Thirteen weeks in

Cast your mind back, if you will, to the last weight update.

I weighed in at 16 stone 5 pounds - probably the lightest I've been since Madonna actually was Like a Virgin. A great achievement, but, it has to be said, it was before we went on holiday for a week.

In fact, three hours since that picture of my feet was taken, they were waiting in line at the Burger King at Cardiff Services for a smoked bacon and cheddar Angus.

It's a tradition. And I'm a creature of tradition. This is how Henry VIII got started, by all accounts.

And the rest of the week wasn't exactly something the nutritionists would be getting all warm and moist about, either. OK, there were some great walks amongst some fantastic scenery. But the in-between. Oh, the in-between.

182 calories in a pint of ale, apparently. I know, I thought calories in liquid wouldn't count.

Is this where my train comes off the rails?

Is this my Waterloo?

Is this where it all goes base-over-apex?

Thirteen weeks, three months, several hundred people wanting to know the results. No pressure, then.

So, with a certain degree of nerves, I stood on the Scales of Destiny this very morning.

And, lo:


I know. It's bloody marvellous. And, I have to say, completely unexpected. Never have I been so relieved to see some numbers. If it wasn't for the fact that my feet had just occupied that space, I'd have actually kissed the scales.

That's the equivalent weight to:

• Five two-litre bottles of Pepsi, or
  
• Eight full bottles of wine, or
  
• 22 pound-sized bags of sugar, funnily enough
  

And I don't have to carry it around with me any longer. That's the point - the "any longer" bit. I will be continuing and seeing where I end up. I even bought some 38-inch waist jeans the other day - I never thought that would happen.

But now I don't have to do this to a stopwatch. I can write here about things other than weekly weigh-ins. I can do this just for me.