Tuesday 6th November

The Diet - Day 35. It has been a while since I have reported my progress - I can't really say what I've been doing, so it can't have been too memorable - just work stuff I guess. The Monday after the ringing dinner I hadn't lost anything - unsurprising really - but I ate lentils nearly every meal for the week after and come the following Monday I had lost five pounds which was very pleasing. This week I only lost a pound but then I went to a big party on Saturday and drank lots of mulled wine, and, come to think of it, normal wine, and I had this buttered roll with cheese in that was on my conscience so I was happy to have lost anything. Surprisingly, it seemed like almost everyone had gained or maintained this week, even the people that usually lose a fair chunk. Maybe it's the sudden chill in the weather. Personally I think the only reason I had lost anything was because I ate breakfast, walked to work, felt ill, walked home, went to bed, slept, got up, and walked to Slimming World, thus walking for close to an hour and a half on egg and toast. Not that I'm complaining. I'm very fluey and don't feel at all like eating - I ate a mere yogurt at work today and that was only because Rita said I should in a very firm tone of voice and I didn't have the energy to argue. Last night I was forced into the arms of comfort food - sausages and onions on white bread with ketchup - but luckily I had sin free sausages in the freezer and I did the onions in Fry Light stuff so that was all OK. I was going to have another lentil week but I'm getting a bit low on lentils and don't know if I have the energy to walk to Tesco's. Mother Hand's car has broken down - well, in fact one of the engine holdings has sheared off and the garage have banned her from driving it until it's fixed - which means walking is the only option this week. I know it's good for me, but I'm sure it's not good for me. If you see my point.

There are lots of new people at Slimming World, and I'm getting to know the regulars better. One of them, Daphne, reminds me a great deal of the woman who was always concocting strange dishes on The Vicar of Dibley - anchovy and chocolate cake, et cetera - because she always seems to be coming up with strange ideas. Her name's Daphne. When I first joined she was talking about jelly made with cottage cheese which she brought to our tasting evening last week. Christine, who I chat to most there, and I decided to brave it because she'd made individual pots and piped fromage frais on top and everything, so we shared a pot. I'm sorry to say it just didn't taste right, but she obviously loves it. But then this is the woman who made a big salad but didn't feel like eating it, so liquidised it and made it into a burger instead. Lettuce burger anyone? No, thought not. Each to their own I suppose. Last week there were about seven new people and one of them was sat next to Daphne, who started very unsubtly asking Christine and I what she was doing there - admittedly this girl appeared to have a lovely figure but she told Daphne she'd a stone to lose and who are we to argue? Nobody at a slimming class has the right to tell anybody else they should be happy with their body image, in my opinion - it's hypocritical in the extreme.

Went to Bristol this weekend and Mother Z cooked for me with an air of sympathetic pity which made me really feel like I was being deprived of something - which I'm not really. She asked me what I thought had caused me to gain weight when I moved to London and the words, "Drinking more" had escaped my lips before I knew it - to her whoops of laughter - thank goodness I didn't follow it with "Changing my pill brand". Mr Z had obviously shared the details of my Mullerlight fetish with her because the fridge was well stocked. The fireworks party we went to was that of a colleague of Mr Z's, ensuring that I met a number of his work friends and acquaintances including his boss, the Hutchmeister. They only grilled me gently, out of respect or fear for Mr Z - which, I don't know (grin). Other than that there was much drinking of mulled wine and ooing at fireworks and playing with sparklers and discussing of foreign travels and the like. It wasn't too cold and I wasn't too drunk - although I do remember asking Mr Z if he was trying to compress me (I think I meant impress) - so all in all a most enjoyable evening. I did start out badly by having a small attack of nerves because I didn't know anybody, for which I most unfairly made Mr Z suffer, but I think that passed with the third cup of wine.

Have been playing around with my new sub woofer and annoying the neighbours (hopefully). Mr Z picked it up at an online auction for £24 which means I finally have a decent bassline for all the songs that need it; it's quite satisfying to lie in bed and feel the matress vibrating to the strains of Chicane or the Eagles or Dionne Farris or whatever else takes my fancy. I can also plug it into the stand-alone MP3/DVD toy Father Hand so kindly sent for my birthday. Between that, Bagpuss and my wooden Putin doll with the bunny ears this could quite easily be mistaken for the room of a student - computer paraphernalia, suitcases, glittery wands, Mecca bingo missives, CDs, travel brochures, the whiteboard and the fluffy curtain only add to the image, I fear. Know I should be moving away from this image into rooms from the pages of Ikea catalogues but not finding the transition easy. Somehow Putin looks a lot less freaky with bunny ears.

I'm still nursing this cold so I am going to bed with Mother Hand's hot water bottle otherwise I'll not be fit to go and find things to do at work tomorrow. And what a tragedy that would be (smile)

Tuesday 13th November

The Diet - Day 42. This week I was lucky enough to be swarded Slimmer of the Week. Such prestige accompanied by a basket of free food is not to be sniffed at, and I was particularly impressed because I only lost two pounds this week - not much compared to the eight pounds, four pounds, three pounds lost by other members in the class. But the difference is - I lost weight last week (I still maintain that was due to my cold) and they didn't, and you have to lose weight two weeks in a row to win. Very pleasing, anyway. I got a fabby purple and silver sticker for my book and everything. Eighteen pounds in six weeks - another eight to go and I will make my first target!

I recovered reasonably quickly from my flu - which never even really became flu (personally I think it was the raspberry echinacea tea I was drinking) - but although I was feeling better on Thursday I was viciously attacked by a 6lb jar of mango chutney as I bent down to retrieve something from the bottom of a cupboard. I nearly fell over and then nearly threw up and then started crying, while Zig came over to investigate the tweeting birds flying around my head. I soldiered into work regardless but then my face went numb and I went all dizzy and dopey and Rita said I should go to casualty. Lesley clinched it though by saying I could go and she'd still pay me (mercenary of me but true) and then Dawn looked into my eyes and said they weren't very responsive so I bundled myself up to QA on the bus, where I waited for three hours as it sleeted outside (Portsmouth has turned bitter cold over the past week). Felt a bit fraudulent, what with people in wheelchairs with swollen limbs, or bleeding all over the place...in the middle there's me going, "Um, a pickle jar fell on my head..." That said, the doctor, when he finally saw me, said I did the right thing to come, so that was OK. I hadn't fractured my skull but I was concussed and I was ordered not to go ringing and not to drink for 48 hours which wasn't too much of a chore as I try and avoid the old dog's hair these days anyway for slimming purposes. I felt right as rain by the next day although I did have a bit of a headache on the Thursday night.

Spent much of the weekend hauling things. Mr Z woke me up at 6.20am on Saturday ready for a 7am start in the direction of London; I promptly went back to sleep, so he woke me ten minutes later and I had another doze until Father Z put his hand round the door, turned the light on and told me it was high time I was up and about. I growled back at him, mistaking him in my groggy state for Mr Z, which resulted in him greeting me when I finally showed my face in the kitchen with, "Hello - you're not a morning person, are you?" which I responded to with a humourless ha ha whilst thinking, "I've killed people for less than that". Wrapped in four layers of clothes, gloves and a scarf, I made my way to the van and fell into the cushions and blankets in the back, promptly falling asleep - a state I remained in until we reached Reading and I was woken to give directions. We arrived at Jen and Girlie Richard's (or R as he has become known) around 10am, after some messing about managing to find a way into their road that wasn't cordonned off. Everything was packed into the van whilst Jen and I stood in the kitchen drinking green tea (I have been drinking lots of fruit teas and the like since I started at Slimming World - although I have not made the leap to normal tea yet, yuck yuck yuck) and gossipping about things. Then we got back on the road and moseyed on up to Watford to collect the remained of my belongings from Sue Bailey, where we stopped for coffee and so I could have a long natter with her. It's good to see old friends again. Can't wait until I can drive - with any luck I'll be able to visit people much more easily.

Anyway, after that we got back on the road to Bristol. I was in 7th heaven - on my old bed in the back of the van, surrounded by my paraphernalia, reading my old books, swigging vodka from various bottles I had stashed in my book boxes...I was so comfortable I fell asleep after a brief rest stop (couldn't sleep through a service station - I love motorway services, for some reason I feel strangely at home in their lonely, fluorescent interiors and when I woke up we were in Bristol again. All my stuff was repacked into plastic boxes with lids to prevent the mice from making a meal of my considerable university notes and tomes of learning or, even worse, my back issues of Cosmopolitan. It's to be stored at Mr Z's workplace until I have room for it. It's like this huge weight has been lifted - all of my stuff is now in one place. Well, two, if you count Mother Hand's. But nevertheless, I don't have to worry about it anymore. Drank lots on Saturday night in celebration of this fact.

I suppose I should relate the other important thing that has gone on in my life over the past few weeks. Here begins -

....with Natwest in the starring role, I might add. My god, but they're a bunch of incompetents there and no mistake. No content with changing the number of the bank account I have held with them for eight years this summer, they failed to send me a new Switch card. My cheque book arrived, shortly followed by my paying in book, but August wore on with no new card in sight. I continued to use my old one as instructed in their letter. Then, on the Friday before the August bank holiday at 7pm, as if there could be a worse time, my card was mysteriously captured by a cash point. Luckily I have two accounts with Natwest and facilitate their online banking (when I can make it work) so I was able to do handy transfers of money into the accessible account, but it was most inconvenient. I gave them a week's grace to get the new card to me before I complained. Here begins the fun.

By this point I was slightly disgruntled.

I went to my local branch at the beginning of September. There, a Princess Di look-a-like told me there was no record of a new card being processed for me, nor any record of my old card being retained. For this she was sorry (not that she sounded it) and ordered me another on the spot. Three days later, the pin number arrived. Three days after that, I went on holiday. Upon my return - no card.

By this point I was mildly irritated.

I rang the customer bullshit line (they call it the customer helpline but that's a misnomer). I was told a card had been sent out and the person dealing with me couldn't tell me where it was. She cancelled my card and promised me my branch would be contacting me within the next 48 hours about getting a new card ordered.

I waited a week. By this point I was getting really fed up.

Again, I rang the customer bullshit line to find that no action had been taken. No card had been ordered. Nobody could understand what had happened blah blah blah....I was again promised that my branch would contact me within 48 hours to arrange my new card.

I waited 10 days. By this point I was pretty angry.

I rang the customer bullshit line after work and gave them what for. Surprise surprise - there was no indication of what had happened, and everybody had left the plastics department for the day. They would call me first thing. Scout's honour, Miss Hand.

On Thursday evening I found myself calling again. The story was the same, but this time, the operator, one Cassandra whose voice reminded me a lot of a girl called Cassandra I used to work with at Virtual Universe, promised to call me back personally the next day to make sure everything was OK.

Midday the next day. By this point I was ready to swing for the MD of Natwest. Still waiting for the call, I called myself. Suddenly, there was a different story. Another card had been ordered for me and sent out. In September. (This was taking place in mid-October). This card had not been cancelled. Nobody had mentioned it to me before. Apparently, it was (and still is) floating around the postal system. The customer bullshit line operator told me to ring another number to cancel it. I spent 15 minutes on hold with them, and my card was duly cancelled - although it was a Solo card, mind - not the Switch card I was promised.

By this point I was plotting a full campaign against them on my website. I sat down and wrote the hissiest letter I could manage. I then rang the customer bullshit line for the contact details of customer complaints, and was put on hold for ten minutes until I hung up and called back (I was having to do all of this from work, but luckily Lesley has a long and bitter history with Natwest, it seems, so she was sympathetic). Finally with the details at my disposal, I faxed them a copy, posted them a copy, and took the file home on disk to email to them. At some point Cassandra rang back to check what was happening. Then, finally, somebody got back to me. She offered me another Solo card. I was ready to throw the phone out of the window by that point. I told her it was a good thing she'd rung because it saved me having to go down to my local branch the next day and demonstrate outside until somebody dealt with me to my satisfaction (ooer). She said she'd sort it out.

I trusted her. To my shock, I was rung by someone from my local branch the very next Monday; I had a Solo card within a week, with a new Switch card hot on its heels - authorised by my local branch worker after he heard the tone of my voice. I was almost sorry though - the Solo card is a fantastic shade of purple. It's adorning my computer now, in halves.

You might think this is the end of my saga. But sadly, it is not so. I received a letter from them at the end of October, a very apologetic letter offering me a goodwill payment of £30 to say sorry. Fantastic, I thought, that should cover the cost of the phone calls and make up for the mental anguish etc etc. But have I had it yet? Have I? I'll give you one guess. If you said yes, you're wrong. I had to write them another hissy letter this week (I think Rita is secretly very impressed with my hissy letters - I had to do one for Wales and West trains last week which ended in "I am considering travelling by donkey and cart in future because I think it would be preferable to your trains" - but that's another story) which paraphrased their letter - all full of things like "we want you to regain confidence in our bank" blah blah blah - and then I said I found it ironic that they could make a mess of making amends for making a mess but given their track record it was only to be expected. Don't even get me STARTED on everything that happened when I paid a cheque from my dad in two years ago and then wrote a cheque for my house deposit on the strength of it (having been told I could draw on it within seven days although it would take 28 working days to clear I was shocked and panicked and upset when I found out they had lied and bounced my cheque - after being hung up on by more than one stroppy customer bullshit line operator who told me it was my own fault for basically believing what they had told me I ended up crying to my student advisor on the phone wo sorted it out) (Sorry - I got started). Anyway, I've had my share of Natwest being crap. I am considering starting a website section dedicated to complaints about them. Problem is, I'd probably be inundated with emails for it. And at the end of the day, all the banks are as bad as each other - I've heard horror stories about all of them from various people.

Gah. I am in a fight-for-my-rights mood this week. Mother Hand came upstairs last night and asked me to stamp down the stairs since the couple downstairs were having yet another row and disturbing her, so I did - so hard it shook the keys off the banisters at the bottom. It worked - I had barely got to the bottom step when Hissy Witch from downstairs came and tore open our front door. "Is there a problem?" she demanded. Well DUH!! I mean....that has to win a prize for understatement or something. Is there a problem, indeed. Cheek of it.

Wednesday 28th November

The Diet - Day 57. Stu said the other day that reading about my diet is like watching Big Brother. I'd like to say that's because he thinks it's compulsive, but it's actually because in Big Brother they always tell you how many days have passed so far. However, in spite of the steady weight loss (2lbs a week for the past 3 weeks) I think it's going to go on a lot longer than any series of Big Brother, unless of course I audition for Big Brother and go into the house - they seem to have so little food I'd be Slimmer of the Decade without even trying. Anyway. Life with the diet goes on. I am happy to say that every week I sin a little more - margarine on toast here, chocolate biscuit there - but it doesn't seem to have any detrimental effect. If things go on like this, I'll have reached my first target before Christmas. I got my stone and a half sticker this week. Yey me! Last week we had a little contest and we all had to dress each other up in bin bags and pretend to be Miss Slinky. I thought I looked quite snazzy in my assymetric, one-shouldered bin bag with matching bin bag skirt slit to the thigh and bin bag hair ties, trimmed with pink heart post its across the chest and on the hips, but sadly I did not clinch first prize. Neither did Trevor, our token male, in spite of the fact that he took his trousers off. The title was carried off by another lady who sported blouson sleeves and a cape. Still, can't win 'em all, I suppose.

There was a momentous happening in the life of Sally this week. After all the whinging about the shortage of everyday low prices and lamenting the lengths I had to go to get a jar of decent mayonnaise, after the months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrived this Monday. The new Asda, a mere ten minutes from my home, is now open! I avoided it on the opening day because I'd heard it was packed and in any case I was knackered and launching a full frontal assault on my hair (more on this shortly) but I *did* go down on Tuesday, and I have to say, I am so impressed with their everyday low prices. I got a whole bag of bananas for 23p, and that's not to be sniffed at. I even got the new Ian Rankin book half price. I rang Mr Z for clarification over a mysterious text he had sent me whilst I strutted around with a basket full of Mullerlight and fruit and he asked me where I was calling from. I didn't even have to answer - he guessed. They even have the 50x40 clip frames I am always buying and then breaking - for a mere £2.19 each! At that price I can afford to break one every week!

People have pointed out that I might be considered rather sad for being so enthusiastic about the opening of a supermarket, especially since "Mon 26th - Asda opens" is the only noted date on my work calendar apart from the dates payroll is due (the only noted date on Rita's is "November 8th - Dawn swore"). I have given this opinion its due consideration and decided that it is as normal as anything to look forward to being able to easily buy quality products at an everday low price. Was slightly disappointed to see the lack of Farm Stores products - they've been replaced by the Smart Price label - that must be a Walmart thing, like the new plastic baskets (as opposed to wire) and the section dedicated to greetings cards and lamps. Lest we forget, this Asda is really an Asda-Walmart. But I have nothing to complain about. My one slight gripe is the fact that it does not remain open 24 hours a day.

At last week's Slimming World meeting I warned my cronies that I might be attending the later class this week; when they asked why I explained that Asda was opening and I might have to go down there on my way home from work. In so many cases I would have been met with scorn and derisive commentary: but here, I was amongst like minded people. Everyone listening gasped with delight, and we had a brief discussion on the sin free foods and bargains to be bought there. It's nice to be around people as obsessed with food and everyday low prices as me, although I don't think it would be good for me to be around them all the time. After all, variety is the spice of life. Sometimes I will lust after carrot cake from Sainsbury's, chocolate doughnuts from Tesco's (although they have changed the chocolate recipe and it's not so good now), baguettes, croissants, ice cream, rocky road pie, half dried prunes...*cough cough* from Waitrose, creme fraiche quiche from Lidl. Iceland will always hold aspecial place in my heart. But now there is an Asda nearby - and considering that my nearest supermarket in Bristol will likely be an Asda too - I can dedicate myself wholeheartedly to their everyday low prices. I'm giving up that old life - these days, I'm a one-supermarket girl.

*Sigh*

Mr Z sent me flowers this week - a dozen red roses no less, with all the requisite trimmings and the cute card. It's our anniversay tomorrow, you see. Of course, he doubtless saw no reason to note it and I tried as hard as possible to pretend I didn't care but the trick that worked so well for Valentine's day did not work this time, to my secret delight. The one slight problem was that he sent them to me at work. He did warn me something would be showing up to surprise me during the course of the day and when I saw the clown walk past the office window I nearly had a heart attack (Mr Z found that very amusing, he said he wished he'd thought of that first). Luckily the clown was for the sick kids at the hospital (awwww) and later on an Interflora van turned up. Lorraine came and said there was a delivery for, "Sara, but she must have your name wrong - she means you, your surname is Hand, right?" (grrrr) so I skulked up to the door, leaving Rita behind eagerly anticipating the arrival of 4 dozen boxes of surgical gloves (Rita and I love stationary and all other deliveries, it brings meaning into our working lives) but knowing full well she was going to be disappointed. Indeed, the bunch was MASSIVE. It obscured the entire top half of my body - no mean feat. I dithered in the kitchen for some time but couldn't find a receptacle large enough to hold them and so was forced to walk them back down to the office. As I turned the corner, Rita, Lorraine and Dawn were ranged across the end of the corridor and started clapping and heckling, at which point I turned crimson. Yes ha very ha. But they *are* lovely. I had to put them in my fishbowl, I didn't have a vase big enough. I'm going to end up so spoiled at this rate. Lorraine helped me fill up the bin with water to keep them in, and when I put them under the shelf where they were somewhat concealed, she dragged them out again, protesting that they needed light. Lesley thought that he must be proposing or it must be my birthday; Pam that we'd had an argument. It was highly embarrassing. But very, very sweet. And highly necessary in his eyes, in light of the fact I sent him flowers at work once. I suppose that's karma for you.

I did write about my hair being fluffy and terrible some time ago and how I know I'll be grown up when it is tame. Sadly, this has not yet happened. In fact, it's got worse. Against all reason, it appears that Mr Z, not content with making my toes curl on a regular basis, has actually made my hair curl too. At first I thought it was just a coincidence but since I've been back, several friends - Zoe, Girlie Richard, Sue Bailey, to name but a few - have commented on the ferocious "pre-Raphaelite" look my locks have adopted. This proves that it is new on me since I went to Vegas. I mean, sure, there's always been a wave - more pronounced since I lost the length - but it was a wimpy sort of wave that would disappear at the mere hint of a hair dryer. Not now, though. I now have the sort of rampant curl that half an hour's dedicated blow drying and twenty minutes with a straightening iron doesn't make a dent in, let alone oceans of various straightening balms dedicated to "sleek hair with no frizz". BAH! I'm using styling products, it's just sick and wrong. I had to go out this week and buy a seriously deep conditioner (it kept me up all night dicussing Foucault's Pendulum and other philosophical oddities, ha ha) to counteract all the heated styling applicances I have been using. It's not like it's any shorter than usual - in fact, it's getting long enough now that I want it cut. In Vegas I had less of a problem - but was that due to the dry atmosphere or the lack of ragular Z liasons? One has to ask.

This week, after half an hour in the bath with deep conditioner slathered all over it, after coating it liberally with a new type of straightening balm, after blow drying it with a large, round brush (as advocated by Cosmo), after dividing it into sections and diligently straightening each one, it had a bit of a kink at the ends but I was fairly satisfied. I tied it carefully in a ponytail and went to bed. During the night, there might well have been an audible BOING! - I was asleep so I missed it - but when I woke up in the morning, there was a distinct all-over curl. It has not gone away. Today, it's downright ringlety. It's not the ringlets I object to - although they are horribly girlie and I much prefer the straight look - but the fact that when I brush it it goes FRIZZ! and sticks out everywhere and looks *so* untidy. I don't know what else to do. Many people say it looks lovely - especially Mother Hand (in her "You've got to look good for your man" speech she asked me what Mr Z thought of my straightening my hair and maybe getting it cut; she's trying to convince me to grow it back to it's former glory, I'm sure of it. Mr Z, I think, would just be happy to hear me stop whinging about it and hearing people I haven't seen in a while ask me what's different, which always starts a big discussion). But it's not *me*. Ho hum.

I saw Laura using a straightening iron in Hollyoaks last week. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. Her hair is as straight and flat as...something that's very straight and flat. But then that's the Hollyoaks thing, isn't it - the majority of their female characters have long blonde hair as straight as a ruler. Do 95% of the girls in Chester have long, stright blonde hair and resemble models? Why don't I hear more of my male friends planning weekends away there, if that's the case? I'm sadly a little bit hooked on Hollyoaks. I blame Mother Hand who watches it religiously - and she blames me because I used to watch it religiously when it first came out and she says I got her addicted. But that was about eight years ago and I've barely watched it since. I will have to cold turkey it when I go to Bristol.