Saturday was sunny all day. We had two brilliant walks, a huge mid-day nap and I had both a lovely morning “get-me-going” spa and an equally sensuous late afternoon spa as well. I snacked more than usual and went to bed very, very relaxed.
In the evening, I binge watched Britain’s Best Home Cook, a television competition reality show, and I loved it. As with the Great British Bake Off, the success of the program lies in the personalities of the competitors. I develop virtual crushes on many of them because I share with them their passion for cooking and baking.
When Tobi, a tall man from Nigeria, was eliminated. I was gutted; I was brought to tears because he is such a wonderfully kind and talented man. I’ll watch more today, and do lots of reading.
Today’s damp and cold. I lit the fire as soon as I got up—and no wonder: It’s only four degrees outside! It’s predicted to rain, but I see only blue sky and sunlight turning a single wispy cloud a lovely pink. Still, I’ll spend a lovely day with my book by the fire.
And quell surprise: I weighed myself this morning; I’ve reached one seventy-four. Four more pounds and I bake something fabulous and sweet to eat. Through this whole process, what I’ll never forget was the despair I felt for eight or nine days when my weight was stuck at one ninety-three.
The biggest take-away of the diet is my passion for nude salad—salad with no dressing. I dice Cucumber, Tomatoes, Green Pepper, Purple Onion, Feta cheese and Avocado. I go heavy on the cheese and I enjoy a bowl of it as much as I once loved eating cake or pie. Avocado is my new drug of choice.
I’m going shopping later and Her Highness and I will take a nice long walk whilst it’s still dry, in case the prognosticators are correct.
Today, as I have each of the past few days, I’ll be checking in on my Gardenias. There are four buds about to bloom on plants in whom I’d lost faith. They appeared to be dying, so I transplanted them into my edible garden where there’s more sunshine. I did that in July—not an ideal time to transplant—and hoped for the best. And it worked fabulously.
I’m giddy about that. I don’t use any pesticides; I try never to kill any living thing. I don’t have mothballs or flypaper, I keep my cats indoors and I don’t even pick flowers for my interiors, so saving the Gardenias has brought me wonderful relief.
(I’m such a pussy, I bawled to see two dead Pheasants on the Britain’s Best Home Cook when they visited a contestant’s farm. He was so proud of his cooking with ingredients he raises or hunts himself, and I shared his pride, but when he held up the two Pheasants with all their gorgeous feathers, it killed me.)