There is a lump on the knuckle of my left big toe.

These pictures are of my stomach. The fatter one is the most recent one. I wish I could get back to the picture with the yellow background. Having said that, it might not be as bad now, I don't know. I've got a 27-28in waist, 39 hips and 35 chest. That in itself is depressing. I am about five feet eight tall. So is that.

Eating today:

Chocolate pastille (30)
Cheese and tomatoe puree on toast (240)
Some tomatoes (2o)
A ripple (180)
Mints (70)
Meatballs and Lingonberry sauce (200)
2 shortcake biscuits (150)
2 tangerines (40)
Bowl of readybrek (250)
3 quality streets (100)

(1280)

Not bad. And I did a six mile walk, or five, I'm not sure. I wanted to see how far it would be to get back from the city centre and it helped clear my mind. I practised what I would say to her. She used to be, in my head, my bombazine doll. She would disagree, but for me, looking at the lyrics, it is quite accurate.

It exorcised some ghosts. I decided, when we have a discussion, my lines will be like this:

I am so sorry. It was a really shitty thing of me to do, to pry into your private life and I didn't realise how bad it was until you saw I had. I'd hate if someone read my diaries. I did it because I was still infatuated with you, and I felt like I needed to know about you. I didn't ask you because I didn't want to upset you or upset our tenuous friendship, which is ironic really because now I've completely shat on it. I hadn't got everything I wanted to know, because I just pasted a smile on and acted like everything was fine when we split up, but it wasn't and I'm sorry that I did it, because that is no excuse whatsoever. I don't expect this apology to get us back to where we were before, but I just wanted you to know I am really, really sorry.

Then she would maybe say something like: No it won't, I hate that you read my private stuff, I can't believe you did it, thanks for saying sorry but it doesn't really ring true. You disappointed me as a friend. I hate people disappointing me.

And I would say: Ok. I'm sorry. Before I go, can I ask why you ever entered into a relationship with me? This is the last reference I'll ever make to it, if you want, but I do really want to know. And you can ask me whatever you like.

She would say: I did it because I felt sorry for you. Because I had to be receptive and nurturing. Why didn't you ever want me to touch you there?

And I would say: I wouldn't because I felt like it was the last thing I had to hide, and I didn't like keeping nothing back. You had me in your thrall, you're experienced and I just adore (d) you, and I was frightened of disappointing you. But disappointing you there would have been nothing compared to how I've disappointed you now. I am so sorry.

And then she would probably want me to get out. I'm not dramatising, but I really think this is the way it'll go. Through reading something I've lost one of my dearest friends. It doesn't even look right written out. I feel almost like she's replaced me with this other girl, who is musical and clever and fun and open and all sorts of other things that I'm not. I don't think I could list characteristics like that about myself. I've got nice hair. But I always want to change it and it's never perfect. I'm not judgemental or materialistic. I like what I wear. But it's usually a bit off, and not as innovative as I would like it to be. I am creative. But not creative enough to pursue a career in it, to get a book published or to get something made. I can apply my own makeup, but it always flakes and I never usually experiment with new things, it's always the same three items. I'm at a good university doing a subject I like, but I'm nowhere near as clever as lots of people around me. So you see? I can say that I am...... but, at the end, I am not. The only things I can clarify are bad things: you are stupid, you didn't get into Cambridge despite going to a good school. You're fat. Look how tight stuff you briefly fit into is for you. You're ugly. Because you are. You can glorify it by calling yourself quirky but you know you are. You are a crap friend (for reasons above). You are ditzy, you are lazy.

A hopeful Fatty writes.

Eating today:

150 calories of chocolate
A cranberry and turkey sandwich (400)
1.5 cubes of galaxy hazelnut promises (75)
3 guilliano chocolates (150)
3 quality street toffees (120 cals)
small portion of chips (300)
broth and a slice of bread (100)
slice of stollen (150)

1450.

And I ate a tangerine. I've got a feeling I ate more chocolate than that. I went on a five mile walk today but I don't think it'll have counteracted much. I feel fat fat fat. I usually do. I'm surprised my fingers are slim enough to type, I'm that lardy (joke).

I had a mild craving for her today. I still haven't contacted her, and I must before new year because if I leave it any longer it'll just get weird. Ugh, I don't want to want her because that makes me pitiful and weak and under her control, even if she doesn't know it. I think she must. I really do hate loss of control; I suppose we all do. But I feel it in different ways, for example, when going to another country, I am fine getting lost or finding my way or whatever. It's all about not having power over how other people perceive me. I want to control how they think of me. That really is quite psychopathic isn't it?

I have to start eating less. And doing more exercise. I know it won't change anything but I'd feel better within myself, like I was able to stand up better for myself if I had control over my body. I'd feel better about myself and as a result other people would feel better about me. That's how it would work. I don't think being thinner would actually help me with anything else; I don't think I'll suddenly become cleverer or prettier. It would be a self esteem thing.

I got a sewing machine this christmas, and my first attempts at creating garments are shocking. I coventrated some tops and made them into the shittiest dress you've ever seen. I must begin to make things better. I'll look for patterns tomorrow. I love my sewing machine. So I am glad I've got that. What else am I glad about? Well, that I like books. I like that I like books, and that I don't like Jane Austen. I am glad that I am not bereaved. My family and friends (touch wood) are all healthy and hale. I am glad that I have made headway in doing work. I am glad that tomorrow I am having a night out with my friends. There are really lots of things to be glad about.

The Grinch

I am the grinch of the festive season, and in particular this day. I dislike christmas. I realise that I always have, from being a very small child. Everyone thinks that Christmas is a time when adults feel most stressed, but as a child, there is always the pressure to appear grateful but not too happy wallowing in consumerism. Or to love your family and at the same time show them a lot of gratitude; it's all bound up in gift reception, which I have never been too good at, being emotionally barren.

So, I got some lovely things. I got clothes and books. I like the books. But I dislike receiving presents for three reasons:
1. Having to react. I hate that my reaction will be judged and give people joy or otherwise; I feel I dissapoint. I'm honestly not fussed about gifts and I think the effort people go to to get me them is diminished by my pleasure in receiving them.
2. There are people starving that need food more than I need another book.
3. This year, my parents have bought me size 12 clothing from Marks and Spencers, tops. This is a generously sized brand. And they bought me a 12. They usually buy a ten. This is so petty and trivial, but I hate that they think I have become fatter. This means that every time I eat they must be watching and thinking how disgusting I am. Not that they've said it but the quiet admiration they used to have, so long ago, has disappeared. I am a fatty.

But I enjoyed our dinner, and the shoes I got. And I received necessary things, like music and books and a sewing machine. Despite my hatred of consumerism, I do love clothes and art. When does art become consumerist? I do believe that art should be one of the things you spend money on, however, in giving it value we take away artistic credence, as there is a motivator other than that of producing art. I would like to live as a living work of art, but realise that in order to do this I should have to consume.

Anyway, I cannot yet use a sewing machine but I shall learn. I shall create clothes and they shall be good.

It all just seems so extraneous and unnecessary. I don't want presents, I don't want all this food or all this fuss, but it's foisted upon us all anyway. All anyone really needs is enough food to survive and love. A cliche. All this pampering is just so uncomfortably dry and heinous, it just makes me sick that we rush round like headless chickens buying things we don't need when we could all go to charity shops and feed the world instead. Why do we need wealth? What does anyone ever do with it? Travel, yes, that's important. Buy huge houses. But who needs a huge house? Who really truly needs a fleet of butlers? Who needs Hello and OK and social pressure? It will never make you happy. What would make me happy is if lots of other people were able to live happily, and by that I mean probably what we would classify as dire poverty in Britain. Can you imagine giving an organisation like the NHS to Africa? Think of the impact! I need that, I need to know people aren't dying needlessly, instead of a teddy and some bath salts in a plastic bathtub. The excess of it sickens me. I am glad it's over.

However, I have eaten ridiculous things, such as today, boxing day. I had two slices of toast and marmite, nine liqourice allsorts, two cubes of galaxy, an apple, a chocolate mint, some pineapple juice a galaxy ripple, 75g of coleslaw and some banana toffee. I think about 25g. See, I just keep picking at bits. That is my problem, I just need to leave well alone. My family is eating turkey sandwiches but as a result of eating the crap I am not joining them, which suits me well as I dislike turkey. I had some yesterday, but I don't like the look of it. I am pedantic as a result of being pandered to by consumerism and prepackaged pulverized meats. When it lies there, in all its glory, it's as if it shouts at me, "yes! Look at my bones and sinews! I was once alive too! You're eating muscle and skin, muscle and skin!" I like the taste. I don't think we should eat meat on the grounds that there are more humane proteinous replacements. But I still eat it, in acceptable forms that don't look like meat. I cannot stand the idea that I am eating sinew and bone and muscle. So, I cauterize and chop off every reminder, not touching it with my hands and barely managing with cutlery- I sliver off the greasy skin, all pimpled, and put it away from my plate. The little squiggle of red vein, that is chopped out with a border around it, a grisly reminder that blood flowed in abundance. And then, when I have my slice of meat, all white and pure and never alive, then I can eat it peacefully.

I also dislike crusts. Bread crusts. They are too much effort to chew, they posess none of the filling of the sandwich, they are burnt and pointless. So I remove them before I eat my sandwich or my toast. You could put your jaw out chewing toast.

All this is a distraction from my work that I should be doing. I so desperately want not to fail. If I don't start I won't get confused or fail. But that is a paradox because if I start I have a chance of not failing, if I never start the work is not there and I fail anyway. But my work does not fail, my intellect has not failed, because it refuses to be judged. So that is why I do not work. But I will, in time.

A story of a clean woman; let's call her Moira.

Wiping, scrubbing, polishing
Taking away the essence of myself
Because a circular pattern of cleaning
Is taken over by the dirt on the shelf

I don't understand why it would be me. I've always kept so clean; there's none keeps a cleaner house than me. I don't know why you wouldn't keep as clean a house as me though, to be fair. Mrs Adams, at number forty-five, with ten kids (by two different men) comes round and asks me how I keep it so spotless. Well, she could keep it spotless too. She chooses not to. Life is all about choice; it makes you what you are. You choose to divert energy into lots of little crevices and pots; some for the kids, some for your man, some for your part time job in Sainsburys watching the people you can't ever wish to be, some to dodging the rent man on bad days, some on vegetating in front of the telly, some on a piece of plastic that promises slimmer hips and the world at your feet within twenty days, none in returning the piece of junk when it's only ever used as a washing draper. And in doing all that, putting all your force into all of those crannies, it seeps slowly away and leaves you with a mouldering house and steely children that it can't contain.

I devote all of mine to cleaning. Cleaning is an overarching premise that you can apply to life. I clean my house and I clean myself, I clean away all the processed junk, no clutter, nothing hanging onto my frame, no drops of dust besmirching the perfect driven white raked reputation of my life. Yet, now I find that something has crept in and will soon be devouring my clean body from the inside out.

I first decided I wanted to clean when I was young. My parents used to notice I lined up my dolls and gave them all the same hairstyle, since I could walk almost. Because I liked things to be good, to be in their place. I never wanted anything out of line, out of the border I could categorise it into. As I got older, I was never organised but always neat. My Mother worried I didn't seem to want friends, or to go out. All I wanted was to make our house neat. But I could never make it neat enough; the butter yellow curtains and the plush blue sofa all seemed too much, too rich and bright and contrasting for clean lines. Whenever I did manage to clean them, there would always be a ruffle I'd missed or something I couldn't quite smooth. So I focused on my own room, I kept that perfectly perfect. And I built up my own company, I made that successful. I started with moving myself away from the grime to where I live now. It is small and compact, like me, and it is clean.

I wouldn't mind, but where will the white be in the world then?Nobody else cleans like I do. Nobody will be able to appreciate the beauty of minimalism. Eclectic pieces of rubbish will take over, dividing and sub dividing and bringing with them all the smut and debris of their past. Coated in a slowly thickening layer of calcifying grey. Like my body is doing now, inside. Disgusting. But then again, it always was going to be. There is always something to clean because dirt is always trying to take over. The cleaner it is to start with, the easier it is to mess up and catastrophise. It's that way with me. The dirt is slowly unwrapping my shrink wrapped surfaces and crusting around my edges until I will be a white plastic fragment, a fossil incarcerated.

Thou dost with disease and sickness dwell; and herbs and poppies can make us sleep as well.

I watched Emma Thompson's Wit last night. It's a TV film about an academic that is diagnosed with terminal cancer, and it is the only thing that's made me cry in about five or six years now. When I first saw it I sat on my bed and cried, and I'm not quite sure why. Not because Emma Thompson's character is lovely and her loss is a sad loss for the world; she's fairly brutal. I think the world needs brutal people though. Emma Thompson is amazing in the film; she's my favourite actress. She's pretty much amazing in anything. I probably like it so much because it is dark, not overly emotional considering the subject matter and unflinching. I also like the good acting. I also like John Donne, though I dislike the way the lecture points that she makes are fairly standard yet everyone acts as if she's discovered the answer to the universe. And I feel fairly insulted at the assertion that Shakespeare is a Hallmark card. He's not all sonnets and even they're not airy fairy. Just because he's dramatic and writes about base emotion doesn't make him a crappy Hallmark card.

But the magic didn't come again and I didn't cry because I came to it halfway through, I was wrapping christmas presents at the time, and my Dad and brother were watching it with me. My Dad's Dad (my Grandad) died when he was nine, hence I always feel slightly apprehensive about death around him, well people dying. And my brother is wonderful but a teenager so I didn't expect him to appreciate the subtleties of Donne. On a second glance, some of it seems hammy; the doctors are all wankers, except for the one nurse, and the scene where she gets read that story by her old lecturer is lovely, but did it have to be a rabbit book? I appreciate the significance and all, what with the Beatrix Potter rabbit motif, the idea that Donne's poetry is like a rabbit warren, the fact that you go back to being childlike before death because you're vulnerable and learning new things all over again.... but the Runaway Rabbit? Come on, they could have done better than that. Even though they try to academise it by calling it, "an allegory to the soul". I can't ever cry in front of anyone. My family included; it's just weakness, and it strips everything away. Almost like being suddenly naked.

I cried at my Grandma's funeral; that was the last time in public. It was horrendous, because I wasn't expecting to cry and then suddenly the floodgates opened. Someone in a row behind shoved a hanky at me. It was that feeling of being on show, because I was in the front row, and having everyone whisper piteously at me whilst they stuffed themselves with funeral food later, "did you see her granddaughter on the front row? Broke her little heart, she did." I didn't want any pity. I can't remember quite what it was I wanted. I was fourteen.

She cried in front of me once. Not my Grandma, the girl. I'll have to think of a moniker for her; I'm not putting her real name. She felt like she could let the boundaries down I suppose. I didn't quite know what to do in response, aside from tell her that it was fine and hold her hand. That was when we split up. And it was strange because after she said she couldn't see me anymore, we were close like always but it felt more awkward. The word awkward is spelt exactly as it is. Onomatopoeia of a sort, I suppose. She cried because she was missing her Dad, and she needs him such a lot. First Christmas without him she's spending with her family but not in their house. It must be horrible. I want to let her know that I'm thinking of her but I don't know if she will want me to be thinking of her, or if she'll feel crowded if I write. I don't want to make her hate me more or feel bad. I am so glad she doesn't read this. I thank my lucky stars that noone I know reads it. Well, they could be reading it I suppose, but hopefully they wouldn't know it was me.

It won't heal right if you keep tearing out the sutures.

So very true.

I wonder if anyone reads this blog or if they just quickly click past it on a neverending voyeuristic journey? On consideration, I think I would like some comments. I am an attention seeker.

I am feeling bad that I wasn't on time for my Mum though she is never on time for me. Surely I shouldn't feel bad in that case. So I won't. I suppose I don't feel bad, just vaguely annoyed that she made me briefly feel bad when she is so discourteous as to be unpunctual many many times. She said she was "glad I was back safe". I only drove down the motorway to a neighbouring city. Am I that inept that I can't even do that?

I am also feeling fat. Nothing new there. Eating today:

a date and a mini mince pie (85)

A skinny small frappuccino and a salsa chicken wrap from starbucks (450)

Doritos (300)

Raisins and yoghurt (200)

2 dates (40)

I felt angry with her as well. I feel angry a lot today. I think Christmas is getting on my nerves. I felt angry that she pitied me and went out with me as a result. I hate being pitied; I don't want to be that sad and bereft of respect.

I am angry with myself because I'm not doing revising, getting a holiday job or losing weight. And because I just thought of going out before my Dad gets back in, simply because his general mood jarrs with me at the moment. And then I thought, how disgustingly horrid of me to not want to speak to my own father, who is lovely and loves me so much. I love him too, but I don't want to have long learned discussions when I will inevitably feel argumentative, because that is generally the swing of our conversations; I argue or monosyllabically agree. Either way, I feel pretty stupid at the end of them, which is not his aim. It's just that my Mum is so easy to be around, she makes me laugh etc. As is my brother. But my Dad and my sister are far too serious and easily affected- I feel like I can't just be jokingly rude to them as I am to my brother and Mum. They'd take it far to heart, and this is why we're not as close. For example, Dad came in last night and I was writing this. He asked what sort of headphones were on my Ipod, and I said I'd got no idea. He just kept going, "go on, go on, you do know", which made me say "no I don't". And I think it offended him, whereas my brother would just slump off and call me fatty or something.

Essential factors in happiness.

I think there are seven pillars in recognised psychology that are a route to being happy, or adequately satisfied (the first being food, the second is a home and it goes on). So I decided, because I am arrogant, that I would list my five factors for happiness.

1. Knowledge.
Knowledge is power, because if you know more than everyone else then you feel above them. It's a fact of life. Knowledge opens doors to rebellion, powerful positions... everything. That is why I like books so much. They are a path to knowledge, and as such a door opener.

2. Good Health.
Vital for enjoyment of life. Noone who is ill or unhealthy gleans the most, they just don't have the necessary energy. Ask Stephen Hawking; he might be living, but I bet he'd love to have his health back.

3. Confidence.
People are pretty useless without confidence in themselves and their own beliefs; you might know a hell of a lot, but if you don't trust your own opinions of it it's as much use to you as the proverbial fish and bicycle.

4. People.
Not just to be surrounded by people, but to be surrounded by people you like and can interact with because you choose to, not just because you are forced to. Humans are social animals and need contact, or we wouldn't be able to practise any of the above skills and we'd wither away.

5. A stimulating environment
This can be work related, or sport related, or even in the way that you have to negotiate people you don't like. If we never had challenges, we wouldn't know how good life could be when good stuff finally came along.

Music is pretty important as well. As are the feeling that you're providing for yourself, freedom from physical abuse and freedom in general to do what you like without hurting anyone. Also, no debt. Being in debt can ruin your life.

But what doesn't make you happy are having a lot of material posessions, thinking you're a lot worse than anyone else or thinking you're a lot better than anyone else. Too many secrets. Feeling the need to display your power. Kidding yourself that all five of those in your life are fulfilled when they are not, and refusing to acknowledge the void. And things that I do that won't make me happy are buying into the idea that skinniness will make me happy. Self confidence will make me happy. I need knowledge and self confidence. I know that being thin won't make me happy, but somehow I just can't reconcile it with that desire in me to be thin. And hankering after her definitely won't make me happy, I should just reconcile myself to being friends. But I am having difficulty with that as well.