It's official: when it comes to my diet, I've been on the slide. Not a slide of gigantic proportions. Not one of those vertiginous log flumes that pitches you head first into freezing and potentially dirty funfair water from a height of 200ft and at a speed of god-knows-what-but-it-feels-like-death, but is sort of fun when you look back on it. No, it's been more of a plateau followed by a gentle stroll down a grass verge. The odd piece of bread spread with goats cheese here, the odd Magnum ice cream there. Those occasional treats that become less occasional, until you realise that, like Hansel and Gretel, you are skipping wide-eyed and empty-headed into a realm of sweet, delicious fatty things - and doom.
Why the slide? Well, just a minor reversion to old habits, I guess. Reading the newspapers last week, for instance, I was struck by a new study that suggests that writing down details of your food intake makes you eat less. Having done this for the first three months of this year, I can vouch for it, so long as you don't get obsessive, and it's not actually much of a chore at all. I honestly can't remember why I stopped.
I've also been slightly ruined by tiredness - which is an excuse and a complaint and a whine, I know, but give me a break. I'm really, really tired. I've been an insomniac since the age of 10, and unfortunately I don't have the constitution for it at all. I wish I was one of those people who could jump up from three hours' sleep and feel excited about the day, but instead I'm one of those people who wakes up from three hours' sleep and thinks, "My physical resources are at an all-time low. I have masses of work ahead, I need to be able to function, I need to be able to think. I need to be able to string together a sentence that includes all the requisite grammatical components. I need a bacon and egg baguette." In fact, if there's anything that's almost guaranteed to make me ditch my resolutions and reach for some high-calorie comfort, it's a long string of broken nights.
There is plenty of evidence to support the notion that less sleep equals more weight. A study in the American Journal of Epidemiology found that women who slept seven hours or more each night stayed slimmer than those who slept less - even if the latter group regularly dragged their bones to the gym. Yet more proof that life isn't fair. Those women who slept five hours or less each night had a 32% higher chance of gaining serious poundage than those who slept properly.
All of which is useful information, except when you're trying to get to sleep, and - already anxious that it's way past the witching hour and there's no sign of slumber up ahead - your mind starts turning over the fact that not only will you feel like crap tomorrow but your sleeplessness will be making you much fatter. Sweet dreams!
Anyway, I am determined that the slide will not become a plummet, and so I am beginning phase two of my diet, aka "exactly the same as phase one, but with a positive new name". I am going to be writing down everything I eat again. I am going to be doing my darnedest to get more sleep. I am even going to be doing some exercise.
At the start of the year, my boyfriend tentatively, hopefully, pulled the hulking mass of our exercise bike into the corner of the living room and ran a hand through the cobwebs that had gathered during its time in the cupboard beneath the stairs, where it has lurked since we realised that it had outlived its use in our bedroom as a receptacle for clothes. For the past few months I have been eyeing it with a combination of fear and boredom, and memories of those times at school when I tried to break my ankle in a desperate attempt to get out of hockey. I don't much like exercise. Yesterday evening, I actually got on the bike and fired it up. To my surprise, it was OK. Not brilliant. Not fantastic. OK. I slept well afterwards too.
Whisper it: phase two is off to a flying start.
