Saddle sore & confidence compromised

I am a perfectionist. Most people don’t particularly know this about me, probably because I’m mostly crap at everything and just have to get on with life regardless, but my perfectionism is really the root of why I am fundamentally a lazy cow. If I can’t nail something straight away, why the hell am I doing it?  So I choose not to try new things, thus avoiding the risk of failure.

My friend, Jordi, started going to a souped-up spinning class called Psycle about 18 months ago.  The amount of weight she’s lost is amazing and she has turned into the energiser bunny, exercising at least 6 days a week. She’s been trying to get me to go to Psycle with her since day 1, as she is completely addicted.  Other friends have gone with her and, similarly, have ended up a bit hooked.  Meanwhile, I have spent 18 months considering her insane and telling her to stop asking me because It Is Never Going To Happen.

Unlike Jordi’s, my own exercise regime has been a little more…relaxed.  My original personal trainer weirdly disappeared off the face of the earth around a year ago and, true to form, I took full advantage of this gap in my regime to do nothing, eat loads and get fatter.  Eventually, at the end of last year, I decided to take myself in hand and signed up with a new personal trainer at my phenomenally expensive, luxury gym.  And I love him.  I love him SO MUCH.  He kicks my ass, he openly laughs at me when I moan and tells me I have no right of veto when he’s making me do the hated step-ups, he gossips with me, high-fives me and, most importantly, he showed me how to lose just shy of two stone in weight (so far) through changing my diet, without even trying.  I LOVE him.  I cannot emphasise this enough.

And yet, last week I had to break up with him.  I nearly cried.  He looked a bit sad.  I don’t want to go, but with my gym membership factored in, he effectively costs me £100 per week.  For one hour.  I am not loaded.  I have debt.  This is not sensible.

So he’s going, my gym membership is being frozen, and the new plan is to sign up on 1st September to Class Pass with Jordi and try out different things.  Quick synopsis of Class Pass: lots of studios sign up, hundreds of different exercise classes are available across London; if I have a Class Pass, I can go to an unlimited number of them each month (small print – maximum of 3 classes at any one gym).


Let us bid farewell to my beautiful gym…*CRIES*

Last night, I finally caved and went to Psycle with Jordi (Note: Psycle is not on Class Pass, just for the avoidance of doubt).  I knew I’d hate it, but there was a small, hopeful, part of me that thought “You are two stone lighter lady! You look OK! You have more energy and confidence than you’ve had in years and YOU CAN NAIL THIS!”  As it turns out, I couldn’t.  Most of the class is done riding out of the saddle…except not in my case.  I could barely manage the first 5 minutes of standing cycling – man alive, the burn was REAL.  I then had to sit there for another 40 minutes, peddling away but noticeably not doing what everyone else was doing, feeling useless, very exposed and miserable.  I detested it.  [NB: this was nothing to do with Psycle itself or the instructor – everyone else in the class was clearly loving it, but I just don’t think spinning is for this FatFran.]  Walking today is a struggle.  My arse and legs are broken, which is a bit of a puzzle given that I basically didn’t partake in the class.

It’s safe to say that the experience has knocked my confidence a little and I would be lying if I said that I didn’t do a small cry about it.  The real problem is that it’s making me reconsider the whole Class Pass thing, as the defeatist part of me is worried that I’m just going to hate absolutely everything that I try because I won’t be able to do it straight away and I will feel like a big fat failure.

So – what to do?  Do I give in, stop exercising and just cross everything and hope that dieting alone will get me to a point where I like myself enough to risk dating actual human men, thus reducing the chances of ending up dying alone, undiscovered for weeks and being eaten in desperation by Ralphie?  Or do I sign up to Class Pass, try stuff, go through a rollercoaster of emotional turmoil a few times a week but, hopefully, at least be provided with some self-deprecating content for this largely defunct blog?  While my body and ego hurt as much as they do right now, this isn’t a decision for today.

I had no idea I was going to write this blog post as it only happened in the dark (both figuratively and literally) hours of the night when I couldn’t sleep because my butt hurt every time I turned over.  Being so unprepared for my venture back into FatFranGettingFin, I have no exercisey photos with which to decorate this blog post and we all know how I love a good photo.  SO, with no further ado, I give you Ralphie and my delightful new shoes!

new shoes cat


Maybe I’ll see you again soon, maybe I won’t…this very much depends on how brave I am feeling on 1st September…



Bleurgh. Sunday lunch bleurgh.

Last night (Saturday) I had the best night EVER.  I trekked from South East London to blinking Hackney to visit the extremely wonderful @MissWhiplash with @shedlikesfood and @miss_jordi.  We had a fabulous night of champagne, onglet, actual deep fried naughty chips, wine, pudding wine, tarte tatin (Miss W made her own puff pastry, the nutjob.)

The night was fun.  MORE than fun – it was brilliant.  While I was there, I discussed methods of cooking pork belly with Miss W.  The consensus was Long And Slow.  When I got home, I decided to score my beasty belly up, which was all well and good until I encountered this:

AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!  THERE ARE NIPPLES!  NIFFLES!  SNIFFLES! Nipples.  Actually, they didn’t freak me out.  They made me laugh my ass off (I was drunk).  However, I was aware that my guest would not appreciate a crunchy mammory gland, so I removed the offending section.  I slightly regret losing the extra crunch.

Feeling smug about my midnight preparation, I rolled into bed (which was filled with glass due to a broken lightbulb) where I barely slept at all due to the gits that live a few doors down from me who decided to party until 5am (DISAPPROVING, OLD FACE) and the skin tag on my back which, unbeknownst to me, had turned entirely black overnight – possessed by Satan.  One way or another, I had naff all sleep.

So getting up at 8am to cook a pork belly p***ed me off an inordinate amount.  I wanted to KILL.  But I am, if nothing else, a hostess with the mostest, so I cracked on and threw the non-nippley belly in the oven and trotted back to bed… where I was abused by this little lady jumping all over me:

HOW PRETTY??  Much as I love her, I desperately wanted her to be removed from my body buffer zone so I could do masses of snoozing.  It wasn’t to be.  SO.  On with the naughty pork.  Tom from The English Pig had told me that I should do it for 1 hour at 200c, 1 hour at 150c, 4 hours at 100c.  This is what happened:

This is the beauty after 1 hour!  BEAUTIFUL.  Massive concern that it was cooking too fast.

4 hours.  Looking a bit scary and burnt and soggy in the middle.  However, it all worked out a treat.  I chucked the oven up to 220c for a little while (15 mins) and the crackling became a thing of great beauty.

 FOOD PORN!  Actual food porn.  CRUNCHY.  Do you want to see The Plate?  OK…

Yeah, I know.   Ming.  MING-A-LING.  Why?  My friend and I ate lunch at around 2pm.  I made this plate up out of cold skanky food at around 8pm.  BLEURGH. (I did eat it yes.  The crackling was still aces 6 hours later!  I ROCK.)

SO.  I think we can safely say that pork belly, yorkshire puddings, buttery mash and about 4 gallons of wine is not Diet Food.  Yes, I suck.

The diet starts tomorrow, 22 August 2011.  I have fruit, vegetables….and no guests.  It starts here kidz.  Roll on next Friday.