I don't like dieting

Funny isn't it how everyone says that diets don't work, it's just a question of eating less. Errm...isn't that the same thing? My tummy certainly seems to think so a week into my new healthy eating regime. Some might say that deciding to lose weight in the run up to Christmas is somewhat foolhardy, if not downright bloody stupid. Guess what? They'd be right.

If it isn't enough of a nightmare simply trying to tame my rampant appetite for all things edible, trying to do it as everyone from the TV to Starbucks is trying to ram mince pies, turkey sandwiches and creamy hot chocolate down my throat is a living hell. I am trying to tell myself that it's all a question of retraining myself to prefer a nice healthy bowl of lentils to a steaming bag of chips, but my brain, being an iota or two above subnormal, just ain't buying it.

Still it has to be done as I am sick of choosing from the tent rails in clothes shops and looking like someone stopped in the middle of inflating me into a bouncy castle. Not to mention my raised chance of developing diabetes thanks to a body that seems to be not only incapable of telling my stomach that yes, it has had enough, but also to regulate sugar in my blood. Cheers for that.

This morning I had my first induction to the gym. It has been years since I darkened the door of such an establishment, but with temperatures dipping below freezing and my general tendency towards sloth it seems like the only answer. I was put through my (slow and painful) paces by a personal trainer, who had me drowning in sweat and blowing like a buffalo after about 15 minutes of gentle walking on a treadmill, all of which reminded me quite why I hate gyms.

All I can do is visualise how unbelievably gorgeous I will look once I reach my desired size, and forget that for all the weight I lose I am still pushing 40 with all the associated wrinkles and crinkles that rather ruin my soft focus fantasy of myself. Wish me luck, I have a feeling I am going to need it.

An inspiration?

Today someone called me inspirational.  A lovely compliment, but I think perhaps she mistook desperation for inspiration. You see me and Sarah Beeny seem to be the only mums of four small boys who are actually foolish, or in my case impoverished, enough to actually try combining bringing them up with having a career. 

I think most mums with a brood of tiny children simply give in to the demands of their family and give up on any attempt at gainful employment, and I applaud that sensible and inspired decision. I am not sure I could cope with being a mum of four without working. Apart from the obvious financial incentives, there is the fact that work is effectively a day off. 

A typical day with the children is like skating round an ice rink while trying to catch melted chocolate in a colander. A messy, tiring and fruitless pursuit during which you are prone to many a slip up. Don't get me wrong I adore my days with the children, but a rest cure they are not. 

Sitting in front of a computer tapping away, or nattering away on the phone doing what passes for an interview, well that's more like it. I can tune out the screams and rows of my bucketful of hyperactive eels (otherwise known as my sons), while I concentrate on keeping abreast of what's up on Facebook. 

People may say to me they don't know how I do it, but I mostly do it, by not doing too much of it at all. Looking after the boys single handed is a sweet treat for a couple of days a week. Looking after them full time would be hard labour and I am not sure how much any of us would enjoy it. 

My nanny, both because she is more sweet natured than me, and is paid to be, is far more tolerant to the boys foibles and intensely slow way of doing even the simplest of chores than I am. While I am reduced to a foaming at the mouth, screaming harpy within an hour of the older boys' return from school, she glides serenely through those prickly after school hours, safe in the knowledge that she can leave at bedtime. 

While the boys forever say they would love mummy to look after them, I think the reality might be a bit of a disappointment. Spending too much time with the boys aggravates my allergy to shrill cries of 'Mummy, mummy, mummy' and stretches my multitasking powers to breaking point. 

While I can juggle deadlines, meetings and interview slots like a circus performer, I find my brain begins to fizz as I try to cope with a dirty nappies, inconsolable tears, requests for drinks/snacks/help with homework and an full scale little boy fight - all of which inevitably kick off simultaneously. 

It seems to be a rule of thumb that everything always happens at once in family life. For example the boys could sit for a good few moments in rapt silence as they watch a DVD, but the instant that a nappy is filled or a glass of juice is spilled, suddenly all hell breaks loose and a previously serene scene instantly descends into a chaos of demands. 

It's a bit like the rule that says the moment tea is on the table, one of my children will disappear for an epic poo, and won't reappear until everything on his plate is cold and inedible. Or the rule that says that when one twin topples over and is in tears, will be the moment that the second one reveals that the contents of his nappy is now seeping into his socks. 

So far from being an inspiration by combining work with family life, I think I could be considered a bit of a skiver and shirker. It's those mums who are at the coal face 24/7 who deserve kudos. They are the ones who combine management skills that would put any CEO of a FTSE 100 company to shame, with the patience of a saint. Instead I simply hide away in my office, putting my fingers in my ears and singing 'La, la, la' to blank out the bubbling torrent of family life that rages through the house below me.