No. More. Lists.

At the weekend I clicked onto an article that appeared in my Twitter timeline.  I knew I shouldn’t have.  I knew it was clickbait of the worst kind.

But I was curious.

What were the eight habits very successful woman do on a Sunday?

It was Sunday.  I had’t had a very productive day to be honest.  There had been a lie in, quite a lot of toast, and some horizontal style lying down on the sofa in front of the tv. Perhaps I would be more successful, evening winning at life, if I adopted some of these habits as yet unknown to me.

This was one of them:


Another suggested setting some formal goals for the week.


All the eight tips were all a bit like this.

My mood after reading it?


The same day, there was an article on Twitter about the new trend for smaller nipples, and how there is now cosmetic surgery available to help you attain such a thing, should it be required.

This is what I have learned in the last few years.

There is always a list.

Someone with helpful advice.

Some so-called ideal to live up to.

How thin we have to be.  How fit.  The size of our thigh gap.  How many yoga classes we can fit in every week. Whether we have been mindful or meditated. Have we food prepped for the week?

Not in my house.  Not unless you count the weekly Tesco Big Shop.

My click free advice is this.

Give yourself a break.

There is no list.

There are no eight things to make you successful. Or 5, or 10 or 20.

There are only your things.

Things that make you successful.  Or happy.

If you want to spend Sunday in the gym, then go.  Good on ya. I’d come with you but there are three back to back episodes of Columbo on 5USA.

If you want to food prep, organise your sock draw, have a digital detox or plan your schedule for the week to avoid any nasty suprises, then fill your boots.

Alternatively, if you want to spend your Sunday chilling out and pretending that the ironing pile isn’t like the north face of the Eiger then you do just that.

There is plenty to feel bad about already.  If you read any women’s magazine lately you’d be forgiven for thinking that unless you are thinner / have shinier hair / tiny nipples/ wear expensive designer yoga pants / only eat nutritionally balanced cardboard then you are a failure in life.  Ditto any internet articles that start with a number.

Whether we are talking weight loss, fitness or just how to spend your Sunday, no one can or should tell you how to do it.

Other than yourself.


Wot, no mince pies?

Christmas weight.

You got me.

I braved the scales.

It was not pretty.

I blame the mince pies.

And the prosecco.

And the After Eight mints.

There was also what can only be described as a ‘Christmas Cake Incident’.  I made a big one.  We were going to take it with us on a family visit.  But it wouldn’t fit in the car / might have got left there by accident / we forgot all about taking it / no one probably would have wanted to eat it anyway*.

There’s this thing about Christmas.  About the buying of food that you don’t even want, don’t even need, and to be frank, makes no sense.

Take chocolate biscuits.  I like them.  Rather a lot TBH.  When I am in Tesco doing the Weekly Big Shop I tend to purchase a packet or four.  Chocolate digestives mostly.  Or, if I am feeling flash or flush a dark chocolate HobNob.  A packet.  Not a tin.  Especially not a tin with some in that you don’t even like and will still be at the back of the cupboard come Easter.  And a tin where you  have to dive in straight away to get the one you really like before someone else eats it when you not looking.

And don’t even get me started on Cheese Footballs.

But lets face it.  I can blame Christmas.  I can blame the supermarkets and their seductive advertising. I can even blame all of the Prosecco.  But the only reason I’m in a ‘comfortable’ (e.g. elasticated waist) trouser today, is me.  I ate too much of it.

Time to sort it.  Get it back off.  Before the trousers become a permanent fixture.

Mind you…. there are some of those biscuits left in the back of the cupboard.


*Ok.  We decided to keep it and eat it all ourselves.  It isn’t my fault.  Tim Scott made me do it.

Don’t be a (gym) dick

Today, my good friend Amanda posted a tweet that I loved.  She is working hard right now on her own fitness.  And she had this to say:

Hey, when you get to the gym and see new people getting started, don’t be a dick.  Be kind, helpful and welcoming.  We all started once.

Hell yes.

A few years ago it was me, with the bright white trainers and the new (double XL) gym gear.  Feeling out of place.  Wondering how to work all of the scary machines. Wondering if everyone could tell that I didn’t know what I was doing.  Wondering if I could do this thing.  Wondering if it was a place I should even be at all.

Having recently relocated to a new city, these feelings came flooding back when I joined a local gym.  Figuring out your place again.  Trying a class that sounded like one at your old place but finding it totally different.  Feeling out of step.  Like the new kid.  A little bit of a klutz.

When you turn up at a gym and you are on the big side it is even harder in my experience.  Standing next to the fit people and the thin people.  The gap between you and them so wide you wonder if it can ever be bridged.

I’ve been guilty of getting frustrated in January when I can’t get into a class or on the machines I want to use.

But I know this.  By walking into a gym and getting started, by taking some steps to make a change for the better, by overcoming the nerves and the doubts, these folks are doing more than most people ever will.  Many more people talk about it but say right there on the sofa.

So props to the people that do, and keep on going.  And just like Amanda says, if you are already established, know what you are doing, have already walked your path to fitness, help along someone just getting started if you can.

PS. Check out Amanda’s blog on her own journey here. She rocks.