Olympic Inspiration.

The healthy life is going well, I am pleased with my progress - however seeing all the adonises at the Olympics I think I need to step it up a gear if I'm going to pretend to be Phelps in the pool (my 25m time is actually identical to his 200m time - I know what are chances?!) The Olympics has been rather inspiring actually and although I have faced up to the fact that I will never be selected, as eating is not an Olympic sport ( so should be - Carb Queen would definitely win a medal), I have found that the athletes who have trained every day for the past for years to make their dreams come true a welcome inspiration...who am I kidding?! Jumping off my high horse the real reason I watch the Olympics because I get to see Phelps, Lochte, Le Clos, Daley (he's 18 its totally legal)and many many other hotties in teeennnnyyy tiinnnyyyy speedos. HELLO!

So back to my transformation from 'fat to fit' as I am reminded by Annie I seemed to have lost focus on the blog front, I'm just too easily distracted. I had my first personal trainer session last week, his name...Lewis Hamilton. That shit cray. Totally makes me Nicole Sherzinfgvefbweuifberuibf. Lewis is lovely, and despite my previous hopes that it would be a Jonny Wilkinson look a like and he would fall in love with my awesome personality and in a decade's time my Victoria Secret bod; I was actually very grateful that I did not fancy Lewis in the slightest. I could look like a beast on the treadmill and I didn't care. It was an hour sesh and it was the hardest hour of my life. I have not sprinted in a very, very long time. In fact it is hard to recall a time when I actually ran. At school I played a lot of sport where you are meant to run but somehow I managed not to.
Netball - Goal Shooter. Very limited movement needed. Stand in 1/3 of the court, catch the ball, shoot. Game over.
Hockey - Goal Keeper. I was pretty much as wide as the goal in padding so again limited running. Look like the terminator. Game over.
Squash - Hard hitter. Hit the ball harder than most girls. Hit it in the opposite place to where they are standing. Serve so they can't return. Game over.
Rounders - Bowler. Stand in a box. People bring the ball to you. Hit the ball so hard you have time to walk round. Game over.

On top of this I managed to escape the 1500m year after year, you gotta know which teachers to get in with - or if that fails you hide in the changing rooms for 2 hours whilst everyone else is subjected to torture in the rain. I'm not a runner, me and Usain would never work out. I am 'hand to eye' ball sport kinda girl, practiced frequently by playing against myself at Swing Ball...always win. This is why I am more suited to the Roddicks of the world, or Nadal he likes a good tan too. It's a mystery why they haven't come knocking yet.

I know my strengths, and it is certainly not running. So it came as a HUGE shock when I had to do interval training on the treadmill and he made me sprint. He kept saying "you're surprisingly fit!" - I'm not convinced this was a compliment. Yes, yes I am surprisingly fit for an Asian whale (coincidentally I am also very flexible for my size, I revel in touching my toes with ease when slimmer people can't!) The next day it was fair to say I ached from head to toe. BUT it put my gym fears to bed, and it motivated me further. But now I want a personal trainer everyday (so if you're a PT reading this...hit me up). My requirements are that you are friendly, you don't shout at me unless I'm being a lazy shit, you're hot but attainable and you don't make me go on the rower. Oh, and fall in love with me. I don't think I am asking too much.

My body is kind of in shock I think, it has never received this few a carbs, it gets breakfast although my smoothies haven't quite worked out well yet I need to work on my yoghurt to milk ratio and it's getting daily exercise. I have always really liked swimming, probably because that also does not involve running and because you are like a million times lighter in the pool, I can do handstands and tumble turns...it's a revelation! Can't do either on land though, bummer. However, I am starting to see a few problems with swimming that I am going to need to overcome:

1) The pool is disgusting. They don't have Molton Brown in the showers like my Leeds gym, I would even take Bayliss and Harding. I'm not asking for much here.
2) I prune an abnormal amount. I was swimming for nearly 3 hours but still my pruning compared to everyone else was extreme.
3) I am actually blind. Trying to swim one length without kicking someone or smacking a small child in the face is a rarity.
4) I keep cramping - someone enlighten me. Why do you cramp?
5) Chlorine burns my eyes like a biatch. I'm going to be one of those gimps with Zoggs goggles. As if I don't look cool enough as Shamu in the water already let's add some goggles so I entirely resemble a killer whale.

Oh well, suck it up Billie. If this is what has to be done to bag Michael Phelps I am on my way back to the pool now. Even if swimming does make me hungry and for some reason always makes me burp (god, I am painting such an attractive picture) it seems to be working, I am touching my toes way quicker than normal.

I shall continue my endeavours to turn Shamu into Flipper. One day.

Fatty BB xxx

P.S. Enjoy this little aesthetically pleasing treat.

Coconuts.

Currently topping up my tan in the garden with my trusty SPF 2 carrot oil, I can't help but think I'm not a very good Indian. As previously mentioned, most Indians I know revel in being fair skinned. Traditionally fair skinned = wealth. You were desirable because you didn't have to work in the sun, you were rich enough to just stay indoors and look pretty. I, on the other hand revel in the fact I am now using MAV NC50 foundation and dramatic leap up from my normal NC42 - it means I have well and truly tanned.This is the first nod towards 'Coconutism'. Despite my desire to permanently be a bronzed goddess and continually wear a watch during tanning hours to demonstrate to people that Indians really do tan, I feel this isn't exactly normal. Mainly because BBB constantly refers to me as having gone 'that dirty shitty colour' - I don't care I need vitamin D as much as the next person.

I have been labelled a coconut from a very young age, but my life as a coconut was highlighted last weekend whilst attending a family wedding. Indian weddings are hardly a low-key affair and absolutely terrible for the healthy eating, they are essentially and eating and drinking competition that spans over 5 days. Of course the good Indian girls don't drink, a small glass of champagne (most likely cava at these events) in a nod to the heavily adorned bride and groom is as far as it normally goes. This is why at these occasions I prefer to sit on BBB's table - guaranteed the heavier stuff. Friday night was the pre-wedding party. In my opinion a totally unnecessary aspect to an Indian wedding, but it gives the ladies and opportunity to wear the latest season saris and decorate themselves like a christmas tree, and the men further opportunity to cement the fact that all Punjabi men are alcoholics. Of course being a coconut my Indian ensembles are few and far between, I'm more of an 'asos' fan than a 'saree mandir' fan. Thus my Indian outfits are actually english dresses made Indian by my trusty tailor - Geeta. More resembling a confused Asian (pretty apt) than a Christmas tree I swanned into the party basking in my post Dubai glow- that was about the only thing going for me. I was greeted by some elder of the family who all know who I am and still insist on grabbing my cheeks (this does not make for a happy Billie - if I just spent the last 20 minutes bufferring layers of foundation into my skin I do not now want finger marks  ruining my supposedly flawless complexion - so inconsiderate). Then they try to talk to me in punjabi and in my pathetic attempt to be gracious I smile and nod not understanding a word and then suddenly they can speak English but the only words they know is "You should learn to speak Punjabi."  And the humiliation of being a coconut sets it. The only cure heavy doses of grey goose.

It's really not my fault that I am like this - BBB and Geeta this is kinda your fault too. We have an AGA, everyone in the family owns at least one Barbour, we read the Daily Mail, we shop at M & S, I am neither a doctor, lawyer, dentist or pharmacist. My dad calls himself Baz when his actual name is Balraj. If the above doesn't scream white middle-class suburbia I don't know what does. This is by no means saying that all Indian people are the opposite but I just feel like I'm lacking in something that makes me Indian. In fact here is a prime example: the house next to ours has been bought and demolished by an Indian family and it is currently the bane of my life, scaffolding is not a pretty tanning sight (neither am I to all the prying builder but I genuinely don't give a shit). The Indian owner of the house hates us, there are constant arguments between him and BBB, but shockingly (or perhaps not so shockingly at all) the owner has become best mates with the more traditional Indian family on the other side of the property. Haters.

Perhaps my coconutisms are down to the fact that I hate the movies, the music, the stereotypical way I am supposed be reserved and polite and all that bullshit  - when I'm loud, argumentative (only with BBB) and drink like a fish. But at this wedding I felt like the fish out of water. So I thought I need to at least and  take a leap into the Indian pool. When it comes to Indian food, I have absolutely no problems we are very well acquainted and having to say no to paneer was probably the hardest thing I did all weekend. 

But even punjabi dancing doesn't come easily to me, it's like every bone is my body does not want to conform. I desperately take to the dance floor hoping to simply blend into the crowd and drag my 3 year old cousin with me so I don't look like such a twat (my excuse being I'm taking him for a dance not in fact using him as a toddler sized shield for my terrible Indian dancing...) For everyone else the dancing seems so easy, but for me... not so much. Tripping over my own feet and attempting a half clap half arms in the air move, I find myself exasperated. Just play some bloody Beyonce - I'm good with that. Even on night's out at uni when for some unknown reason Gatecrasher would play Punjabi MC amidst the latest dance tracks everyone would look to me for inspiration on how to dance, and I would quickly throws my arms in the air and run to take cover at the bar. I'm just not a natural Indian.


Here is my attempt at being an Indian poser, photobooth is a dangerous game and yes my hair is now ginger/blonde my hairdress has now rectified the situation her words, 'Dubai got the better of the dip-dye'.

I can honestly say I attempted to rectify this situation this weekend - I even wore a bindi and it wasn't fancy dress. But it seems the only Indian in me is the ability to eat like and Indian and drink like a bloke. Sorry Indian ancestors....I will be bringing home a white boy, having a Babour and Ralphy clad family with 2 golden labs - but don't worry the kids will love a good curry, it's in their British heritage.

I will continue on in my coconut ways, take it or leave it (of course leaving the paneer - sob.)

Fatty BB xxx

Disaster in Dubai Part 2

Not had enough entertainment from the previous post? Well here is some more.


The three of us were being brats. Annie, Ashwin and myself headed to breakfast positively distraught from leaving the villa but my disposition was very much cheered up by the thought of breakfast. It isn't just your regular buffet breakfast at Jumeirah no, no no. The pastry counter rivals Harrods' entire bakery department and they also have a 4 tier chocolate fountain. I managed to resist - even for me, chocolate fountain is a little too much in the morning. There is Indian breakfast, Arabic breakfast, Malaysian breakfast, dim sum, chefs making you any and every kind of omelette that you like. 50 different types of cereal, 8 different types of juice and of course...full english. Every white person at the hotel, of course myself included head straight to the devil's corner - 'the pork station' to make up their full English. I'm hoping this needs no explanation since Dubai is a Muslim state...but if you're lost, be ashamed and google it. This is what I said to Ashwin when he didn't understand why the sausages and bacon were away from everything else. Lost cause.


I won't indulge what I ate for breakfast...let's just say I sampled many different cuisines including hash browns. Sorry. (IT'S MY HOLIDAY AND YES I'M USING SHOUTY CAPITALS.)
I felt much better after breakfast, all was rightly restored in the world as I was nice and full. But anguish     and heartache was not far behind my new found happiness. Geeta and BBB were no where to be seen at breakfast we presumed they had already gone to the pool. They hadn't gone to the pool, they had been extra sneaky and gone to the exclusive breakfast which was available to villa members (sob we weren't villa members anymore.) 'Why didn't you come to breakfast with us - the muffins were amazing.' Kill me, kill me now. I despair. No one bloody told us - that's why. Not impressed, everyone likes a blueberry muffin in the morning. After a long scalding look, I got over it as today I had a whole day of sunbathing - nothing but uninterrupted tanning. 


Trotting off to the pool, I scored a sun bed in direct 42 degree heat, no shade in site and right next to the pool. I managed about 4 minutes of the heat before I had to throw myself in the pool - about 2 hours later I had cooled down, and lost a contact lens...great start. But another dark cloud was looming, not a 'we will tempt you with this villa and then take it away from you' cloud or 'we just had the world's best muffins cloud', much, much worse. I was coming to the end of the 50 shades trilogy...WHAT THE HELL WAS I GOING TO DO NEXT?! 


By lunch time I had finished '50 Shades Freed'. I had read all three books in the space of 6 days. I am embarrassed and ashamed that I read them quicker than I read Harry Potter. With no more villa and no more Christian Grey life was surely not worth living. (Some people say I'm a drama queen, I think I'm a realist.) But luckily my ailment was quite quickly cured by making some pool friends. I love to be one of those people on holidays that makes friends, since I am a social butterfly (or at least I am in my own head, it seems natural). I am constantly mocked for this by my family though, just because of this one time. (I probably shouldn't divulge but since I lost all dignity in the first post what else do I have to lose?) 


I was about 7 and we were on a family holiday in Portugal with some family friends and of course I had made a friend...but my new friend just happened to be the waitress at the local indian restaurant, which of course BBB made us frequent on a daily basis. She was my friend because she brought me over extra ice-cream the first time we went there; she did this because I was the cutest chubbiest kid ever. See I have been doomed to be fat by all the people I have ever met. She proceeded to always give me extra food (god knows I didn't need it) and so I boldly proclaimed to my entire family and friends that she was my best friend forever. I even had a photo of me and her that sat proudly in my room for about 4 years...I don't even remember her name anymore. This time however food was not the binding force of the friendship, it was good old 50 Shades. If you haven't read it, read it. Trust me it doesn't take long (depending on how many cold showers you need). Suitably cheered up because I could now talk out loud about my love for CG, I decided to put 50 Shades to rest and started another book, 'Jemima J'. The plot was a harrowing mirror of my own life. 


Here is the plot synopsis: "Jemima Jones is overweight. About seven stone overweight.

Treated like a slave by her thin and bitchy flatmates, lorded over at the Kilburn Herald by the beautiful Geraldine (less talented, better paid), her only consolation is food. That and a passion for her charming, sexy colleague Ben. Her life needs to change and soon.

But can Jemima reinvent herself? And should she?" 

Ok I don't have evil flatmates, they are fab and I don't actually have a job but writing this blog = journalist, and I don't have a 'Ben' in my life. (I know it seems like actually the only comparison is both of us being overweight, but trust me it was like reading pages of my own diary.) So I was further motivated by Jemima J, then I got to thinking maybe I could email the author and say - fancy doing a sequel to your novel, 'Billie B'. What do you think? Times Best Seller? But then I also got to thinking without a hot guy in the midst it's going to be a pretty shitty book, and since no one is living up to my Christian Grey expectations, perhaps the book will have to be put on hold. 


I need to stop going off in tangets, sorry. Back to Doobs. The rest of the holiday went as any Bhatia occassion would. There were arguments, there were awkward silences over breakfast as we are a family of stubborn hot headed people, there was BBB getting inappropriately drunk on the way home - sat by himself three rows away from everyone else, there was Ashwin spending the entire holiday in his room watching 'Keeping Up with the Kardashian' and sauntering around in his dressing gown pretending he was Scott Disick and then was me moping in the pool, that no one would come and play catch with me so I could pretend I was Free Willy crashing the barrier as I lept up and splashed back into the water. Suitably sunned up to the point where I was referred to as turning that 'dirty dark colour' I packed up my shit and headed home. Laters Dubai. And DEFINITELY laters family holiday. 


Real world beckons, tan on and personal trainer sessions booked....I'm ready to be a grown up. 


Fatty BB xxx

Disaster in Dubai Part 1

It was always going to be a 'fighting temptations' week - and I'm going to be perfectly honest with you - I didn't put up much of a fight. After all it is a HOLIDAY, and my rules for healthy living/ eating just weren't transferable across continent. Plus is was just too hot to not eat ice cream, like it would have been dangerous for my health if I didn't - combustion was on the cards at one point, so I had  to cool my body down some how and the pool was at least 30 metres away at that point.

So we landed in Dubai, excitement didn't quite come close, I was giddy. So excited to be reunited with Jumeirah luxury and genuinely throw myself into the pool (hold back that little chortle, everyone loves a wave pool.) However, nothing runs smoothly on a Bhatia family holiday and nothing ever goes to plan. Last year I went to Dubai with Geeta, Annie and my aunty and 2 cousins - best. holiday. ever. Flight was a delight (minus the hands swelling as casual nosebleed - such a gracious flyer), zoomed through passport control and when we arrived at the hotel we were upgraded to an incredible 3 bed suite with a balcony that was the size of half a football pitch. It was actual perfection. This year did not as smoothly.

Passport control was the first disaster. We joined the queue of what happened to be the slowest moving man ever. I think there was a competition between the security to see who could take the longest to get through the people and piss as many of us off as possible. He was an arrogant twat, to put it mildly. One thing that you must note is that in his old age BBB (Big Bad Baz) absolutely has to have things his way and his tolerance level is none existant. His 'tuts' were getting louder and louder and he constantly eviled the security man at the front. By this point I was genuinely concerned we were going to get deported and I was going to have no tan at all. An hour later we finally got to the front of the queue, I had to stifle my tears that I was missing valuable tanning time plus the fact I was grouchy as I was yet to have breakfast. I quietly went through security and gave my best 'I'm lasering the shit out of you' eye squint. But it was Annie that took it to another level.

Now you have to remember despite Dubai being a playground for the rich, or simply the destination of choice for the Bhatia family year after year, it is also a very strict country - it does not condone such frivolous rubbish as '50 Shades of Grey'. So what does little old Annie do, trot up to the counter which she can barely see over and slams her copy of the book on it. I thought she was going to get shot. Luckily the arrogant idiot seemed perfectly illiterate. She then proceeded to mouth off to the ARMED GUARD - good one Annie, good one. Kicking and screaming we dragged her away otherwisde holiday was over before it had even started.

Despite the slowed down start I was still optimistic that this holiday was going to be epic. Silly Billie.

We got to the hotel and BBB tried to wheel and deal himself the same upgrade we had last year but it was not going to plan; by this point I just wanted to eat and get in pool, what's a girl got to go through to get a bloody tan!! (I am aware that this is novel for most Indians who actually attempt to stay fair - no idea why they do this. Tanning is by far my favourite past time.) It would seem that my fortune was about to change I could hear BBB closing the deal on one of the hotel villas, my ears pricked up when I heard '24 hour butler service', 'complimentary high tea' and 'happy hour cocktails'. SCORE. Just the news I needed.

So here is a picture of the villa...

Yup amazing right? Don't get too used to it.
I made that mistake.
Revelling in how gorgeous the villa was... it was all too quickly snatched from beneath my feet. BBB thoroughly enjoyed happy hour - perhaps a little too much. In his inebriated state he thought actually he was paying too much extra for the villa and decided he wanted to move back to the hotel.
I know, I gasped just as loud as you too, in fact I did a little more I may have got a little verbal. I'n not helping my bratty image.
Imagine how I felt. No more 24 hour butler (which meant no midnight twirl, or no more 8 cups of hot chocolate for Ashwin). It was a sad day. I only got one sleep in the glorious villa - thank god it was Annie on the shit bed - I got that beauty.

The following morning dragging our feet we slumped back to the hotel, I deserve a slap really, the hotel is amazing and I am very luck to have stayed there, but sometimes it is fun to play the brat.

The rest of the holiday I was very well behaved - that is until Part 2. Stay tuned kids.

Fatty BB xxx

How to holiday with the Bhatias.

I actually attempted to blog on holiday, I wrote a draft on the plane but then got preoccupied with 40 degree heat. Tanning was far more important than blogging - although I think, as always, I took it a tad too far perhaps the SPF 2 oil spray wasn't really needed as now I'm as dark as the night sky.

But I shall attempt to give you an account of what a Bhatia family holiday is like. By the end of this post I'm sure there will be a queue of people wanting to go on the next family holiday....

"This is currently being written on the plane and it is quite miraculous that I am able to write at all since my hands have inevitably swollen to the size of baseball mitts. I hardly have slender hands, fingers, or in fact thinking about it I hardly have slender anything. I think the most slender paart of my body are my eyebrows (my eyebrows are my pride and joy, they are my one redeeming facial feature.) So anyway my even fatter than normal cumberland fingers at the ready here is how a Bhatia family holiday rolls. Everyone in my family knows I HAVE to have the window seat. It's tradition, I will genuinely fight you for it now and throw the biggest tantrum if I don't get the window seat. Now I don't think I'm a brat (Shariat does) but there is no budging when it comes to the window seat - I will full on be a brat. Much to my dismay there were no window seats available on the flight! I wiped my tears and in my head bitch slapped the lady that was sat by the window on my row of seats, if I could I would have thrown myself to the ground and protested that she moved - but I don't do that anymore, not in the last few months at least.

I was lucky though, very lucky in my flight companion - I got Geeta. Without a doubt the best flight buddy out of the family.
This is why:
Big Bad Baz - two fatties together = a very uncomfortable flight and a persistent fight over the arm rest. Not only is that, but he is incompetent when it comes to working any kind of technology. So every 10 seconds its, "Umm Billie how do you get the films on?" "Ummm Billie where is the volume?" "Ummm Billie I don't like this film, put another on." "Ummm Billie I'm out of wine, get me some more". Get the idea? Nightmare. 
Annie - if you dare even touch her (and completely by accident), slightly brush against her you will get nail marks in your arm and constant evils throughout the journey.
Ashwin - I guess he isn't that bad, but he complains A LOT that he has no leg room and again fall asleep on his side and you will receive a sharp elbow to the ribs. However on this flight his 2 main concerns were watching 'Keeping Up With the Kardashians' and flirting with the Emirates staff.
So safe to say, I did well. Geeta doesn't complain, she let's me fall asleep on her side without any damage to my arms or ribs (not that she would be able to elbow far enough to reach my ribs) AND she brings the drinks and sweets.

The food has arrived. Eurgh. You might be surprised to hear that I actually hate aeroplane food. I know me hate food? Who would have thought. It's gross. It's not even real. The only good bit is the cheese and crackers. So there I was happy as could be, crackers in hand and watching 'Tarzan', occasionally forgetting that it wasn't socially acceptable to know all the words to the Phil Collins songs and sing out loud. Thinking this is going to be a GREAT family holiday - everyone in good spirits and huge amounts of sunshine waiting on the other side."

I must have got too carried away with the Disney Classics on the inflight entertainment and my cheese and crackers to blog anymore.
So until the next episode which I'm thinking should be aptly named 'Disaster in Dubai'.

Who wants to come on a family holiday now?!

Fatty BB xxx

Beautiful People

Now I know I am not a hideous human being (you know like that awful woman from Dodge Ball) but I somehow have a panache for making really beautiful female friends. Rupert quite aptly puts it 'don't run with dogs if you want to avoid fleas.' This wasn't a conscious decision - everyone just wants to be my friend (clearly no problems with my oversized ego today). But the obvious downside of having beautiful model-esque friends is that I really have to up my game if you don't want to be seen as the munter of the group.

It all began with one Miss Kate Griffiths. It's true my mum loves her more than me. Not even kidding - you know that one person you're parents are always like 'why can't you be more like blah blah'. Well KG is my blah blah. However no one can begrudge her her beauty and she's amazeballs in all departments. Currently M.I.A. this is a direct plea - get in touch I have goss for you!!

So despite the fact in not quite in the same league YET as my friends, there are bonuses to having fit friends, whenever it has been the two of us on a night out it is a lethal combination of Kate getting the free drinks and me drinking them all.

Then I went to uni and amassed a girls house that rivalled all other girls houses in Leeds - what a load of beauts and then there was me...the token fat Asian (don't pity me, in my opinion I won the personality contest). Just to show you how hawtt they were here is a final snap of us all (minus Ellie)

You might think 'actually you kind of fit in with all other beauties, larger but still not bad.' That is only because it took me all afternoon to look like that and days in advance of prepping ( yes, even Asians fake tan - especially those of the Bhatia/coconut breed) not to mention forcing Alice to do my hair. But I am a little better now i don't have to call on her all the time anymore - just when I burn my hands on my straighteners and or when my lashes are more on my cheeks than my eyes.

So after being the ugly duckling for three years you would think I would have learnt my lesson - make friends with less attractive people and then you will look hotter. No. I didn't learn my lesson, my housemates this year are equally hot.

Of course this is minus Kirstie she was probably still getting ready, mulling around in her dressing gown and shouting at Jonny for not being able to do her eyeliner flicks. Then arriving at terrace looking flawless whilst Shariats persistent tequilas have made the rest of us look like rag dolls.

But, I don't care that they are all beaut because in going to be beaut too and then world domination is definitely in sight. 8lbs down and counting kids!

This is going to dramatically drop when I get back from sunny Doobs and the personal trainer sessions kick. Pray that he is hot for me, please. With my fantastic chat... just keep talking in fluid sentences that's all in hoping for, no drool or jaw to floor moments or random outbursts of words a la Alice like 'egg' In essence be cool. I'm not cool he won't love me, damn it!

I think I have used the word beaut enough for one post, I'm starting to sound like Jamie Laing.

Also Mayville Bitches I hope you enjoyed the first Chris Brown mention.

Fatty BB xxx

From one parental failing to another.

I have come to find that there are two reasons why I am the way I am. The first is my pathetic gene pool inherited from Big Bad Baz. The second reason is that I have grown up with my mother's cooking, she is a culinary genius, no lie. See if you think about it its not really my fault at all - in fact it would seem that actually its completely my parents fault. I mean of course I ate the food, and I should have exercised more to aid my horrendously low metabolism - but I mean the actual cause of the problem is not me at all (I learnt something at law school - they are the factual causation 'BUT FOR my dad giving me the 'fat gene' and my mum's cooking I would be skinny).

This weekend has been exemplary of my mother's culinary skill - and I hold Alice and Rupert as my witnesses. People find it weird but I call my mum by her first name, which is Geeta. I don't do it all the time and I don't really know when or how it started or why I am actually allowed to do, but it has become a complete term of affection. Neither my sister nor my brother would ever call her Geeta - mainly because I know I'm her favourite. (At least thats what I tell myself - massively middle child issues...PLEASE DON'T IGNORE ME!!) So Geeta has 2 weeks off and instead of chilling on the first day of her holiday like most normal people she decides to cook all my favourite food... deliberately. Knowing full well I am trying to be good, let's face it I have been shoving the fact I'm having salad down everyone's throat and threw a hissy fit when Dad came back from Asda with a bag of watercress instead of rocket - the stalks make me choke. I see all the ingredients lined up on the kitchen surface and take a deep gulp - I'm in trouble. I know what's on the menu from one quick glance, vanilla shortbreads, 3 different kinds of curry including my absolute favourite and the killer - chocolate mousse cheesecake - yup it tastes just as good as it sounds.

I genuinely want to weep. Instead I take comfort by running (yes i know, hard to imagine - think of Shamu... but with legs), into the garden sitting on my swing chair and burying myself in Fifty Shades of Grey. Don't judge me. Yes, its pure filth and it is terribly written with pretty much the same adjectives used on each page but its addictive reading. When I get skinny - I'm getting my own Christian Grey (minus the Red Room, i.e. just filthy rich and GORGEOUS). Anyway back to the food. So the worst thing about having an AGA is that you can't actually smell the food when its in the oven (yeah yeah 1st world problems I know). So this one time (not at band camp) I was cooking some chicken totally forgot  (I know, hard to imagine I could forget about food, Gossip Girl must have been on or something) and because you can't smell it burning - it stayed in the AGA all day, it wasn't really edible after that. BUT you can smell what's cooking in the AGA when you are sat outside as this is where the vent leads to. Error in my part - I essentially ran towards the smell of biscuits, bad, bad move. However I found a strength I didn't know I had - believe or not I resisted the little devils.

The curry was not so successful. I tried but I am Indian after all - it's my right to eat curry. If my mum was a terrible cook, I wouldnt have these problems. Just to put into terms how good she is - someone once paid £3,000 for her to cook for a dinner party, of course it was for charity. But imagine that kind of cooking all the time - see now do you understand. It's really a hard life.

So here is it: thanks Baz for the shit genes, and thanks Geeta for cooking the best food ever. Naatt. Since I am the biggest coconut anyway - maybe its about time I continue to deny my Asian roots and leave the curry behind. Goodbye Paneer masala. I sharp pang just hit me straight in the chest. I doubt yoghurt and berries will ever replace you, but you're just no good for me anymore.

This post is dedicated to my self-proclaimed number one fan Jerry- Jane Pears, who eats the most amount of curry I have ever seen and still looks like a goddess. But babe, you can't eat that in front of me anymore, otherwise I might cry or worse take it away from you.

Fatty BB xxx