In Person

The Secret Diary of Amy White

Our resident diarist, Amy White, shares her thoughts on styling the rich and famous, motherhood and why asking women if they’re pregnant at Weight Watchers is never a good idea.

18/03/2012 @ 19:12

FEBRUARY 15
 
Seven weeks into 2012 and I had my first client today. No one wants styling in January because they’re all detoxing with weird green drinks at home. Met client outside Zara where she eyed me up and down.
"You look like you enjoyed Christmas," she said.
“And January,” she added, smiling sweetly.
She thinks she looks like Kelly Brook since she lost four stone and I started dressing her in clothes that weren’t bought by her maiden aunt. In fact she looks more like Kelly’s older, fatter sister. In fact before I got my hands on her she got mistaken for a man on more than one occasion.
Still it’s mortifying. I must do something about this muffin top before it turns into a full-scale cake sale. 

 

FEBRUARY 18
 
Thinking Weight Watchers is the way to go. Should have started in January with the rest of the world but still had boxes of chocolates to finish and anyway I thought the ski holiday would sort me out. Snow is a well-known fat burner. The Husband said I wouldn’t burn 5,000 calories a day sitting in the jacuzzi and that I actually needed to get on the slopes. I proved him wrong. I ate tons of steak and chocolate and I still lost five pounds – at least that’s what the scales at the resort told me.
When I got back I felt much thinner but I couldn’t button up my 7 For All Mankind jeans. At first I thought I’d gained muscle wading through all that snow from the lodge to the restaurant but I’ve noticed The Husband keeps moving crisps out my way and the teenager keeps hiding the chocolates.

 

Diets I’ve considered are:
 
Dukan – Trendy with my clients since the Middleton clan are known followers. Would quite like Pippa’s bum so I was tempted until I found the following… 
1. No alcohol. None. Zilch. Zero. I have a toddler, a teenager, a husband and a stressful job (well I think it’s stressful, the teenager says I play Barbie every day) and I simply couldn’t get by without my nightly champers.
2. Protein = stinky breath. Not good for close proximity, which is a vital part of my job. Especially when I’m yanking dresses over the hips of my more delusional clients who insist they are still a size 8 despite all evidence to the contrary.
3. The food. An example of which is cottage cheese, which looks like little lumps of yeast infection. Yuck.
Scarsdale diet – No blimmin alcohol.
The Zone – Urgh no alcohol again. How am I supposed to lose weight if I can’t enjoy my lunchtime gin and tonic?
The blood group diet – Don’t know my blood group.
Slimfast – Tried this before but ended up drinking milkshake with lunch when, apparently, I was supposed to have it instead of lunch.
Definitely Weight Watchers. I found a meeting. I’m going tomorrow. 

 

FEBRUARY 19
 
It didn't quite go to plan.
So there I was queuing up alone (thanks to Susie who promised to come but bailed at the last minute saying that her dog was depressed and she had to take him to the vet) and I overheard two women chatting behind me. One was blond, plump and short and the other was brunette, slim, but with a very rounded tummy.
“Well I need to lose half a stone to fit into the Dolce number,” the blonde said proudly.
Once they’d mentioned Dolce I couldn’t help myself and started suggesting places for them to find fabulous dresses. They were really happy to have my input until I turned to the brunette and asked, “So when’s it due?”
“Pardon?” She looked confused
“The baby, when’s it due? The reason I ask is that I brought all my maternity clothes online…” I continued until I saw the look on her face.
“I’m not pregnant,” she said through gritted teeth.
“When’s yours due?” she added quietly, her gaze lingering on my stomach.
“I didn’t mean you looked pregnant, it’s just you looked too small to be here. I thought you were supporting her.”
I turned to the blonde whose face was quickly turning a shade of crimson that didn’t match her yellow dress. I stuttered an apology but they both ignored me, which I think is really quite rude. Then they turned away and started talking loudly about how rude it was to butt into people’s conversations.
When I finally got to the scales I was quite flustered but the leader, who introduced herself as Nancy, put me at ease by smiling and talking as one does to a child; calmly, slowly using simple language. She looked a bit miffed when I gave her my Miu Miu handbag, coat and phone to hold but she recovered nicely just as I took my shoes off and popped them on top of the pile. Her face was slightly obscured but I figured she was probably grateful. The alternative view was a room full of porkers.
I stepped on the scales and heard this huge scream, which I was told later came from me.
“These scales are wrong,” I screeched. Well I didn’t think I was screeching until Nancy asked me to calm down. Apparently the scales were not wrong.
“I’ve gained ten pounds in a month.” I was sobbing but that didn’t stop the blond bitch behind me piping up,
“That’s one large baby sweetheart.”
“How much do you want to lose?” Nancy asked, her smile looking ever more plastered on.
“I’m suing Chateau Chateau for this.”
“Shall we say…?” Nancy started.
“Fine two and a half stone.”
Her smile wilted. “You don’t need to lose two and a half stone. You’re already in your healthy weight range so the most you can lose is a stone though I don’t advise it because that takes you down to the lower end of your healthy weight.”
After a long discussion about BMI that started with me explaining how I wasn’t even sure it was an accurate way to measure weight I concluded that a stone would have to do. Nancy insisted I stay for the “talk” but then asked me to leave when I took a phone call as she was harping on about the fat content of a pork pie. Apparently having a conversation with my hairdresser is rude. I think its rude interrupting someone when they’re about to find out if Marco really did shave a heart into his Chihuahua’s fur.
When I got home my smarty-pants daughter scoffed, “Mum, you’re pure embarrassment, do you know that?” Then my husband chipped in. “Who asks someone at Weight Watchers if they’re pregnant?” He shook his head in bemusement.
They both concluded that I am in fact very stupid.  
Still I’m going back next week.