It's a quiet sort of day.

Unfortunately it's also Friday, and three of my friends (at last count) want to do something with me. I really don't. All I want to do is go to the gym for a couple of hours, come home, and lie down on my couch. If I go meet my friends I know what will happen: they will drink. They will eat -disgusting, fattening junk food - and they will drink. The only thing I'm permitting myself at the mo is a single glass of red wine. NO ALCOHOL.

I really need to step it up because I weighed myself today and I am 157.5. Only one pound lost since yesterday, in spite of somewhat vigorous exercising and a rigid diet that was mostly stuck to. Fuck fucketty fuck. I know I shouldn't run before I walk, but at the same time, I don't have to remind you that it is March. Soon, very soon, summer will be here. A summer of tank tops, of gauzy skirts, of off-the shoulder shirts, of teeny tiny denim shorts, even of (god forbid) bikinis. The thought of having anybody see my body (in its current state) in any of the above makes me want to consign all the food in my house to the garbage dump round the corner.

Physically I'm doing okay. A little weary, a little inclined to be quiet. I'll have some coffee as a pick-me-up in a minute. There's a dry, chalky feel to my mouth, but no pains or headaches or nausea or such, which all the size zero shows have been warning of. Guess that means I am strong. And that is what I have to hold on to: the thought of being strong.