Tardiness and Sweaty Palms.

Time is a funny concept, we wish it away and then all too suddenly we ask where the time went - trying to claw some of it back to prepare us for the next step.

I have always been a last minute kind of girl, the 11th hour is by far my favourite hour. Annie is the total opposite - always on time, always managed her time, always ready. I'm lazy and I'm a faffer. There is always something better to do than get up and get ready namely, sleep. During our school years we used to have to catch the school bus to Loughborough at 7:15am - I know, barbaric. 

Mornings went a little like this: 

Annie: Alarm would be set for 6am but she would be up before then. Her uniform would be laid out the night before in preparation. She would have time for a leisurely breakfast even maybe a bit of Trouble channel too - quick episode of 'My Wife and Kids'. But most importantly she would have made time to empty the dishwasher. This made her Geeta's absolute favourite. Then of course there would be the inevitable scream up the stairs (every day) at 7:05am 'BILLIE - GET DOWN STAIRS NOW, WE'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS.' 

Billie: Alarm would be set for 6:30am and when it went off every morning I would be filled with rage and immediately turn it off, not even snooze it because snoozing meant it had to go off again....

6:35am Geeta gives me a nudge and an affectionate 'Time to get up Darling'.

6:45am Geeta decides on a new tactic, 'Come on now Billie, breakfast is ready!' (nope doesn't work)

6:55am Geeta's lost all patience 'GET OUT OF BED YOU FAT SHIT!!' 

7:00am...Better get up then, the next step of Geeta's wrath is ripping the duvet off and there is truly nothing worse. 

7:10 Stumble downstairs hair a mess, shirt untucked, jumper on backwards grab my bag and my cold toast get in the car and pray that the bus hadn't in fact gone. 

On the frequent occasion that it had already gone and we had missed it this meant two things: 

1. Geeta had to chase down the bus at the next few stops. 

2. I was going to have to endure an entire journey of Annie's elbow dug deep into my ribs. 

Bus journeys were happier times. I had bullied my way to the back of the bus - the window seat. As soon as I was on alarm would be set for 10 minutes before we arrived arrived at school (to try and tame the fro and put my jumper on the right way round) and straight back to sleep I went. 

Life has not changed much, I'm still always late and still always being shouted out. But I'm now Geeta's favourite - bonus.

I am trying my very hardest to be organised for Vogue. I even started my packing yesterday, granted it did turn into a bit of fashion show where I made Annie take pictures of me and give me her advice on outfits and then of course I did the complete opposite of what she suggested. But the intention was there to get myself sorted, even it wasn't entirely carried out.

It is now 4 sleeps until Vogue and I'm shitting it. The excitement is still very much there but there is now an overwhelming sense of anxiety, which in turn reignites a childhood disposition... sweaty palms.

I have had to endure this miserable condition from a young age (I have even tricked people into believing it is a genuine condition). Radiator hands as they were fondly referred to, even on the coldest of days my palms would still be clammy. The difficulties I have had to overcome in my life due to these sweaty palms - you wouldn't believe. I can't hold someone's hand for more than 5 minutes before thinking 'oh my god, they must think I have the Niagara Falls quite literally in the palm of my hand'. Even BBB didn't hold my hand for more than a minute, and then he would instantly reach for his handkerchief whilst giving me a pitiful smile. Whenever I have my eyebrows threaded you have to stretch the skin tight around the eye to avoid any snagging. Due to my condition I can never get a firm grip and my hands end up slipping all over the place which means I have to embarrassingly ask for a tissue (which doesn't do much) and then try not to wince every time my skin inevitably snags. Pain.

The nightmare situation come Monday morning: I'm late, my jumper is on backwards and I have to shake a lot of hands with clammy palms - would it be less awkward if I just hugged them?

But before then I have bigger fish to fry: a Diwali celebration, attempting to not burn down the house or the gym with BBB's exhibition fireworks that you need a license to set off, trying to resist a Reggae Rum on Saturday night because we have established that they give me rage. But the biggest fish:  how many suitcases/bags it is socially acceptable to take to London for a month.
So far:
2 x suitcase for clothes.
1 x Bag for shoes
1 x Bag for make up, hair care, accessories
1 x Bag....for bags.

By bag...I mean holdall/mini suitcase...ooops. Sorry Kate and Jules - if I say bags are communal does this make it any better?

And of course tomorrow is my last PT session with Zack, who has promised to rap for me - I have waited 11 weeks for this moment. Personally I would prefer a rendition of Mariah Carey 'fantasy' but alas beggars can't be chosers. So with 9 hours until my back is surely broken again by stupid 'clean and presses' (I still don't know what that actually means) I must try and put anxiety, excitement and of course sweaty palms to rest to make sure I am in true fashion late for tomorrow's session.

No doubt there will be a panic post on Sunday night, entitled 'I Didn't Mean To Get So Drunk'.

Stay tuned.

Fatty BB xxx

Miracles Can Happen.

I was dreading weigh in on Monday morning predominantly because I had made the most fattening roast the day before - everything tasted so good because it was coated in large quantities of butter before being shoved in the oven (and then for good measure I threw in a bit more butter). I had no complaints though - everyone said it was beaut (their arteries however thought otherwise).

After lying on the sofa upside down for the next 45 minutes, seriously regretting that last parsnip a wave of guilt (or perhaps just nausea from over eating) came across me and the thought of weigh in the following day made me literally hurl. It was a sleepless night...because I'm hooked on Homeland and finished a season in 3 days (think I might sack off Vogue for the CIA). Monday morning was a very unwelcome sight and even more so were the scales that had be deliberately left out in the bathroom for me. Cheers Geeta.

'Be brave Billie'/ ' Why did you eat that roast?!' - was my mantra and before I could force myself to be sick, I jumped on to the scales. Annoyed that I had to wear my glasses because they could contribute to any extra poundage I was shocked to see what the scales read. So much so, I bounded off the scales, checked they were set to 0 and bounced back on again. 2 STONES DOWN. GET IN. (what a yob).

Quite shockingly I had actually reached my target of 2 stones in 2 months. Whilst I had loosely stuck to Zack's diet plan because no one should have to endure that much spinach or sweet potato ever, there had been a few hiccoughs/hiccups (depending on your preference of spelling, I prefer the pretentious version obvs) along the way. You know the kind that just keeps persisting, you drink water, you hold your breath, you anticipate somewhere scaring you...because you have asked them to and still the hiccoughs don't cease. Those kids of hiccoughs, you can't help it so you just let them carry on.

A hiccough that continually torments me is Newcastle. Every time I go, it destroys me. Considering the most wild thing that had happened that week was buying a remote control for the DVD player in the gym so it meant I wasn't forced to watch the trailers all over again when Zack had a moment and pressed the 'open' button instead of 'play'. One job, Zack. So when I heard that Shariat was hosting a RedBull party, coupled with the fact that Alice and I are unemployed and don't need to abide by school night etiquette we thought hellz yes - let's go. I had a PT session that day and definitely underplayed to Zack how easily influenced I am when out with any Mayville girls, I'm sorry I lied. Shariat did us proud though and the party was incredible, even though I couldn't fully coax Alice into a breakdancing battle with the pros (don't worry, she hasn't lost it - the second the ring of people started to disappear she jumped straight in there, snaking it like a PCD).

Perhaps a few too many RedBull cocktails later, the snaking got a lot more loose. A reliable source then told us that Razor Light were at the party, and despite not knowing any Razor Light songs and only that Jonny Borrel once dated Emma Watson we were on the man hunt. After a 2 minute look around we got bored of the celeb hunt and refocussed our attention on Grand Master Flash - so much so we were oblivious to the fact that suddenly half the crowd were naked.

So since Shaz had the key to warehouse we needed to stay until the very end when everyone had dragged themselves away from the free bar. Reluctant to actually be helpful because I was at that drunk stage where you're totally selfish, Alice and I stumbled into the VIP room and found three guys sitting in there. A quick glance at each other and we both had the same thought...RAZOR LIGHT?!

Queue hair tousle and a quick pucker up. Alice performed the worm to much applause, and I necked a bottle of beer to much less applause...it was going well. After 5 minutes Alice disappeared and Jonny Borrel was firmly in sight. After an hour of my best moves, mission accomplished. I went to find every one else, skipping over to Alice in glee to tell her that I had pulled the guy from Razor Light...my world was quickly shattered.

Alice restraining her snorting laughter flashed a picture on her phone of Razor Light and then burst into fits of giggles. Perhaps not so shockingly the boys in the VIP were in fact not Razor Light. Great. An hour of my life wasted on a boy called Glen. Excellent. All devastation was quickly forgotten when we arrived at the 24 hour bakery (soz Zack) and we ordered pretty much everything in sight.

Much happier after the bakery visit. 

Safe to say the next day I was not in a good place. The sugar in the RedBull had kindly disguised how smashed I actually was and when Alice cracked open a can on the way home I thought I was going to be sick. Constantly calling people on the way home to try and get out our dark depression we arrived home wishing not to see any more RedBull for a long time.

With 3 Weeks left until Vogue commences, I am trying to keep the hiccoughs down to a minimum and Asos shopping to a maximum. Although with all my confessions in here I think I might be made to plank from now until November 4th. Bleurgh.

Fatty BB xxx

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