. Nothing to get too worked up about, or so it would seem, just some very awkwardly positioned teeth being removed under a general anaesthetic No reason to get stressed out. Many people take much more testing situations in their stride every day. Only an over-protective big lump of a super softie would be ludicrously anxious about a relatively minor, planned procedure. And, as usual, our NHS played a blinder. From the wonderful nurse, who checked all our details, answered all our questions and was very professional while still managing to put us at ease, to the anaesthetist (very tall) who calmly talked mum, dad and teenager through what was going to happen, to the charming surgeon (even taller) with his disarmingly relaxed bedside manner and reassuring smiles. Not forg...

Freedom! Brave adventure instructors were keeping the Resident Teenager busy all weekend and the Commander in Chief was away celebrating further academic excellence, leaving Man Mountain and the dog to their own devices. Spoiled for choice, the thumb was poised to start text- pesting friends into a night out - drink, laughter and fast food. But, feeling almost guilty about leaving the four-legged fiend home alone for so long, thoughts turned to enticing friends round to watch 1970s cop shows, eat curry and drink whisky. Decided. Time to get the fire on, the pyjamas on, well it was nearly dark, and the cooker on to create something ‘healthy’ to provide sustenance throughout the weekend. Well , it was a bit wet and windy for hitting the town and I’m saving that whisky. Don’t worry about the hairy fiend - that’s the dog, by the way - he’s happy with top-notch dried food and a little fish mixed in. Baring in mind advice from Brother-in-Law, a real scientist who studied a rea...

Stepping up exercise seemed the perfect prescription to cure the Incredible Bulk’s lard jam. For weeks Man Mountain has been bouncing up and down - losing a pound here, gaining another one there, but not making any real progress. Typically the Lard Lugger was so happy about breaking through the 20 stone barrier that the main purpose of the War on Waist slipped his mind. Nothing turns the concentration dial back up to ten more quickly than an invitation to a spinning class which was delivered from the Commander in Chief at War on Waist HQ via a kind colleague. Wobble Bottom realised trouble wasn’t far ahead when the group turned up for a taster spinning session at DW Sports in Carlisle. The rest of the static-peloton-to-be already looked lean and athletic in their flattering lycra outfits. There was only one baggy t-shirt and oversized tracksuit bottom combo. Generous padding of the posterior proved insufficient protection when faced with the spinning bike’s seat - ouch! All t...

Funny old week - from the best of  weeks,  to  the you’ re-having-a-laugh of weeks, to the could-do-better of weeks! Good news, Gigantasaurus clocked up parkrun number nine at the weekend.  It was really number 10 but the wobbly walker forgot to take the all-important barcode to one run, so it didn’t count. Schoolboy error really and a slap in the face when you realise that hip pocket is empty at the END. Oops! There was a hint, all be it ever so slight, of the lard lugger’s trusty waddle turning into a temporary jog, or a joggle, but it didn’t quite happen. Looked more like a clumsily avoided trip, to be honest. However, the stumble, stagger and stroll was enough to record a personal best time. The first huffing-and-puffing-powered parkrun took Man Mountain more than an hour - a whole 66 min 25 sec - and the latest a mere 52 min 16 sec - more than 14 minutes quicker.  Just for the record, and to keep the Incredible Bulk firmly anchored to the ground, ...