There’s a new word for weight gained in lockdown
Would you like to know the brand spanking new word for weight gained during lockdown? Of course you would. It’s “coronaspeck”. The German word roughly translates as “corona fat”, or the infinitely more appealing “corona bacon”. Who doesn’t like bacon? I fear I have fallen victim to both liking and gaining bacon over the course of these past months, and god knows I was already fairly well upholstered – “Business Class-assed”, as comedian Tina Fey once put it.
In a conversation one could only really be having during these “unprecedented times”, I pointed out my extra hippage to my husband and remarked that I would indeed taste good sizzled up in a pan. A keen chef, he immediately observed that I would taste better rubbed in salt and spices and cooked whole, nice and slow on a low heat, for that melt in the mouth experience. Well. I’ll take it as a compliment. But still, the panicked G&Ts “to take the edge off the day” and the mindless munching of crisps while gazing out of the kitchen window wondering where my life has gone has undoubtedly resulted in my jeans somehow getting smaller. Which is why I’m not wearing them anymore.
Back in March, life was very different for me. I had just started what I fear is to become the shortest glittering West End career on record. I was a mere fortnight in to a four-month stint in the brilliant musical Everybody’s Talking About Jamie! and I was certainly feeling the benefit of literally dancing my arse off every night, and twice on Wednesdays and Saturdays. My alcohol consumption had dropped to pre-puberty levels overnight. I felt good.
Then, on 16 March, we were all sent home. The show was over, for now at least, and nobody is sure when it is coming back. Luckily I had a book to write, so had some work to concentrate on, but this was not going to help my fitness. It was back to sitting down all day, grazing on meaningless food that never fills me up and trying to make my deadline.
I couldn’t go swimming; I couldn’t go to the gym; I could only sit and stare at my screen. And that’s without the additional childcare: I found I simply couldn’t play a single further game of Paw Patrol meets the dinosaurs (and Batman, if he’s around) without rewarding myself with chocolate. So I am the not-veryproud owner of 6lbs of corona bacon. It needs to come off, along with a bit more besides.
Mary Poppins tells Jane and Michael Banks that ‘enough is as good as a feast’. Can it possibly be true? I resolve to put it to the test over the next eight weeks
I don’t think I’m alone in this. The government, at least, certainly doesn’t think I’m alone, after it launched a new initiative to help us all get our waistlines under control. Boris Johnson is the figurehead of the campaign, in so much as he has reduced his own figure, and he has a new zeal to get Britain to lose some weight ahead of the predicted second wave of Covid-19 infections this winter. It is said you stand more of a chance of surviving if you are a leaner cut. A pork medallion perhaps, with a lovely cream sauce and... no, stop thinking about food.
There is no doubt that feeling fit is a far preferable state to feeling unfit. I have been both, and I know which gives me more joy, energy and bounce. But feeling fit is not always the same thing as looking thin, and it’s not helpful to always lump the two together. You could probably fit two Kylie Minogues into one leg of my Jamie costume, but there was no doubt I was fit for the job while it lasted.
That said, I also know when I’m not comfortable in myself. Everybody does, and everybody has their own limit. And I’ve no doubt that recently many of us have, if not exactly shot past that limit – that would require too much energy – but certainly drifted further away from it on a gentle but insistent current of cakes and wine. Shifting some unwanted pounds gained amid the baking frenzy and getting the muscles moving again is, I can now see, an essential part of the leaving lockdown process.
The book I have been writing, Practically Perfect: Life Lessons from Mary Poppins, is now complete, signed off, and ready for publication in autumn, so I have absolutely no excuse to remain on my bum indefinitely. I need to face my lack of fitness with renewed vigour, and get the blood pumping again. I need to eat a
handful of nuts as a snack and try to enjoy it.
Mary Poppins tells Jane and Michael Banks that “enough is as good as a feast”. Can it possibly be true? I resolve to put it to the test over the next eight weeks, and not keep shovelling junk in as a way to assuage boredom and anxiety. Coronaspeck be damned: we need a new word to describe a sense of optimism and energy that will get us out of this. I’m sure the Germans will be along with one shortly.