Big vs small

While out running with a small group of school mums the other night I realised that being thin is definitely a perception of the mind rather than a state of the body.

Bemoaning my marathon donut eating session earlier in the week, I managed to pant out that I needed to burn off a few calories. Immediately, all my fellow runners poo-pooed this and commented on my trimness, slender figure, thin frame etc etc...

Now, I am not dillusional and I can be honest with myself without being overharsh, but waif-like and slim I certainly am not (any more!) As my Bike Boy lovingly puts it, I definitely 'fill my trousers' and some more! But, looking around me, I realised that out of the 6 or 7 of us running, I WAS the slimmest one. For one small split second of a nano-second I was an object of envy, an inspiration, an aspiration...and it felt good. At that moment, perception became reality and for the first time in a long time I felt good about my body.

(Totally unrelated but very coincidental, I had a strange call the very next morning which turned out to be a model scout for Vogue Russia. Had news of my new supermodel thinness spread that fast and that far, I wondered? How we laughed when I told her I was nearly 40, had two kids and worked in marketing {and could just about squeeze into a size 12 on a good day - yes, that's right dear, a 12 not a 2...} Definitely a wrong number.)

This new house is very big - so much bigger than the London house that I feel a little lost in it. Whereas in the old house, on my days off, I'd get up and go into autodrive so that the house was put into order fairly quickly and with minimal fuss, now I am paralysed by the thought of the mammoth task ahead. The kitchen is the heart of this home with its open-plan layout and gorgeous view out to the garden, so I always start there to build the necessary momentum needed to tackle the rest of the house. No joy. Firstly, there's a telly in there, and I can be distracted by any old crap because secondly, there's an aga in there as well, and to loll on the aga with a cup of tea watching any old crap is really, really relaxing. Until Cheeky appears and in order to avoid his demands to build him something, play something with him, read to him or take him to the park, I have to galvinise myself back into cleaning up mode before I get distracted and it doesn't get done (again). In our smaller house in London, I wouldn't have had to put him off. I'd have been finished by now and we'd be off doing something, with someone, somewhere, as usual in our busy, busy day.

Something tells me I'm lonely in this big house, in this new town. I've never dwelled and dithered over housework so much in my life, but with nothing to do, noone to meet and nowhere to go, it helps pass the time.