Post 466: Steroids and pubs increasing the belly bump.
I was so worried about losing weight a couple of months ago. It was falling off me so quickly that I couldn’t find enough to eat.
Now I seem to eat continually, and before long I’ll probably be on a diet.
What a strange place I’m in, where my body is responding to the drugs rather than to what I actually need.
When I was young there was Big Sis, two years older than me, and Little Bro, five years younger, and Mum and Dad somehow managed to feed the lot of us by hook or by crook.
Food was generally limited to the three meals a day.
The cupboards weren’t bare, but there were no snacks tucked away and very little spare food. During school term it meant sandwiches for lunch and, when we got home, there might be a dried-up plate of leftovers waiting to be reheated and chiselled off the plate into our starving chops.
If we were lucky there’d be a pudding—perhaps a jelly or an Angel Delight.
That was about it.
We grew up healthy…
…but probably a little bit hungry.
Because of that, all my life I’ve had a very easy relationship with food. I could eat pretty much anything and my weight happily stayed around the twelve-stone mark.
I know that’s probably annoying for friends who’ve battled with their weight over the years…
…but now I’m discovering what it’s like.
It drives me mad that, every evening, I’m happily crunching through crisps and fruit pastries.
One goes in.
Then another.
Then another.
No thought involved at all.
Just repetition.
My belly gets fuller and fuller, yet my hand seems to have developed a mind of its own, automatically transporting food from packet to mouth.
Perhaps that’s how we’re designed.
Thousands of years ago, whenever food was available, we’d eat it because the next meal wasn’t guaranteed. Feast or famine dictated life, and our waistlines probably expanded and shrank with the seasons.
I’m just not used to living like that.
If it’s the steroids making me feel permanently hungry, I’ll be glad when they’re no longer needed.
I’m running out of treats…
…and I’ve now reached the stage where I can balance things on my belly with one hand while eating biscuits with the other.
Now that’s talent!
I realise it isn’t exactly a major problem, but I am enjoying food rather too much lately.
This week has become something of a purple patch for pub lunches too.
Yesterday’s feast consisted of a magnificent Stilton Ploughman’s, enormous garlic and cheese bread and, to finish, a spotted dick floating in what can only be described as a lake of custard.
Oh my…
It was magnificent.
Tomorrow we’re off to The Plough, and on Thursday it’ll be The Pig and Butcher.
Three pub lunches in one week.
That’s probably some sort of personal best these days.
Yet despite enjoying every mouthful, I still carry around this permanent feeling of being full.
Should I really be worrying about it?
Probably not.
The doctors are telling me to eat well, and the steroids have given me back movement by taking away so much of the pain.
I’ve put on about a stone in the last couple of months, but perhaps that’s simply the price of feeling better for a while.
It’s surprisingly easy to forget just how much pain I was in only a week ago.
These days I find myself trusting the doctor’s prescriptions more than my own body’s judgement. One little tablet can transform a miserable week into a comfortable one, even if it does arrive with a few unwelcome passengers called side effects.
Perhaps eating too much is simply the side effect of feeling well.
Now there’s a thought.
Or perhaps I’m overthinking things again.
The days of orange squash being the only thing freely available, apart from whatever Dad had growing in the garden, are long gone.
These days my body is being nudged this way and that by medicines designed to help me, and perhaps I simply need to accept that while they’re helping one thing, they might be upsetting another.
I’m probably just being oversensitive…
…which I’m fairly sure you’ve already worked out for yourselves.
So I’ll stop moaning, enjoy this week’s outings and make the most of spending time with good people in good pubs.
That’ll do my mind just as much good as my stomach.
Mind you…
It’ll be my job tomorrow and Thursday to resist ordering a pudding after a great big plate of bangers and mash.
Ha ha.
My mission this week is simple.
Try to keep control of my knife and fork.
Although, if I’m honest…
I think I’ve probably lost that battle already.
Have a fabulous day…
…and an even more fabulous tomorrow.
Good night.
Take good care.
