I’m pissed off with my husband. Not because of something he did but because of something I didn’t do.

After we had our baby I went on a mission of training and eating well. Baby joined us in July 2017 and I was determined to be fit and ready to run Brighton marathon by March 2018.

I left it the right amount of time to exercise that you are meant to after a Cesarean Section and then I started walking regularly. I didn’t go nuts with a restrictive diet because I was breastfeeding and I knew it would be counter productive. Booby juicing a baby makes you hungry so trying to diet and feed him would’ve meant I’d have fallen flat on my face and eaten the world and my newborn probably by the Friday of week 1.

Instead I joined a fitness club, followed the eating guidelines and trained hard. Training went really well and by March I was marathon fit. I ran Brighton Marathon in around 6:30 which for me was a 20 minute personal best and two weeks later I ran the first ever Newport marathon in around the same time.

Next on the agenda was our wedding. I wasn’t too concerned with dropping loads of weight. My husband to be knew he was marrying Mandy Dingle not Mandy Moore, but I did want to feel nice. I kept up with the training and I kept up the eating well. Wedding day came and although I did feel a bit Dame Edna Everage, mostly because I don’t wear pretty flouncy dresses and heavy make up as a rule, I did also feel beautiful. As beautiful as Dame Edna Everage ever looks. Madge would have been proud.

Wedding over. Marathons over. Healthy eating over. Here I am 11 weeks married and 11 weeks away from my next marathon, a good stone and a half heavier than I was when I said “I do”. Ever since then I’ve been saying “I do” to doughnuts, meatball sandwiches, cake and custard and full English breakfasts. I need to get a grip of my shit.

This weekend we are camping at one of our favourite places that has its own lakes. We bought a dinghy with some of our wedding money with the intention of spending hours cruising up and down, relaxing like a couple of millionaires on a private yacht.

The problem is I exceed the weight limit for our inflatable barge. My husband’s problem is that he pointed it out. Instead of just gritting his teeth and hoping for the best he callously shouted to the shore “this boat ain’t gonna take you babe” so while he rows to his heart’s content this land whale stomped back to the tent to drown her sorrows in a cup of tea and a packet of Bakewell tarts.

When my husband returns from his aquatic adventures I will tell him “You’re gonna need a bigger boat”.

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