40 days in the wilderness ...

I bought the bridesmaid dress. The bride called my bluff. As the date is now only 40 days away, I'd clearly shunted The Plan of Weight Loss (sorry Elle, the flesh really is terribly weak) into the sidings of lost dreams, and with it that farcical vision of sliding my willowy form into some Vera Wang strappless slip. Plan B was to say I'd only do it if I could sport a Vivienne Westwood creation. Thinking that was a foolproofly risible suggestion. But no, I discover this curious financial loop-hole that when 'wedding planning' (is there a verb?), sensible fairly non-glitzy people seem to lose all sense of real numbers. Someone who would never buy a pair of shoes for £100 suddenly thinks a £100 bunch of flowers seems reasonable. A bunch of flowers. I mean, I know, not the type you pick up from the garage. Whatever. So, then Vivienne's digits become a rounding error in the glorious magnanimity of wedding costs. 'Sounds great' she said.

So I bought it. Red. Long sleeves. Too tight, but, bless Vivienne for having curvy busty friends (unlike Mr Diesel who knows no 'Woman of Hips'). It does sort of flatten the bust rather but then again, long sleeves is most forgiving when squishing them under the armpits. They've got to go somewhere I suppose. Bastard pendulous protuberances. Am feeling quite cross with my large breasticles after this evening when a drunk in a pub asked me how much they weighed. Little does he know that, in a bid to make myself feel thinner (and the numbers add up) I have actually weighed them in the past - digital kitchen scales are the thing if you can manage not to lean - and then subtracted that from the overall weight mass when calculating my weight loss goals. Oh god, the SHAME of it. The embarrasing half naked at the kitchen table SHAME.

It does of course strike me that there is something tragic about counting down to someone else's wedding. Whoever said 'always the bridesmaid' was thinking of me. I've been to 43 weddings (none my own).

Looking back, neither did I weigh myself after the last blog missive. Weakness. Weakness. The road to hell. Quite. Numbers, schmumbers. Perhaps tomorrow. And tomorrow, and tomorrow. Creeps on this petty ....

And as if the wonderful god of irony was looking down smirking, the red dress I had bought was featured, the next day, in the Guardian fashion pages, in an article about outsize models. Thanks.

Forty days. And forty nights. Fasting? Bring it on baby!