by Jackie Kay
‘Really?’ Debbie swung around and stared at me, definitely stone-cold sober now. ‘You never told me any of this? How come you never told me any of this?’
‘It was more fun slagging her off, like it was more fun smoking,’ I said, putting out my last doubt ever, squashing it into the ashtray with a new, fresh determinedness.
Debbie lit up again, God, she must have smoked twenty-five, at least! The room was thick with fug. I opened the window. ‘Let it out,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow, I’m going to take the curtains to the cleaners.’ ‘You what?’ Debbie said. She looked disappointed in me, like she wasn’t expecting to be taken seriously. ‘I’m through with smoking,’ I said flashily. ‘Smoking is so last year.’
‘I hate it when people use the word so like that,’ Debbie said morosely.
‘Smoking is common,’ I said, ignoring this, ‘we’ve got to get out before we’re the last ones left on the planet who smoke. Let’s join the other gang. They’re the cool ones now.’
Debbie cupped her hands around her fag. She looked so lonely. I felt sorry for her, but I had my health to consider. I had my lungs to think about, my blood circulation. ‘Listen,’ Debbie said, taking a deep drag, miffed, ‘this was my idea.’
‘I know,’ I said, ‘but it’s going to be a tough one for you, because your ex-lovers were psychopaths. Mine were all quite nice people really.’
‘You think that because it was you that left them. None of them left you,’ Debbie said, lighting up yet another filthy cigarette.
‘True, true,’ I said evenly.
‘I’m always the one that’s left,’ Debbie said, and suddenly shocked me by bawling her eyes out. ‘Put the fag out,’ I said, ‘and come and look at the sun coming up. It is bright red.’ We stood outside my back door, linking arms looking at the red eye of the rising sun for a long, long time. Debbie didn’t light up. Maybe Debbie would never light up. Maybe we would both become very boring. ‘I think we’re going to become boring people,’ Debbie said with that uncanny ability to speak my inside thoughts aloud. ‘Shut up, baby,’ I said in my best Double Indemnity voice. ‘Let’s get some shut-eye. It’s late.’ The morning clouds were swirling in the sky, like wee puffs of smoke.
Mini Me
Day One
See every time I goes on a diet, I remember all they diets that have gone afore: like auld illnesses, they come wey memories o’ intense sadness. This time it’s going tae work; I’m telling you why. It’s working because ma dedication is up there, optimum, second to none. I’ve tested masell and ma answers are all aye. I’m aw across it.
I tried not to get too doon this morning when I got oot the auld exercise bra frae the previous diet and wis shocked to find ma knockers didnae fit intae it. So furst up, and as a matter o’ urgency, I hud to heave myself to the sports shop. I says to the girl you should be ashamed o’ yoursell! You’re supposed to be supporting people tae get healthy and there you ur discriminating – no support for ower 36 DD! And I says, it’s a scandal. The girl looks at me like she despises me when she doesnae even know me and she’s saying on repeat no my problem, no my problem. And I says what’s the matter are you on a low vocab diet? And she clamps her mooth shut, folds her airms and stares, just stares, cool as you like, cool as the bloody cucumbers I’m having tae masticate. So I just hud tae leave the sporty shop, waddle oot wey as much dignity as I kid muster. I hears her shout after me sort your head out, weirdo! but I resisted the urge tae go back and have it out wey her. I’ve mair tae worry aboot than ratty lassies in retail therapy.
Next up: I tries Marks for support, and finds a nice wuman who has a whiff o’ lez aboot her and appears tae enjoy taking ma measurements. I leave Marks at two with the bra in ma bag, black and stretchy. (It won’t be too lang till I get back intae the auld sports bra; this wan is a wee go-between.) But then ma tummy rumbles; shopping is pure knackering! I’m no meaning to be funny but even going up the escalator tires me oot! (I’m scared o’ them; huv to hit that first step hopping.) Am gonnae huv tae start this diet the morrow – I’m pure starving now what with having tae go in search o’ a boulder-holder and a’ I had fir breakfast wis a pink grapefruit which has no exactly put a lining in ma stomach. It felt mair like it took the lining aff my stomach! They say that coffee and tea are negative waters; well, the grapefruit is a negative fruit. So I goes and has masell a caffe latte, the skimmed milk is mair fattening if yir on a diet, so I believe – this is the conundrum – and an almond croissant. They don’t even pretend to have skinny almond croissants. Though they do huv skinny muffins – I mean, please! You might as well stick some blueberries into an empty egg carton and have done wey it.
Day One
I didnae bother recording ma intimate thoughts fir the rest o’ yesterday; I reckoned it couldnie coont as a dieting day. But today is Tuesday and furst things furst – the scales! I’m noo heavier than I wis yesterday morning due to the croissants, the big Mac (which I boycotted fir ages because my surname is MacDonald), the spag bol, the deep-fried Mars bar, the Chinese cairrie oot, the bumper bag of crisps. Wis a bit sickened. I’ve got to the stage where I look at masell in the mirror and say how did you let yoursell go? But ah canny be hanging aroond asking existential questions – is the self something that kin be let go and if so kin you still be staunding? – got tae keep up the momentum, and be true to ma vision when I started this brand-new diet. I kid see masell slim! That’s what I huv tae do when I’m trying to shed stones, I huv tae carry a mini me inside ma mind’s eye, a wee me. I gie masell the figure o’ Michelle Obama. To look like her I have tae gie masell some extra inches in height. It’s do-able: getting fit makes ye taller tae. I huvtae believe she’s possible, this mini me, like I’ve got something invested in her materializing. And before she’s even here, what you huvtae say is this is it this time, you’re gonnae hang on tae her? You are no gonnae let her go. Right? It’s not getting the weight doon that’s the problem: it’s the third wumun that comes alang when you’ve reached yer goal, trying to wreak havoc. It’s the third wumun I’m ready for when she saunters up and jist starts adding things, slowly, creepily, a wee scone here, a wee tattie there, a wee tattie scone, a toty knob of butter. I’m keeping an eye oot for her. I’m intae this diary so I kin chart and maintain the loss.
Aye, diets are mair like bereavements. What happens tae me when I shed a shitload o’ stones is that I feel sad for the auld fat girl who used tae stare sadly intae the mirror trying tae day something wey hersell, the wan who turned hauf aroond in the mirror to grab haud o’ her back fat, and subconsciously, mibbe, bring her back. Truth is: I’m a bit o’ an alien when I’m skinny; I don’t recognize masell – suddenly auld, suddenly miserable-looking. At least I look happy fat. At least you can still look young when yer overweight, a wee bit o’ the cherub in yer cheeks. So that’s the other thing aboot this time. I’m going tae huv a wee ceremony fir the auld fat me, jist like I wid if I’d died and this time I’m going to bag up her claes and put some intae Oxfam, some intae Red Cross and some intae the Elderly Care, so I’m really, truly spreading masell thin! (The fat claes are all like funeral claes anyway – aw black.) But I’m no there yet. I’m on DAY ONE which should really be DAY TWO but I’m not goin tae judge. (That’s the other thing: get rid o’ the judgemental voice inside yer ain heid!) This time a’ the claes are going, the minute they’re loose, I’m getting well rid. (I canny wait for that. Canny wait to put my haunds doon my expanding-waist troosers, pull them way oot and say to Iain, look how much I’ve lost.) It’s all aboot how much you’ve lost. That’s how you define a weight-watcher: loss. It’s a’ aboot loss; everything’s a’ aboot loss. The time before the last time when I actually joined WeightWatchers, I used to quite look forward to the weigh-in! Aye! If Sandra said, ‘Good for you, Patricia, you’ve lost four pounds,’ it wis better than a night oot at the bingo. But WeightWatchers is nae the answer. They say things like GOOD NEWS: THIS WEEK YOU CAN HAVE A BOWL OF COCO POPS! I mean, c’mon! You’re supposed to wet yoursell wey exci
tement, the wow factor o’ a bowl o’ Coco Pops! C’mon!
Back to the claes: I’m never again goin tae sneakily keep them in a suitcase under ma bed for the return o’ the big lassie. No way! Nor am I going back tae the charity shops hunting aroon fir ma auld claes, telling masell I’m double donating tae console, that disnae work either! It disnae work and it reduces morale. That’s whit the dieter needs mair than anything: morale. It’s a hard thing to nail on day one, I’m telling you; yer self-esteem is shot tae pieces. And who are you gonnae blame? A’ the snooty-nosed people that look doon at you, sneakily eyeing yer midriff. A’ the people that talk to you like yer stupit, when yer no stupit, like yer brain’s slow cos yer walk’s slow. All the skinny judgementals; they’re the disturbed ones. Tell you why. Because they canny take their eyes aff ma fat arse, that’s why!
Day One
Yesterday wisnae as successful as I hoped cos an auld pal called roon unannounced and asked me oot fir an all ye can eat Chinese buffet. I telt her I was trying to watch ma weight (a weird phrase; yer weight is no the telly) so we compromised and settled on a curry; she’d jist lost her ma so I couldnie refuse and I couldnie say whit I wanted tae say which wis curries are killers fir me and I couldnae jist order the chicken wey no rice because it wid have made her feel lonely. So frae no fault o’ my own, I told masell I’d have to postpone the diet and try an keep up the momentum as best I kin. Actually, the curry in the Coriander was so tasty, perhaps the best curry o’ my entire life, and Jenny had Chicken Tikka Masala and I had Grandma’s Beef and we both shared a pilau rice and a peshwari nan. That would have been fine but Jenny canny go fir a curry weyoot ordering an onion bhaji, so I kept her company. Ditto the spicy popadoms, spicy onions and mango chutney, vegetable samosa and aloo papa chat. You canny go oot wey a pal and let them eat starters on their ain; it’s no right, am I right or am a meringue? This is where all this dieting goes pear-shaped so it does; it doesnae allow you tae huv any manners. Yer sitting in a pal’s hoose, and yer saying I’m not eating carbs at the moment when they’ve gone to the big bother of making a homemade lasagna? No carbs fir me – when they’ve dug up new potatoes from their back gairden? It’s no do-able. Hauf way through the meal wey Jenny, I suddenly remembers that the last time I properly dieted (because I am going to properly start tomorrow) the time when I lost four and a hauf stone, six years ago noo, I hud tae become very anti-social. It’s the only way, lock yoursell in at night and don’t see any mates. Don’t travel. Don’t go anywhere! The minute you do, yer resolve will crack. Take yoursell pumpkin seeds intae work, if you’ve gotta work, keep the heid doon, and make yersell a salad. It’s a regime all right. Think positive! Jenny asks me last night how me and Iain are getting on. I says, Fine, ok. Jenny says, Sure? I says, he’s a bit undermining o’ me dieting, like he’s an agent saboteur. And Jenny says, dipping her nan into her sauce, Are you dieting, you could of fooled me! (She disnae believe me; but I’ll show her. The proof is in the pudding. Or rather the proof is in no pudding.) I says, Yip, I’m starting the morrow. Jenny groans. Jenny is no lightweight hersell. Yeah, Iain says to me, Pat, yo-yo dieting doesnie wurk. And what did you say? Jenny says.
I says, It’s six years since I’ve been on a diet, you’d hardly call that a bloody yo-yo. And I says, It’d have to be some yo-yo that takes six years fir tae pull the bloody string back up! Jenny pisses herself laughing. He might like you the way you are, Jenny says, knocking back her pint of Cobra. True, I says, a lot o’ men like their wives on the generous side, eh no? Whit is that aboot?
Day One
I’ve decided that I’m no mentally prepared for the regime and the strange lonely weeks ahead, I’ve other things going aff this week, and emotionally it’s no been easy listening to Jenny talking aboot the death o’ her maw; it’s triggered aff things for me, things I thought I wis ower. So I’ve made an executive decision tae start the diet properly NEXT Monday. It’s a bit o’ a heidbanger anyway trying to start a diet in the middle o’ the week. You don’t know where you are and you get lost trying to count things. Dieting is maths. I’ve never been all that brilliant wey counting. Not that I’m blaming my weight on no being good at mental arithmetic, but it disnae help. Think aboot it! I weigh sixteen and a half stone and I want to lose four stone minimum; minimum. MINIMUM FOR MINI ME! That’s adding and subtraction. The diet I’m on the noo promises I’ll lose twelve pounds in seventeen days. So that’s a pound and a half a day. If on day two I lose three pounds, how am I supposed to work it all oot? That’s maths too. BUMS MEAN SUMS! And there’s the weighing oot o’ foods that’s a pain in the arse. And there’s the drinking eight glesses o’ water. That’s the most difficult part. I canny hack it. And yer on gless three and yer asking yerself is this my third or ma fourth gless o’ water? Ye really can’t remember. So you knock back another jist in case and nearly gie yerself the boke. Still I’m going to have to embrace all that again if I want tae turn masell aroond. And I do. Aw, I really do. I really, really want tae turn masell roond. I want a whole new figure. See even the word for that is connected wey numbers! It’s a maths mafia dieting is, so it is. Aye. Go Figure! They say that in the States don’t they, where they have people much bigger than me. Go Figure. I don’t know why I hate the expression, but I do. Some of those people over there are stuffing their faces with donuts all day lang.
Day One
I’ve given myself a good talking to and am ready to commence on my seventeen-day diet. It will slice the first stone aff me in nae time, that bit is pure plain sailing. I’m not seeing any pals fir two weeks. I’m going tae go into work and straight home to Iain, no drinks doon the pub. No rounds. Should save masell a fortune! I’m going tae be fifty this year, and I’ve dieted hauf my life away. Aye well: nae mair, nae mair same auld same auld. Nae mair yo-yo. Nae Mair Atkins; nae mair Hay. This wan is the vanishing trick!
So first up: The Scales! The scary sadist supercilious scales. They wait an agonizing minute before they break the news. Bastards. I’m five pounds heavier than I wis last Monday, I shouldnie have hud that bloody curry, but let’s no get doon-hearted; excess will be gone in the wink o’ an eye. I get in the shower: huv a good wash in freezing-cold water, kick-start ma circulation. Brrrrrrrr! No nice. I huv an inspirational idea: I clip my pubic hair! I stand shivering wey the scissors hinging between my fleshy thighs. Phew. Snip, snip. That makes me feel hauf a pound lighter awready! I waddle doon tae the kitchen in ma buff and squeeze hauf a lemon into a gless and add water. But I suddenly remember that I huv a bottle of tree syrup in the fridge from when I wis going to start the lemon detox diet but didnae. I’m sure me combining diets willnae do any hairm. I pour masell a plentiful helping o’ tree syrup. I add a pinch of cayenne which is supposed tae speed up yer metabolism. Woo Hoo! I’m awa! It really is day one and I’m losing it. I’m really going tae lose it. I slice a ruby grapefruit in hauf and put it on a white plate. The grapefruit and the lemon huv got ma digestive juices going that’s fir sure. I can feel them dancing. I put on Aretha and move to Say A Little Prayer. I sing along: the moment I wake up before I put on my makeup. When I gets to the bit about wondering what dress to wear, I realize that I huvnie worn a dress since I was twenty.
Sometime in the afternoon, I realizes I made a miscalculation with numbers. If I’m tae lose twelve pounds in seventeen days that is less than a pound a day. I have tae put seventeen intae twelve no the other way aroon. I don’t even know whit that is or whether it’s gonnae show on the scales. How am I going tae know if I lose a bit of a pound? Cannae dwell on that. Have to get oot and walk fast for seventeen minutes. Even though I can feel it’s putting pressure on ma knees. What I’m thinking is imagine strapping into a seat on an airplane and not having tae adjust the seatbelt? What I’m thinking is imagine all the compliments that are gonnae be coming ma way. Naebody bothers to gie you a compliment when yer fat. Everybody looks doon on you like yer some kind of monster. You can hear their inside thoughts when they’re looking at you, even yer ain family. You can he
ar them thinking, Look at the state of that. She’s huge. She’s massive. The size of her! What a strain on her heart. All of it, you can hear the whole lot.
Goal: to lose four and a hauf stone. To tune intae my hunger meter. To eat like a skinny person. Pay attention tae the way they eat next time yer oot. Watch their trolleys in the supermarkets. Learn to spy on skinny people! Goal: to put on the skinny claes still optimistically hinging in the wardrobe. To cut my toenails weyoot getting oot o’ breath; to see my pubic hair when I’m lying doon in the bath. That’s when I’ll know my stomach is flat.
When I got in from work last night, Iain was tucking into a big bowl of left-over spag bol. I found myself feeling a bit disgusted. (And worse, I found myself feeling a bit superior because I’d eaten nothing but rocket and pricey balsamic vinegar all day.) Wan thing: I’d forgotten how quickly the exhilaration kicks in. I’m going tae do this. It’s no because I want people to find me attractive; it’s jist because I want people to find me. (But also fir my health, but.)
Day Two
Got up early and couldnae wait to get on The Scales then remembered that sleeping burns yer fat so went back to bed for a bit. Called in sick. (You canny be expected to diet seriously and go into work.) Wis a bit thirsty but didnae want to sip the water next to my bed in case that appeared on The Scales. So I goes back to bed for a snooze, but I’ve started feeling very anxious and am breaking oot in sweats. Before too lang, I had conked oot, phew! Gets up again, two hours later with a pounding head. I stands on The Scales and takes a deep breath like I’m facing my primary school headmaster. But I needn’t have worried. It’s all good. Doon three pounds. Get in! Go figure!
Canny wait till I get below fifteen stone, then I’ll start to feel like I’m on safe ground. Below fourteen, I’ll feel like I’m going places. Below thirteen, the ground will move under my feet and I’ll dance to that song. See the earth move under my feet. See the sky come tumbling down, tumbling down. Below twelve, might as well be on hallowed ground. I might take up meditation because by that time I’ll be able tae cross my legs, hopefully. Below eleven, I’ve never ever been (well not since I was a wee girl anyway, and that is another lifetime away) but I imagine it must feel like shifting sand, and the third girl is already standing there, licking her big fat ice-cream cone. No worries, I’m getting ahead of myself; the wan I’m going to be shortly. Say four months max. It’s not a lot, is it, to change yer life – four months?