Weeks 28 to 30…in which I do battle with the voice in my head (Aussie edition)

 

Just back from 3 weeks in Australia. That’s three weeks of this…

And three weeks of this…

*sigh*

It was a work whirlwind (I tend to work very long days when in Sydney because the UK comes on line around 6.30pm and as my family are sleeping 10,000 miles away I can indulge my workaholic tendencies guilt free). I delivered a couple of lectures on how the C Word can unlock your superpowers (different blog entirely) and one of the topics I talked about is how your inner voice can be your protector, by stopping you doing something really fucking ridiculous, but also your personal saboteur, undermining you by telling you that you’ll fail / you’re not worthy / you’re not good enough/ you’re faking it/ it’s ok to go back to bed and hide under the duvet with a huge bag of salted popcorn.

I call my inner voice Mildred. She’s an orangutan and looks like this.

Mildred is fiercely protective of me, she can talk sense into me in those moments when I’m about to do something stupid that might cause me significant pain – she once stopped me from agreeing to camp in a tent for a week – but she’s also a miserable, lazy, cynical, sarcastic, quick to anger old bag who hates to take risks (which means we argue A LOT) and she has the murderous appetite of, well, an orangutan. She’s HUGE, and doesn’t give a shit, so we’re in constant conflict over my health.

I find she’s strongest when I’m tired, lonely and in need of a hug. In all honesty I battled with her for the entire trip.

Mildred ‘Go on, EAT IT, you can gorge a little, people are telling you that you look great, you’ve lost almost three stone’

Me ‘shut up you bitch!!’

Mildred ‘but I’m only thinking of you, you can take it easy for a bit, reward yourself, you need the energy, and Cherry Ripe really is the best chocolate in Australia’

Me ‘OK then’

I’m not proud of this.

And on things I’m not proud of I need to talk about UberEats. Apparently I’m late to this particular party. I was totally unaware of the fact that it’s been available in London for ages and discovered it for the first time on this trip, in Sydney. I’d come home late with my temporary house mate Emma, after a particularly hectic day during which I’d forgotten to eat lunch. I was hungry. Actually more than hungry, more like almost prepared to eat cat food rather than wait for the time it takes to cook something kind of hungry. We had nothing in the fridge to snack on except green vegetables (see last blog), and neither of us could face going to a restaurant (I was in my dressing gown within 2 minutes of getting through the front door). ‘It’s ok’ said Emma, ‘we’ll get something delivered’. I was reluctant. I’m not a fan of take away food.  Even though I was starving I couldn’t face soggy Chinese take away or an Indian curry in a plastic carton with 4 pieces of meat in a litre of sauce. In fact Mildred wanted Chicken. Crispy southern fried chicken. And NOTHING ELSE WAS GONNA CUT IT.

Emma loves me, and fearful of Mildred ripping her arm off if we didn’t eat soon, she went to work. Cue UberEats. This inexplicably glorious service enabled us, at the tap of an app, to order from a selection of no less than 114 restaurants that would deliver straight to our door within 20 minutes…on an Uber bike. It wasn’t cheap – the equivalent of £40 (my local Chinese take away in Newbury will deliver a BANQUET for 18 quid) – but it was worth every single penny.

While I was inhaling the best, hot, crispy, fried chicken I’ve ever tasted I found myself wondering who created this incredible service. Seriously, who comes up with an idea like that? I settled on a choice of two. It was either a 20 something, fit by day, geek by night, introverted foodie who wants to eat alone watching Netflix or a 40 plus overworked, overpaid parent who’s guilty pleasure was to eat amazing food at 10pm after the kids had gone to sleep to remind themselves of the days when they had the energy, time and friends to share a leisurely dinner out at a favourite restaurant.

Either way, that night, I would have happily married them.

Outcome: Didn’t lose a pound, but didn’t put on any either. Mildred didn’t win, it was a draw.

P.S. I’ve rediscovered my cheekbones…and a jaw line. So fuck you Mildred.