Baby Got Back.

Since Geeta has been homebound and poorly she has become quite the pain in my ass. Everything in the house (that is already neatly stacked away) has to be emptied and de-cluttered.  Although this is hideously laborious and quite frankly unnecessary it has allowed for a few gems to be found.

Funnily enough it was my room that had the most amount of shit to be de-cluttered, I'm a horder - or if I can't be bothered to find an actual space for it, it just gets shoved at the back of a closet and I pray Geeta doesn't find it. Like a whole bag of odd socks. How do people keep socks paired anyway? How do you make sure that all the same socks go in the same wash? It's impossible. My argument for wearing odd socks is that it's my act of spontaneity for the day...this often leads to eyes being rolled and an occasional telling off from BBB that I have taken his cashmere socks.

It all started when I watched 'Crossroad's, I was young and impressionable and Britney had a full head of real hair. In the film they make a memory box and then go on to have a rather stupid adventure, but they sing a lot of NSync and Sheryl Crowe thus making it a great film. Now it's publicly known that I'm a dweeb and upon our de-cluttering endeavour I found multiple memory boxes.

The oldest box was filled with my favourite Polly Pockets (one of which Annie had deliberately sabotaged because she wanted it), a tamagochi, a prediction for what my life would be at 21 (I was VERY idealistic) and my old Stoneygate sports skirt with my colours on it. The contents of this box was not brutally thrown away like many other, but left as a reminder of life pre Iphone.

The next two boxes were an assortment of uni goodies. My first Carnage T-shirt - pornstar themed, classy. With an homage to the Rupert Cox wit all over the tshirt: 'She's like Treseme: affordable yet professional' and 'Rupert's Bitch'. Now if those had been predictions for a 21 year old Billie, we would have hit a more realistic note. I joke Baz, I joke...I didn't even drink at uni.

Amidst the priceless treasures of Fruity tickets I stumbled across some Bhatia baby pics. I was an adorable child, not the prettiest of babies but by one I had really blossomed into my fro. However there was a theme to these pictures...I seemed to be eating in a lot of them. An even more realistic prediction to the future.

Magnum demolished aged 3. 

I love you, Twix.

Definitely have hidden all evidence of eating that chocolate, good work. 

The tone was set from a very young age and the signs have been there all the while, I was destined to be a fatty. Perhaps the tone needs to be changed again. I think I need to take some photos of me seeing how many carrot sticks I can fit into my mouth in one go, or how many kettlebells I can hold in one hand (although I struggle holding 10kg with 2 hands) and maybe one of tones abs...getting carried away now.

18lbs down I think I might be on my way to changing my life theme. Is 'From Fat To Fit Billie' actually happening rather than mindless ramblings?!

Don't be so silly.

Fatty BB xxx

P.S Apparently V.S training started from a young age...

The Time When I Almost Died.

Personal trainer sessions are well underway now and I was heavily misguided in thinking that it would get a little easier. I was so wrong, it never gets easier. At least I don't have to sleep with a hot water bottle any more.

Last week I almost died. Now I know I am prone to the occasional exaggeration, but this is a true story.  I had attempted to up my gym game, mainly because Zack made me. Before this I was quite happy having a casual little peddle on the bike whilst watching Mean Girls/Seventeen Again but apparently I can be more productive when pushed.

So I had been on the cross-trainer, had done my weight exercises, had complained of a stitch for about 10 minutes, had cursed Zack in my had about 15 times and wanted to collapse on the floor at least twice. And still my hour wasn't over. With my legs feeling like jelly, my arms feeling numb and sweat dropping into my eyes and blurring my contact lenses I clambered on to the bike as elegantly as ever - panting like a pug.

It was all going well, I was smashing my sprints and thanking God that I wasn't made to go back on the cross-trainer, then all of a sudden... I couldn't breathe. I genuinely believed I was having a heart attack, and so (obviously) I dramatically held my chest as I gasped for air. I clearly wasn't having a heart attack but in my head I was utterly convinced and thus panicked. Panicking in hindsight was not my best move as this further prevented me from breathing and I looked like an even bigger tit. I think Zack may have even been slightly concerned as he didn't bark at me to keep peddling. Thankfully I got my breathing under control, the humiliation was harder to hide but in truth I was just glad I wasn't that person that fell off a piece of stationary equipment. Having regained what little composure I had left I proceded to collapse on the mat to do my stretches post workout - where I look like fat Jesus being crucified.

After my close brush with death I decided life was most definitely worth living and proceeded to drink my body weight in water and gorge myself on salad leaves. Pre potential heart-attack I would have dived into the biscuit tin and relished the taste of being alive with a hob-nob, not any more.

Don't worry I haven't changed too much (if at all), I still refuse to take pea protein because it smells like dog shit, it makes me gag and you wouldn't have had it in the olden times therefore you shouldn't take it now. And I still went out at the weekend, and lied to Geeta about how much I drank.

It was the return of Alice Willmott from her travels and obvs the original plan was just to go for a couple of drink you know...have a catch up. But having spoken to Alice the night before her return and her declaring that she was now an alcoholic, I was dubious as to whether the plan would remain the same. I made a promise to Zack I would take it easy and that I wouldn't go too hard; by the sheer fact I didn't have any Reggae Rums I would say I kept my promise. This also meant no shots - much to everyone's annoyance who kindly bought me a shot, but much to Alice's delight who elegantly guzzled down any Tequila in sight. And so our  non-messy, civilised in fact classy night went a little like this.

              

Blame Alice, none of it was my fault Zack. Thankfully by 7am Geeta had given up all hope of a sober return and we snuck in unnoticed. The next two days were a blur of depression - after a much fun weekend going back to chicken and spinach, and dying on the cross-trainer was not ideal. BUT after three weeks of hard work in the gym and perhaps not being as strict as I should be on my diet...one stone has been shed. This means my hips no longer share the same circumference of the M25 - success.

There are still 1.2 billion little lbs to be dropped, but there is hope. Inspiration comes in may shapes and forms but this weeks inspiration is a wager set between myself and Shariat. Whoever fails in the 'who lost the most weight this week' challenge buys the shots. Who says I'm not motivated?! Obvs Zack these will be shots of water...or at most orange juice.

Having evaded death and the potential dire humiliation of falling off a stationary bike, I feel confident in saying...I can do this.

Fatty BB xxx

11 Weeks.

11 weeks is all I have until Vogue. 11 weeks of getting my butt kicked.

This is the tale of week one.

Monday afternoon was going to be my first personal trainer session with Zack, and Sunday night felt like the night before an exam when you know you have underprepared, really underprepared - like 23 years of under preparation. Monday morning was equally as agonising as I avoided the scales like I plague. The recognition that weighing myself alone was going to be SO much better than with an audience forced me to tip toe to the bathroom and endure my Bridget Jones moment. Stepping on the scales mild heart attack ensued, whereby I forcefully removed any kind of jewellery I had one, believing two solid silver bracelets and a pair of earrings would shove the dial down a few stones. It obviously made no impact whatsoever. We are now at that point in the exam where you are queued up with your peers waiting to go in and sit your maths papers when you realise you don't have a calculator...you're quite fundamentally fucked. Fair to say breakfast that morning comprised of lashings of air, sprinkled with some kitchen dust and a big fat dollop of full fat H2O. Lunch was of a similar variation.

2pm came all too quickly... show time. Having promised not to look at where I had written my weight until he had left the house and I couldn't hear the cackles I hesitantly made my way into the gym.

The session began with a 5 minute warm up on the bike, I smugly thought 'hey, I think I might actually be able to do this.' That little thought was imminently squashed. Next came the cross trainer at levels I didn't know existed and kettle bell exercises which I thought were going to break my back along with my spirit. According to Zack being sick was normal so when I resisted the urge to spew I was extra pleased with myself...crushed it. Finally my hour was up...THANK GOD. Lying on the floor attempting to stretch out my muscles, I realised I looked like this...

 

And although I say Fat Amy/Patricia is my idol these days I'm aiming more for this... 

I realise Candice may have a few things over me like being a VS model, admired and oogled by millions, and the fact that she looks this good after giving birth but now that I've kicked the carbs who knows what miracles could happen. 

So after a little mermaid dancing on the floor  I then tried to get up - this was a massive struggle. My legs felt like jelly, my back felt like it was carry a house on it and my stomach didn't feel much changed at all  BUT I felt good. It was a good pain. That was until I attempted to go to sleep that night and could barely move, my hot water bottle was taking away no pain and I wanted to punch Zack in the face for making me miss sleep as whatever way I turned I was in agony. Tuesday was a complete and utter write off, I could barely walk and every time I sat down there was no way I was getting back up again...including the toilet.  Wednesday was much the same but a whole lot worse. 

Then came Thursday (my next session) and I thought nothing can be as bad as Monday, if I survived that I will be OK. No, no, no, no. Monday was a walk in the park in comparison to Thursday even though I had warned him I needed to be able to walk as I was going to a wedding the next day (I think he made it his mission to make my hobble). After the session there was now no way I was going to be slutdropping at the reception, for if I dared drop I most certainly wasn't getting back up. 

However, hats off to Zack kicking my ass because after week one I have managed to lose 6lbs (and this was with 1 or 2 vodkas at the wedding...3 max, sorry Zack.) 

I survived week one. Week 2 here we go. 

Fatty BB xxx 

Spanish Escape

The constant upkeep of being an Indian housewife, the closing of Entropy, the return of being a glorified receptionist and the fact I was feeling a little pale all pointed in the direction that I needed a break. However I was anxious to leave Geeta - she had been such a trooper during her first three session of chemo but the fourth was taking its toll. Somehow she found the energy to tell me to get a grip and practically booted me out the door, so with her blessing I headed to the airport in search of sun, fun and large jugs of sangria.

Attempting to keep costs down I booked a flight with Ryanair. This did not keep costs down at all. I decided to check in a 20kg bag (yes I was only going for 6 nights), but my past experience with weight limits has not be successful. When packing there is always the 'definitely yes' pile, the 'definitely no' pile and the 'maybe' pile - so far I have yet to ever put anything in the 'definitely no'/ 'maybe' pile - in my head 6 pairs of shoes for 6 nights is not only acceptable but totally necessary. The worst was when I went to America and I thought I had nailed the weight limit, smashed it, crushed it, and walked over to the counter with a smug 'I don't need to move stuff into my hand luggage look' plastered on my face. In fact I was 8kg over and I had to pay £100 before I even left the county. I say I...I mean BBB.

My logic was that if I paid £50 for a 15kg I would definitely go over and thus incur more fines by paying £70 for a 20kg I was saving in the long run...I was not. But get this - my bag was 19.9kg! Winner. However I printed off the wrong boarding pass, didn't check it and had to pay £70 to reprint it.

Ryanair- 1. Billie - 0.

Clearly when I was booking this flight I was feeling like Billie Big Bucks as I clicked yes to all these crap added extras like priority boarding, assigned seating and travel insurance. Having already paid extra for a shitty piece of paper and getting absolutely no smiles from the miserable Ryanair woman I just wanted to board the flight and get my sangria on. So I  waved Kate goodbye as she joined the cattle queue and I lodged myself into priority boarding - lodged being the operative word. Ryanair are very anti-fatties.

I hadn't chosen well at all for my preassigned seat, either that or the aircraft design online was rather deceptive. Essentially I was right at the front next to the minuscule aisle, so although I was entertained judging the parade of Ryanair passengers on their choice of flight wardrobe (i still do not understand why women where heals to fly) I also got whacked (sometimes I think deliberately) by every person that walked past. To top this off...my seatbelt was broken, so I was abruptly moved from my chosen seat.  Sleep was the only remedy to my Ryanair disasters.

Ryanair 2. Billie -0.

I think now as a good time as any to mention it was a 'steal' that lead me to this holiday. Juliet is a housemate of Kate's and I stole her. Having realised we were pretty much the same person (but she a much more toned version) I was 100% committed to steal. (Gracey I hope you're enjoying my 'committed' reference) In fact I stole Grace as well - the delicate, petite, blonde, princess who after half a bottle of wine turns into a lairy chav - calling everyone 'sweetheart' with a cockney accent and a wag of her middle finger. Two of my very favourite steals.

Hitting the sangria hard on our first night the party animals that we were, we were all in bed by midnight. Juliet's villa is stunning, the views are incredible the whole place was just awesome and when I was told it was on a hillside I was lied to. It wasn't a hill it was a fuck off huge mountain - think Mount Doom.

The View from the mountain 

It being Juliet's birthday I was happy to do whatever she wanted thinking lazy day by the pool with jugs of sangria my ipod with Miley's 'We Can't Stop' on repeat and a bar of milka at the ready for fuel. How wrong I was. We were to head down to the beach (ie scale the mountainside) for some beach fun - this beach fun consisted of a 2km swim out to nice yachts and back. Ok not so bad, despite being a whale I'm a pretty decent swimmer...maybe its because I'm a whale? So minus contact lenses I didn't see the jagged rocks that lead into the sea thus I rather ungracefully fell into the water and was laughed at my all the paddling toddlers who had managed to manoever themselves with much more ease. Well done Billie. Just keep swimming. That I did until the waters started to turn and inky black colour  - at which point I knew it was the seaweed and not a whale but that didn't stop me from swimming extra fast over these bits especially when the seaweed brushed my legs and I thought it was jelly fish/piranha. So whilst the girls got their goggles on and explored the seaweed and fish I tried not have a panic attack that the seaweed (whale) was going to jump up and get me. Happy to say I was the first back to shore.

Next came the climb. Although partial to being a little dramatic, the climb back to the villa almost killed me. Imagine the travellator from Gladiators - for a 1km up one hill. Hideous. I made it to pool, the final steps to the villa were impossible, threw myself in and was utterly grateful that there was no one around to see my wheezing and streaming eyes. But hey - I did it.

After I ascended the mountain.

The rest of the holiday went as I had hoped: pool, sangria, cheesebreadmeatsalad, return to pool, cards, oreo milka, malibu, vodka, try and speak Spanish to impress a boy, fail at speaking spanish and fail at impressing boy, double vodka, blur, bed. And on top of that I managed to escape the ordeal of kayaking with children. Excellent.

The Wolfpack at its finest. 

The most magical part of the holiday, I lost 2kg. Apparently going on holiday with skinny minnies and being forced to do activities whilst eating like a horse and drinking like a fish is not only good for the soul its good on the bod. Bring on round 2. Until then I shall just bask in post-Spain glow/ gone a darker shade of black or as Boden affectionately said I looked like I had spent a week in the rice fields.

Back to reality from the rice fields. 

 Oh by the way I have my first personal trainer session tomorrow - bricking it doesn't come close. Especially when this boy looks like a god. I'm gonna Mila Kunis his ass.

Fatty BB xxx

I Could Have Been An Athlete.

Every time there is a big sporting occasion (this time it's Wimbledon) I think back to my childhood days and think 'I could have been an athlete.' It's a similar situation to the grandma in Billy Elliot: 'I could have been a ballet dancer'. It's endearing that she thinks she could have been a ballet dancer, but being a 'Billy' does that make me the ballet dancer? I think so. But whenever the words'I could have been an athlete' slips out of my mouth, I am quickly humbled with a snort from Annie and a high pitched hyena laugh from Ashwin followed by a: 'It's funny cos he's fat' Mr Chow quote. Cheers then.

At primary school we were forced to undertake lady like activities on a Tuesday afternoon, these consisted of sewing and ballet. Whilst the boys partook in more gentlemanly sports such as rugby...and crocheting. Baring in mind I was six, fat, had a football shaped fro and one of the few Indian girls in my year how was I ever going to be the next Darcey Bussel? For starters I didn't have the conventional tutu, probably because it wouldn't fit over my rotund frame. I dreamed of having a pink fluffy tutu and the perfectly tied sash shoes but no instead I had a tutu made out of curtain fabric and a pair of black plimsols (wide fit ballet shoes - now there's one for Dragon's Den). The odds were already heavily against me. Despite practicing my demi plies to bend down in order to snatch a biscuit from the tin, that elusive graceful air seemed to be lacking. And I wasn't the only one to pick up on this (deftly astute for a 6 year old), the other girls seemed to clock on that I wasn't the full ballet ticket either. Three terms I tried my hardest to progress from baby Dawn French to baby Black Swan but alas fat kids can't plie and we certainly can't leap. School reports were the highlight, smatterings of As and A+s - I clearly peaked far too young - were tarnished by the ballet slip report that snuck in every term. It stated without fail each time: 'Kiran is not a natural at ballet but tries very hard.' The report is somewhat similar to life today if it were to read as a ballet report: 'Kiran is not a natural Beyonce dancer, but tries very hard and when smashing jaeger bombs has an incredible amount of self belief.'

So clearly the Darcy Bussel dream is over but does the Laura Robson dream live on? I may not have Harry Styles tweeting more or perfect pins but I did have a cracking forehand. It all started on a hot sunny summer's afternoon when baby fat Billie and baby skinny Annie embarked upon a summer of tennis coaching. This story is regaled very frequently when BBB has had one too many and wants to reminisce over days gone by. So BBB and his pal Goz had come to collect Annie and I from tennis and were sat in the car watching to see if either of us possessed any talent. It was a very simple tennis lesson - the coach fed us the ball and he had to hit back over the net into any part of court. Up tottered delicate, little Annie... the ball was hit to her and all simultaneously a little squeak was let out, a leg was popped and the ball was hit straight into the net. Being a £20 an hour tennis lesson, the coach liked to give us feedback after every shot...'try and aim to hit over the net Annie'. Enlightening.  Off she ran to the back of line, with a look of 'what did I do wrong?' slapped across her face.Determined to show her how it was done, next up was me. THUD. THUD. THUD. Thinking I was already Sampras I stormed to the net, my racquet pretty much wrapped around the back of my head my back and whack straight over the net and out of the court. With a smug smile I plodded back to the line, whilst the coach shouted to me 'in the court please Billie'. Pfft whatever coach, crushed it.

So tennis it would appear was out the window too as I to me it was a contest of how hard can this be hit? Not a contest of how hard can this be hit and still be in. I finally settled with squash. It seemed to hold all the necessary requirement: there was only a limited amount of space I could be forced to run around, I could hit it as hard as I could and it would most likely still be in and the squash club stocked crunchie bars. When the other 8 and 9 year olds went for water breaks or to talk strategy with their parents after the surprise whopping from the fat Indian kid with bad bed hair, I went and perched on my bar stool, ordered a fanta and kit kat and wondered what mum was cooking for dinner- breaks of champions. The only time I ever reconsidered my break strategy was when at 16 I got beaten by a 12 year old boy, but then it struck me he must be one of these child prodigies and who was I to stand in his was of stardom.

I was all on track to be an athlete and then I saw the training regime and thought 'nah rather not.'

What a shame, I could have been a great.

Fatty BB xxx

Being A Good Indian Housewife

Geeta has asked that I write a post about her, she feels she has been eclipsed by BBB as of late (who isn't?!) and as such this is for you.

Being a good Indian housewife has never been high on my list of priorities or things to become. It fell somewhere between become an astronaut and the Three Peaks Challenge. Considering I failed my one physics module that I actually elected to do (mainly because it was called Stars and Planets and I thought we were going to learn about Aliens....it wasn't about aliens at all), and my sincere lack of excessive walking; being a good Indian housewife was both unrealistic and hugely undesirable.

Undoubtably this is what I have become.

Exhibit A: I did 3 loads of house washing (ie NOT MY OWN), didn't pull the cba card and shove in the dryer actually hung it outside because this little annoying voice in my head sounding like Geeta was saying 'it's lovely out it will dry in no time'. I followed this by doing the ironing (voluntarily) and went on to make dinner for the family. After all of this I hoovered and mopped multiple rooms without anyone telling me to. AND AFTER THAT...I went to work. Just call me the 'Bhatia matyr.'

Exhibit B: Exhibit A should be enough.

The reason for my sudden and certainly unexpected change comes back to Geeta again. 5 weeks ago she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Not going to lie...I did not take this well. I cry at John Lewis adverts, so you can imagine my response. There were a lot of tears and the occasional 'fuck you cancer' mixed in with more the frequent 'this is so unfair'.

As much as cancer is everywhere, on tv, on the radio, in other more distant family members you never, not once, think it will be in your home and that it will be your mum. Geeta being Geeta obviously wasn't even thinking about herself her main concern was telling us. Apparently I was the big dilemma as I can get overly emosh - such bull. I'm always so together.

So there it is, the big C bomb. Well cancer can go fuck itself. Geeta's words not my own (before you shout at me BBB for being uncouth.) Cancer seems to have made her into a rowdy little chavette much to my own amusement. Ordinarily her response to irksome things and irksome people would be to roll her eyes, give them one of her hugely obvious fake grins and say in the most insincere voice 'oh dear'. These days we skip the bullshit and her response is simply: 'oh fuck off'. I love it. BBB winces every time, whereas Annie, Ashwin and I beam with pride and high fives ourselves. Obviously Geeta doesn't high five, she cuffs.

After being told she has cancer, having a pretty horrendous operation and undergoing her first session of chemotherapy Geeta being the lad that she is thought it was appropriate to resume her role as good Indian housewife. In the reverse to R Kelly her mind was telling her yes but her body, her body was telling her no.

Step in substitute housewives: Annika-singh-rit-pal-kaur and Kiran-preet-jeet-deep-singh.

Now what I have started to notice is that household chores are actually quite the work out and since the last time I ran on the treadmill it started to smoke, I feel housework is the safer option.
Hoovering: thats like constantly walking.
Dusting: Beats the arm cycle.
Laundry: Ironing BBB's tent-like shirt - it's like kettle bells. I have found muscles under the flab. This was highlighted when I almost dropped a pint I was pouring because my arm was shaking so much.
Picking Up After People: Basically stand up crunches.

By the time I get to work, the only energy I have left I use to climb up onto my reigning bar stool and delegate all my jobs to other people whilst I sip on a coke. If im feeling particularly exuberant I go to hunt out Poppy and Caitlin upstairs and have a 5 (to 20 minute) Gossip Girl session.

All in all, life is hard (this post being particularly hard to write), cancer is a bitch and being a housewife at 23 is not ideal. But to have Geeta back to her best is more than worth it - just so long as she keeps up the vulgar swearing.

Love

Fattinjeet BB xxx

The Actual Vogue Diet

I'm sure this will jinx any opportunity I have lined up for myself. Oh well.

About 9 months ago I applied to Vogue for an internship and was quite thrilled that I even got a response, albeit a generic 'you have been unsuccessful blah blah blah', and I thought my Anna Wintour dreams had been dashed forever. It appears...maybe not.

My editor at Style urged me to email her contact at Vogue and get myself in, so when I finally get to the balls to do it, I once again got the generic rejection I had a 5 minute pity party and decided I am going to email them again on the hour every hour until I got  an actual response. Email was sent again and surprise surprise I was unsuccessful AGAIN. At this point I hit the biscuit tin...to find that Ashwin had scoffed them all, gutted. A couple of minutes later I heard a ping on my laptop and it was Vogue again. I was preparing myself for the worst, for the email to read, 'please stop bombarding my inbox with your pathetic attempts - to clarify you have been unsuccessful on your application.' However this time the email read 'Apologies we sent you the wrong email,  your application has gone through to the managing editor.' Further to this she actually said she was impressed with my application - WIN. One week later, I have managed to score myself an interview. Who would have thought.

Now the painful decision of what to wear is playing on my mind night and day. Although BBB has suggested I get a poncho a la Ugly Betty, just for lols I have decided this is probably not the best idea. The asos addiction is getting even worse due to trying to find something suitable - but what is suitable?! aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh. No idea.

So the gym routine recommenced in full force today and it was a painful, painful process. Even more so because Saturday night at work I think I actually ran a marathon, and my body has yet to fully recover. Despite Entropy being a small restaurant once you have run around 200,000 times that must at least equate to a 1500m sprint right? Especially when you are trying to impress Dishy Darren on table one. And considering every time at school I managed to get out of doing the 1500m by either throwing myself down a short flight of stairs or deliberately giving myself food poisoning I can now report that it is not fun. But alas, I'm sure if I continue my attempts at running on the treadmill which I still havent figured out how not to trip on, the pain will soon subside.

If I don't get the internship with Vogue, for my own safety please put the chocolate hobnobs out of sight.

Fatty BB xxx