Thin

Thank you Doctor Atkins. After but a week on your marvellous diet, I've lost two kilograms. And can fit back into a whole range of trousers, leaving behind those pesky "emergency jeans".

The Atkins diet is a wonderful thing. In moderation. I first went on it years ago, before it was really a fashionable thing. In those days it was just an idea of Paul, my bloody fascist of a personal trainer. Of course, his version turns out to be far more sensible than Dr A's - Paul leaves in the coffee, the vegetables, and, most importantly, custard.

This time around, I went even more relaxed. I left in the booze. You see, vodka has no carbs, according to a Reknowned Dieting Authorities (Two secretarial types with pink shoes on the tube). So the last fortnight has been a haze of bacon and booze. It's been bliss. Also, hence the lack of updates. Who cares when there's fun to be had with meat?

The problem with the Atkins diet is the sheer quantity of Very Boring Urban Myths it has around it:

1) "You go mad."

2) "You start to smell of broccoli." (Yeah, but, um, does broccoli even have a smell?)

3) "I know someone who ate a vegetable on the Atkins diet and exploded."

4) "I know someone who wore pale blue trousers on the Atkins diet and she shat herself in front of Maggie Smith."

I haven't made up Urban Myth Number 4. People are scary. And Maggie Smith is scarier.