I’ve finally faced the big fear. Plastic Surgery. I met with a lovely, lovely lady who is enthusiastic about working on me. She didn’t baulk at the undulating excess skin that adorns me: she was kind and humane. I was surprisingly emotional when I left – having expected judgement for letting myself get so fat in the beginning, I was treated with tremendous dignity.

I’m going to be smoking hot. I’m doing it all. I’m going to get rid of my gut, have my knockers lifted, my bingo wings, my thighs (which give me a very enthusiastic round of applause when I run anywhere), my flaps – which like Always Ultra – have wings. And most surprisingly, a lot of leg liposuction, so perhaps I will finally have the non-fat knees of my dreams.

The big quandary is also – do I touch the face? It’s my fortune, after all. I wouldn’t mind a turkey neck related tweak, and maybe a bit of Botox to keep the zimmerframe at bay. This is the new me, but I still rather like the old me too, so I don’t want to be ‘too’ different.

Catharsis will be found in the pain from being cut. Cutting away my old, phat/fat life, and healing into the ‘new’ me. I’m still not sure that the old me was so bad actually, but that’s a whole other conversation for a different post.