I seldom weigh myself. In fact, I don’t own a pair of scales so it’s something I only do for a bit of a laugh when parties are slow and I resort to exploring the contents of the host’s bathroom. I like to judge my size on how my clothes fit – I developed a rather curvy figure early on in my teens (D cup by 15 – thank you genetics) and have maintained roughly the same size since then. Oh, and I’m between a UK 10 and a 12 if anyone was wondering.

Which is why it wierds me out somewhat that people can say they’re size 20 and be lighter than I am. Last time I checked how much I weighed, I was pushing 11 stones. I know someone only one stone heavier than me who wears size 18… it all seems very odd.

Do I have incredibly dense bones? Or have I had adamantium grafted to my skeleton in a bizarre comic-book fantasy sort of a way? Whilst the later would be fabulous, I somehow doubt it.

I suppose that the lesson is not to judge your weight on numbers alone.

And please forgive the rather scanty post – I don’t really have anything to rant about or any writing/sewing projects I can share… ho hum. I’m sure my muse will return soon.