I’d like to begin today's blog entry by offering my sincerest apologies to the commuters on the 10:11 East Mids Train service to Bedford. Calling at Wellingborough, Kettering, Steph’s Booty and Bedford. And to satisfy any curiosity you may have, this is what I look like from the front. ——>

Had you had the opportunity to actually identify my face you would have witnessed the horror that I attempted to disguise as nonchalance, but my blushes would have given the game away. It was indecent, I know, and I am so sorry. However the exposure of my arse is an extremely infrequent occurrence and I can assure you all that it will *not be happening again. 

If it might be of any consolation to you, I’d like you to know that, my bottom, contrary to the eyeful you got this morning, was once one of my worthiest assets.

Indeed twas in fact the bearer of one of the most prestigious awards I’ve ever won. You see, ladies and gents, what you saw this morning, that sort of resembled a Belgium bun, was actually once awarded the title of Brannigans Bar’s ‘Rear of the Year!’ (in 2002 I think?! Either way it was a million moons ago. Ooops, pardon the pun!)

Yup! So really, if you think about it, you’re kinda lucky you got a quick flash for free. ;-)

Of course it isn’t often that my derriere gets to see the light of day. Not since it tried to battle gravity and sort of lost a bit. But today it seemed that my trusty butt fancied a cheeky glimpse of the outside world, so it took it’s chances, waited for a bit of wind, (not THAT kind of wind!) and escaped out of my flappy shorts.

Unfortunately, at that precise moment in time I had found myself trying to negotiate my way out of a mud puddle, (gimme a pair of heels and I can strut across the globe any-day, but put me in flats and I’m pretty much useless.)

My trainers squelching, my arms stretched out for balance and my face raspberry-red and sweaty. And that’s when the wind blew. And that’s when the train passed. And that’s when I decided to buy some nicer pants. (Oh and ensure I always, always include my bottom when slapping on the fake tan from now on.)

I’m not sure about weight, but I always manage to lose my dignity whenever I exercise.

Alas I have little choice at the moment. Not since it became very apparent that I have been carting evidence of some of my passions on my hips. I’m not kidding. It’s all there. All that sugar from when I replaced my nicotine habit with chocolate instead, all the yummy bread from my bread-making escapades, the extra wobbly bits from spending too long sat writing my book, the baby weight from my delicious babies (I didn’t eat them, you understand! (Though babies were about the only thing I didn’t eat whilst carrying my children.)) And now, much like Shakira’s, my hips are most definitely not lying.

And so, modesty intact or not, I’m on a mission to find that inner goddess (I didn’t eat her either, in case you were wondering,) and bring my sexy back. Yeah. (Did I mention, by the way, that Justin Timberlake is actually my other husband?! Yep. It’s true. Just thought that you should know.)

Of course the exposure of my arse isn’t the only tale I have to share with you on the topic of my new fitness regime, I have lots and lots to tell. But you’re gonna have to wait, because my bottom and I have already spent far too long sitting at the laptop for one night. ;-)

Steph x

* Unless under the influence of lots of alcohol / being paid ridiculous amounts of money / becomming so skinny that my trousers accidentally fall down lots.  
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If your body really is a temple then mine isn't exactly what you'd call 'architecturally outstanding'.




I think it's safe to say that the Taj Mahal I am not, (though I am similar to the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant down the road, in that I am full of yummy takeaway food.)




I am no longer carrying around a real baby in my bod, but instead seem to have unknowingly adopted a jelly baby in his place, it's not a pretty sight. And since this weeks marks the week of my post-natal check up, and thus means I am officially a 'normal' woman again, I figured that right now is where my temple reconstruction should begin. So hard-hats at the ready please folks, cos this could be dangerous.




Of course the simplest and easiest way of getting back into shape and looking a million dollars is, as everyone knows, to apply to be on 'Extreme Makeover.' To have ones imperfections carefully perfected by the surgeons knife, courtesy of the lovely people at LivingTV. Naturally this is at the top of my to-do list, but on the odd chance that they don't pick me I'm gonna begin the journey by taking the old fashioned route, diet (yawn) and exercise.




This is not gonna be an easy feat for a gal like me. I love food. I love to cook. And most of all I love to eat. And I eat all the naughty stuff too, like pasta and bread and chocolate. If it's even slightly sinful I'll have it. Mealtimes are a big deal in this household, I cook, Lori lays the table, together we eat and usually watch an episode of, 'Come Dine With Me,' whilst we enjoy our grub, then Jay washes up. It's a ritual we've always enjoyed and would love to continue. Nope, as much as I'd love to, I don't think I'll ever be one of those, 'just a stick of celery and a bit of carrot please,' kinda girls.




Exercise, on the other hand, should be fine. In theory. In practise however I appear to lose more dignity than actual weight.




The other morning, for example, whilst exercising my hands with the wonders of the Sky+ remote (which i very rarely get to hold since it is almost always attached to my husband,) I stumbled upon the 'FitnessTV' channel where I found a whole array of workouts and programmes including one, seemingly produced specifically for me, called, 'The High Heeled Workout.'




Within minutes I had kicked off my slippers and stepped into my very beautiful Roland Cartier stilettos and I was shaking my hips and strutting my stuff in my living room-come-dance studio with 'Natalie' as my very own personal dance instructor.




About a half hour in, with my glass of water in hand and my butt giving Beyonce a run for her money, I found myself getting a little hot and thus slipped off my t-shirt so that I was down to my bra, pj bottoms and heels. Of course this was the moment that the postie decided to cycle right past the living room window and (rather rudely) peer in. Oh the shame.




Still I shall not be defeated by the embarrassment that my exercise regimes seem to induce, (click here for a reminder of my running escapades, - am I the only one that can't perform physical activities without making a fool of herself?!) - I am keeping my head held high, (after all tis my head that's the only part to date that I can hold up high and that has not been defeated by gravity.)




I've noticed lately that I'm not the only one that's watching her weight, lots of my Facebook pals and fellow new mummies are also fighting the fat from what I can gather. Now that we have our babes in arms it's time to get our bods back and we are determined women, (after all we have survived the wonders of pregnancy and child-birth, so what's a little dieting?!) together we can do anything ;-)




I've mentioned before that one of my er 'hobbies,' if you will is, (and i say this with slightly shame at the sadness of it,) making lists. I write lists all day long. To-do lists, shopping lists, wish lists, lists of clothes I'm taking when i go on holiday etc. And I'm thrilled therefore to have stumbled upon a site that will combine both my love for lists and indeed my new temple reconstruction. It's called, Fitday and it' a website for tracking ones weight, diet, exercise regime and even moods. I've been using it for the past three days now and every day before bed I've been logging a list of absolutely every* calorie I've consumed during that day, as well as every form of physical activity I've performed. (* when I say 'every' I obviously discount the odd sneaky bite of chocolate, since that doesn't count – chocolate is good for you, it's a scientific fact. I think.) Tis a very useful website, I'd definitely recommend it if you're also about to embark in a reconstruction of your own temple.




I imagine this could take a little while, (after 14 months of pregnancy it's bound to be a bit of a mission,) alas I am determined to have the bod I once had.




Temple or no temple, either way it deserves to be worshiped ;-) Now . . . Where's Mr. Connolly with that massaged he promised me . . . ?




Steph x

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