Younger in the field

Eve Jones is shocked to find the wet winter has resulted in extreme cases of winter padding in the Jones household and sets about regaining waistlines

LAST month, I took Dotty the terrier to be stripped. She had got to the point that she looked like a mangled mophead with teeth, and even she was embarrassed. I left her in the dog-dresser for an hour and a half for a strip and general dog-type pamper, but when I came back I had a shock. I was aware she may have had a little bit of winter padding but once the rat’s nest had been removed, I was left with what looked like a furry beer barrel on matchsticks. She was fat. Properly fat. Rolls around the elbows, I’ma-bad-dog-owner fat. Mr D was outraged. How is she so fat? What have you fed her? As if I’ve been pumping her full of Border terrier foie gras. The simple fact is she’s spent the majority of the winter lying down, looking at the rain outside and thinking, “Sod this for a game of soldiers” while still eating her grub. The simple fact is, if you look round our household, we all wintered well, all with distinct touches of ‘the Dottys’.

I’m one of life’s waistband yo-yoers. When I left a full-time office job, I realised 45-hour weeks sitting in front of a computer had not been generous – or, rather, had been overly generous to my figure. After seven sedentary years, my naturally sturdy thighs were now thunderingly robust and my normally sizeable backside was so sizable that it could only fit into about 40% of my clothes — the ones made with Lycra. I had succumbed to the curse of every office: the communal filing cabinet/desk/ table that acts as a plinth for cakes, chocolate, digestives and such, usually on route to the printer. I was ending each inert day having felled a small rainforest and eaten an annual sugar quota in one hit. At Tatler, there were extensive temptations. A glut of page-spacehungry PRS sent us treats each day – artisan chocolates, macaroons, posh popcorn — piles of the stuff. The features team befriended a Krispy Kreme PR, which led to ‘Krispy Kreme Fridays’. After a particularly messy work party, KFC even delivered free buckets of fried chicken to help with the hangovers. Not entirely surprising, I was creaking at the seams by the time I left the magazine.

Funnily enough, eating a few extra thousand calories less a day quickly helps the waistline, and a daily exercise DVD by an intensely irritating but effective American bird — shouting things like, “I want you to feel like you’re going TO DIE” — got things under control. Unfortunately, the self-employed cheapskate’s diet of carrots and hummus for lunch and cornflakes or eggs for supper doesn’t cut the mustard when cooking for two. Dinners for Mr D coincided with invitations to elevenses-heavy shooting weekends and general supping of syrupy hipflasks, so I’m back on the path to resemble a female Mr Jorrocks. I tried to pull on the pair of breeches I was wearing the day Mr D and I met, and I’ve had since I was 15. A seam that runs up the back of each thigh and around my bottom on a good day is barely visible. Currently it’s so tight, I resemble a multi-limbed mutant with four canteloupe melons down her pants. I suspect if they took a mounted outing, we’d have a Fenella Maxwell-sharkskin-breeches situation on our hands.

Some people implied winter padding is due to being ‘comfortable’ in a relationship.

That phrase alone makes me queasier than a set of sit-ups, but if you look at Mr D, Dotty and me, there may be a whisper of truth. In an effort to address the bad habits, I joined the local gym and signed up for classes. It is quite clear the Monday Power Hour ladies and gents haven’t spent their winters on bi-weekly sloe gin sessions followed by hunt supper, cake and sandwiches. Primarily in their sixties, they come 20 minutes early for a burn on the cross trainer before bounding into class and jogging on the spot. We mostly arrive late, then lollop about grunting and sweating. The women — lithe and immaculate — spring gayly about. When burpees and squat-thrust reps finish, they say, “Ohhh, that was fun,” and add in a few extra while we have our heads between our legs to stop ourselves vomiting. Thankfully, there are a few doleful husbands who have been dragged along and creak as loudly as we do. They shoot sympathetic looks when, instead of planking for 45 seconds, I lie face down on the mat, hoping I might die before the instructor tells me to get on with it.

Walking the dogs each day, I started monitoring my steps enthusiastically. It’s less motivational, when you realise hunting hoicks up your weekly average considerably. Remove the two spikes of 30,000 rising trots and you realise quite what a sloth you are. As a last resort, I’m running with Mr D and the dogs in the morning, dubiously, as he is an ex-triathlon and Iron Man competitor, whereas I run with the style of a hippo in spandex. He’s got one of those watches that tells you how far you’ve run and how quickly. It’s meant to encourage you, but mostly highlights how slow I am, which, teamed with the fact that Dotty is rapidly regaining her figure while I am rotundly plateauing, is slightly uninspiring.

Still, I am persevering. I’ve decided it’s all about focus and goals, so have adopted some new techniques. If I focus hard on Mr D’s bottom in front of me, it’s excellent for keeping up pace. Now the hip flask is away and summer is on its way, I’m aiming for less hippo, more whippet to follow Dotty’s weightloss results. Positive mental attitude, I’m sure it’s going to work — I can practically hear the congratulatory rosé on ice tinkling…

Dotty the terrier was fat, properly fat. Rolls around the elbows, I’m-a-bad-dog-owner fat