The Slimming World Saga

by MissT

I joined Slimming World
thinking I’d emerge a goddess,
glide past the scales
like a reborn woman
powered by speed veg
and the smug glow of free food.

Instead I’m here counting syns
like an accountant in crisis,
whispering bargains
with a Curly Wurly
as if it’s a demon I could bribe.

I’m frying mushrooms
with the passion of someone
who once had a love affair with chips,
stirring pasta like I’m serving time,
and declaring—daily
that fat-free yoghurt
“isn’t that bad”
while my soul quietly packs its bags.

Ant’s stomping round the kitchen,
hollow-eyed, tragic,
a Victorian orphan reincarnated,
complaining about portions,
openly sniffing the spice rack
for calories,
googling “how many syns in despair,”
and asking—far too often
whether dog biscuits are “on plan.”

The weather turns cold
and we become dragons,
snarling at the fridge,
guarding bread like treasure
from ancient folklore,
and holding heated discussions
about who ate the last egg
as if we are UN negotiators
on the brink of war.

Still, every week I go back
take a breath, step on,
await the verdict.
Half a pound down.
A pound up.
Someone else claps for losing four stone
and I clap too,
through clenched teeth
and the faint smell of burnt mushrooms.

Because underneath the cravings,
the omelettes, the protein bars
that taste like punishment,
beneath yesterday’s guilt
and tomorrow’s wild hope,
there’s a woman rising
lighter maybe,
stronger definitely,
too stubborn to quit
and too skint to buy bigger jeans.

Slimming World hasn’t broken me yet.
But if it does,
I’ll die counting syns,
shaking a bag of speed veg,
and insisting this tired old body
is still destined
to be a masterpiece
or at least a slightly improved prototype.