Just over a year ago, I decided that I’d had enough of being a size 12 and that the constant whinging about it wasn’t doing a whole lot of good. So, I joined a gym: not one of those gyms full of beautiful bodies, but a dingy gym in the basement of a club up the street – which suited me perfectly. Consensus around the office was that I would give up pretty quickly.

I was 68kg when I started out, and I visited very, very regularly, and amazingly, I lost weight and centimetres! Yay! After I’d been going for a couple of months, a personal trainer from the gym called me and offered me a free session, which was really excellent, so I started seeing her once a week (which costs a small fortune) and I lost even more weight and more centimetres. By December last year, I was a very small size 8 and 61kg and I could actually run! It was way cool.

But since moving in with Don (and going on the pill) and drinking a glass (or two) of wine every evening and going to the gym at lunchtime instead of the evenings, the weight slowly started creeping back. As at 2.5 weeks ago I was back up to 65kg (and pushing size 10), which was somewhat (okay, a lot) depressing. I cut back on the alcohol (after the big drunken, falling over night 2 weeks ago) and started going again after work. My trainer weighed me again on Tuesday and I have lost 2.3kg – woo and my pants aren’t so tight! Woo!

So to celebrate, I bought a skirt which I absolutely adore:

And here a photograph of me wearing it, such that I would take if I were on my style diary

Sadly though, as a random gym member commented in the elevator last night, “the worst thing is that we’re going to have to do this for the rest of our lives”. Lucky I saved all of those size 12 clothes