Wednesday, 9 January 2019

Hoola-anuary is officially over...

Well, one week into the New Year, and I‘ve lost a stone, sorted out my finances, and have organised play dates for the kids from now until forever.

Said no-one.

None of my clothes fit.

Not in an, ‘oooh that’s a bit snug after too many mince pies’, kind of way. I’m talking eye-wateringly tight jeans and tops that give you a mono-boob and stop the circulation to your lower arms.

When talking about getting fit this year, I’d happened to mentioned to my husband that I was good at hoola hooping.

Well, what I actually said, after several glasses of fizz, was that I was ‘fucking incredible’ at hoola hooping.

It was one of the skills I acquired in my early 20’s, along with twat wrapping (the art of wrapping embroidery thread around a tight plait in someone’s hair and charging a quid an inch) and fire eating.

These are all clearly life-skills that we’re essential in the 90s.

Anyway, fast-forward a few days from my show off conversation and the postman delivers this.




I wish I’d said I was fucking incredible at wearing Dior, or going out for posh dinners, but there you go.

I guess it’s good to be heard sometimes in a house full of loud children, even if it is to request a bloody hoola hoop.

It turns up, and there’s a picture of a girl two-thirds my age on the box. Give me a few weeks and I’m going to look just like her.

So I slot it together. It’s weighted. Like actually heavy. But if that pre-teen on the box can do it, I, a woman who has birthed two children, should be more than capable.

I give it a go.

Now. I have never been repeatedly hit in the stomach, but if I had, this is how I imagine it would feel.

The weights twatted me in the gut every time the hoop swung around.

Undeterred, I kept focus. Managing to keep it going for ten rotations. Then twenty. Finally ending up in a knackered heap after getting the bloody thing to swing round thirty times.

The next morning I woke up feeling like I’d taken on Mike Tyson, and on further inspection I realised I was covered in bruises.

Actual hoola hooping injuries.


This was meant to be an easy way to lose two stone without having to leave the house or turning off Coronation Street.

And I’m walking around like I’ve had a hip replacement. I’m sure this didn’t happen when I was hoola hooping at raves in 1998.

And to make matters worse, it turns out hoola hooping only really makes a difference if you do it everyday for a minimum of half an hour. HALF AN HOUR? Are you shitting me?

It only burns off 7 calories a minute, and I’ve been doing it for an average of three minutes a day.

21 calories.

That’s not even a cup of tea.

I give up.

Hoola-anuary is officially over.








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