Let’s talk about weight, baby


Ok, I know it’s hard to believe, but beneath the layers of mouthy bravado, pretty terrible language and penchant for Peroni, I actually do have some girly traits.

And in between actually fake tanning and actually reading fashion blogs, I worry about girly stuff too.

The kind of stuff all women worry about. Are my eyebrows even? Am I fertile? GAH DOES HE REALLY FANCY ME?

But another thing we all worry about is our weight. And so do I. A lot.

2 years ago I was larger than I wanted to be. I won’t use the word chubby, or fat, but I wasn’t that happy with what I saw in the mirror and what I read on the scales.

I was a size 16, well I told myself I was a 16 but that was normally due to the fact that I blamed H&M’s terrible sizing when clothes didn’t fit. I was probably bigger if I’d allowed myself to wear trousers with a button and a zip.

At my biggest I weight 13’8 and it transpired, over one Sunday lunch, that I weighed more than my 6’3 father. It was time for a change.

With the help of an online personal trainer and some bloody determination I started to notice a change. My clothes were looser, my face looked thinner and I felt happier.

But the biggest change of all was, that I no longer knew how much I weighed.

Like so many new age trainers, he pushed me to take photos to monitor my progress not to weigh myself. As much as I hated having a permanent record on my phone of me in my gym pants, it helped. I could see a change.

After that, I felt like I needed one final spurt. I joined The Body Coach and started to see the most dramatic results of all. And not on the scales. I still hadn’t bloody weighed myself. It was like a revelation.

By not obsessing with what was on the scales, I was trying harder, not loosing motivation and could see this as a change of lifestyle not a ‘diet’.

Honestly. No bullshit.

I was wearing different size clothes, I was noticing things begin to fall down.

I’ve kept it up. Put a bit back on, lost a bit, avoided the gym for a while and then found the want to get back into shape again. A normal approach to healthy living.

I’m a size 12 now. I’m happy. I have a waist. A while back, I bought a size 10 top that didn’t stop me breathing. I’d finally cracked it and got a body I was happy with. Only took 27 years!

I went to the doctors this week and was asked to weigh myself.

According to the BMI scale I’m one pound off of morbid obesity.

I’m 27 now so have a thicker skin that I did ten years ago, fortunately.

As the doctor told me all that I need to shift a stone or two to become ‘healthy’ and that my risk of diabetes was increased. I found myself obsessing about the number on the scales all over again. I genuinely Googled a bloody juice cleanse.

I couldn’t help but think of my 17-year-old self who would have seen those scales, heard those words from the doctor, gone home, cried and only ate carrots until I fainted.

So I decided to do something a bit untoward. And show you my before and after shots.

Granted, it’s me in my pants. Granted, it’s me with more of my bits on show than I’d ever deem acceptable on the internet but there’s a method to my madness.

I want my 17-year-old self, or any other woman out there for that matter who is obsessed with loosing a pound here or a pound there, to see these. And realise, that weight really doesn’t always matter so much. It’s how you look, but more importantly how you feel.

On the left hand side I am a size 16 (cough probably 18 cough) and 13 stone 8. On the right  hand side is what I looked like the day after the doctors.

I am fitter than I was then, I am a size 12 and I weigh….

Wait for it. …

14 stone and 8. glorious pounds.

And no, I haven’t got them the wrong way round!



Proof. The scales don’t tell you all you need to know.

So. Now I’ve gone and put pictures of myself, in my pants, on the internet, you can do me a favour in return.

Don’t let the numbers dictate your progress.

Remember muscle weighs more so if you’re lean you’ll be heavier.

Know your body.

Trust how your jeans feel.

& bin those bloody scales.




Gah, I’m the size of a whale!


Yeah, it’s all fun, giggles and hiccups until you wake up the day after Boxing Day & even your comfiest pyjamas don’t fit.

Are you also getting that thing, where you feel like you can feel your belly flop a bit when you sit down? Yeah I’m fit, and what?!

It’s fair to say I did a champion job of eating this Christmas. When I say Christmas I mean December. When I say December, I mean I basically haven’t stopped since Halloween. But hey. It’s over now. And I’m ripped rearing ready to go to get my body back to somewhere where it used to be!

How?! I hear you scream.

Well, I tell you what I’m not going to do, that’s for damn sure. Wait until January 1st. Or January 4th as on January 1st we’ll all be hungover and miserable and the gym will be shut because it’s bank holiday so we’ll just give up before we’ve started.

I started yesterday, that’s what I did.

And if you’re hoping to shift that holiday weight, here’s a few tips from a rather rotund Lady London to help you get on your way.

  • Get your bum to a decent sized supermarket. And pronto. Stock up on some essentials for the week, and plenty of veg, and cook yourself some decent meals on these ‘lull’ days. Avoid carrying on the binge if you can help it.
  • Get yourself up the gym tomorrow. You might only get one or two work outs in between now & New Year but it’s better than none. & it will mean you start the new year having already had a kick up the bum. (I need to stop saying bum)
  • Spend wisely in the sales. Do you actually need a new pair of 8inch boots that will kill you the minute you put them on? No. Go to the sports shop. Invest in some new gym kit with your Christmas money. I mean, if you’re gonna go, might as well be looking half fly.
  • Chuck your scales out with the crap presents your Aunty Glenda bought you. Weigh yourself and you’ll enter the stage of self loathing, which more often than not leads to you buying pizza. Don’t weigh yourself until the end of January (if you have to at all). Give yourself half a damn chance!

I’m off to cook myself some kind of stirfry.

And have a row with the white chocolate snow dog that seems to just keep starting at me from the other side of the living room.

Little bastard.

LL x

image courtesy of