Blondie Ambition

My sister sent me a link to a blondie recipe the other day, and I was intrigued enough about it to feel the need to put on my amateur food blogger's cap. (It's a bit like a chef's toque, but comes with a long feather plume splashed with toner ink, looks a bit rumpled as is befitting amateur status, and is, of course, completely imaginary. The Emperor's New Amateur Food Blogger's Cap.)

:: settles TENAFBC on head a là Sheldon and his thinking cap in TBBT ::

Why this blondie recipe, and not any of the other blondie recipes I've bookmarked to date? The main ingredient caught me: chickpeas. Or garbanzo beans for anyone of an Over-The-Pond persuasion. A staple of many main meals and savoury snacks, but not one I'd seen in anything sweet before. But what can I say, I had a can in my food cupboard and all the other necessary ingredients of the recipe just sitting there, so I thought I'd give it a go, knowing that even if it was a culinary disaster that I'd probably eat it anyway.

And I wonder why I haven't reached a size ten yet...

Flourless Chocolate Chip Chickpea Blondies with Sea-Salt from Ambition Kitchen.

You need: 

1 (425g or 15 oz.) can chickpeas, rinsed and drained (I used peas very close in consistency to chickies).

125g or 1/2 cup peanut butter, almond butter, or your favourite nut butter (I used peanut butter).

113g or 1/3 cup maple syrup, honey or agave nectar (I used honey).

2 tsps vanilla extract.

½ tsp salt.

¼ tsp baking powder.

¼ tsp baking soda.

60g or ⅓ cup semisweet chocolate chips + 2 tbs extra for topping.

sea salt for sprinkling on top.

This is a very quick batter to make up, so I recommend following the recipe and preheating your oven to 175C or 350F right from the get-go because there's not going to be much in the way of hanging around waiting for a too-warm cookie batter to cool, or shortbread logs to set, so finally (finally!) no being asked to waste electricity for a couple of hours keeping an oven at optimum toastiness while you go through a long and convoluted creative sequence involving multiple ingredients, using complicated ‘time-saving' appliances.

(Don't worry, if I ever get to a place in my life where I have access to a full-sized oven, I'm sure I won't be quite so blasé with pre-heating times, or the construction process, but at the moment I own a tiny table-top oven that heats up in the blink of an eye, and am loathed to waste money I don't have on keeping it suitably cosy for half an hour while I, for example, attempt to pummel chickpeas into sludgy submission!)

So, once you have stepped off your soap-box, you are asked to add all the ingredients except the chocolate chips to a food processor, or, in true El-Cheapo fashion, add them to a rather creaky but serviceable herb chopper/hand-processor, or whatever they're called, and buzz them for a few minutes until you get a smooth batter. (Although I have to say that a creaky but serviceable herb chopper whose only working speed is ‘low' is not the most perfect implement to completely mash up the chickpeas, so if you have a proper food processor I'd use that so you don't have to attack the batter with a wooden spoon after whizzing it to within an inch of its motor's life yet not getting the mix past the chunky stage.)

But after you've achieved Batter: Smooth(ish), fold in the 60 grams of chocolate chips, 

spread the mix evenly in a prepared pan (non-stick spray coating, or greaseproof paper, or whatever method you prefer...), sprinkle the remaining two tablespoons of chocolate chips over the top,

then bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until a cake tester comes out clean and the edges are a light brown.

Or... um... not quite burnt.

(I ended up covering the pan in tinfoil after 20 minutes and then putting it in for another ten, because although the edges were starting to bear the brunt of the little oven's heating bars, the cake tester wasn't coming out clean. In all, it stayed in the oven for thirty minutes, enough to bake the batter through, and fill my flat with the delicious smell of chocolate and peanut butter!)

You're advised to let it cool on a wire rack before cutting it up, but be careful as it's of quite a fragile consistency, and I lost a few edges on the way from the pan to the rack, (the blondie's loss is my gain, of course), and once it's completely cool and more stable, you can sprinkle it with sea-salt and slice it up.

Of course, doling out advice about texture and appearance is something I'm hardly qualified to do, considering my Extreme Amateur Food Blogger™ status, and the state of the photo directly above, but it's fair to say that this isn't your average blondie/brownie consistency, and I've seen the suggestion in a couple of similar recipes of adding an egg to the mixture to cake it up a little. That being said, it's rather delicious, if a little dense, and the only reason I know there are chickpeas in the make-up rather than flour is because I put them in myself. Taste-wise it's just a smooshy peanut-butter and chocolate chip extravaganza, with perhaps a little nod towards the original savouriness of the chickpeas by the addition of a sprinkling of sea-salt on top, but otherwise you can't tell they're there at all.

If you fancy something a little different it might be worth swapping the choc chips with caramel chips (if you can find them) for another yummy taste combination (my sister, the reason this post exists, is a sucker for anything of a salted-caramel persuasion), but whatever you choose to do, be warned: they are moreish, and you might just have to tell people that they're made with chickpeas just so you can keep some for yourself!

Problems Of A First World Variety

I'm terribly behind with my walking posts, thanks to the loss of my dearly departed tower PC, gone too soon. No, seriously, gone way too soon, considering it was only eighteen months old. The warranty, sadly, was already six months out of date. Ach, what do you mean, another hundred euros for a five-year warranty! Pff, one year will be fine. Now take my money before I go and buy something that may not even last that long.

:: sigh ::

I've been struggling with my thirteen-year-old HP laptop since getting back from Israel, and believe me when I say that every post (including those on my Portals blog - oy, those photo posts took an age) until this one has been painstakingly crafted on a machine that takes at least fifteen minutes to load a webpage and can only cope with one open tab at a time. I read a lot of books, though. I think I got through around ten decent-length (i.e. over four hundred page) novels in the time before a friend of mine let me borrow his old-ish Samsung laptop. And let me say here HUZZAH for kind friend who likes to keep abreast of technology, who updates his technological devices on a yearly basis, yet keeps the old ones, just in case! HUZZAH!

So yes, I'm a little behind, but instead of back-dating posts which may just get messy, I'll add them here when I have the time to find the photos online, thankfully automatically uploaded to the cloud from my phone whenever I'm near Wi-Fi!

Anyhoo.

I renewed my visitors subscription to Sorghvliet Park when I returned from Israel, and took myself along to enjoy a good old tramp around the woods at the beginning of this month to find not only the normal fare of fairy snowdrops nodding their heads all over the park, but also a rather early hello from Spring herself!

But even with Mother Nature gate-crashing winter's party, I was still allowed to indulge in the sights I adore, like the sleeping-place of my favourite bluebell spot, already beginning to wake up;

I indulged in my love of black against blue (and grey);

and finally took a snap on the way home of a tiny corner near the Vredespaleis that always catches my eye: spreading ivy winding over old brick and blue-painted metal. There's something that stirs my soul when beholding the uniformity of man-made objects juxtaposed against the ever-changing, un-containable advance of life!*

*Although my first career aspirations in the plastic arts may not have come to fruition, the lessons I learned at art college in the Ways of Bullcrap obviously made a lasting impression!

Muscle Bound

“Nic never felt so stiff and sore, in constant need of a good stretch (and something to steady her cup of tea) in the days before working-out. Surely there's a lesson to be learned there? 

True, she couldn't walk and talk at the same time without gasping for breath in those days before working-out, but at least her muscles never felt the need to complain about overwork! 

#ObliquesOfDeath #TricepKickbacksKickedBack #ThereAreAbsUnderTheFlabAndTheyHateMe

#ParallelUniverseSilverLinings"

All joking aside, it's quite horrifying to realise that there really was a time when I couldn't walk and hold a conversation simultaneously. A time when I'd seriously strain a hamstring attempting to climb off a chair after changing a light-bulb. A time when a trip to IKEA was looked on with trepidation thanks to the the mountain of steps to be climbed to get from the train- to the bus-station (and thence on to the store). Seriously. I love IKEA, but those steps would put such a downer on the whole trip that not even the promise of Swedish Meatballs would be able to save the day completely.

Yes, now I'm on the exercise bandwagon, I know it's not really advised to come off, either losing weight-wise or health-wise if you want to maintain weight loss, vigour, and/or flexibility. But don't get me wrong; if I could stop exercising tomorrow and not suffer from muscles turning to fat, depletion of strength, the inevitable weight gain, and a whole host of other detrimental health issues, I'd already be scribbling out a long list of TV series to binge-watch every evening for the rest of my life while vegging-out on the couch, instead of clicking on YouTube, and beating myself up with a variety of torturous exercise implements six nights a week.

I am not one of those born-again exercisers who only live for the time when they're sweating their guts out, whilst simultaneously, and loudly, spreading The Gospel Of Burpees. No. I shall leave worshipping at the Altar of Exertion to the sweating zealots (a band name for the taking if I ever heard one). But I do have to admit to enjoying the benefits of raising my heartbeat significantly for an hour or so at a time and of taxing my muscles to the point of fatigue, and truly appreciate not having to worry any more about people accidentally sitting on my lap when I'm travelling on public transport, because they thought they were going to sit down on my coat lying bunched up next to me on the other half of the seat, and not actually land upon my spreading thigh.

I mentioned this exercise con (as I'm now calling the exercise bandwagon in my head on days I'm aching more than normal) to a friend of mine - you know; beginning a new regime with good intentions, not realising that, like pets, it's for life, not just for [after] the holiday celebration of your choice, that is if you want to maintain the good work you've achieved so far - and she agreed that it is probably just as well that those at the start of a new workout programme, health kick, or attempt to lose weight aren't made more aware that once your body begins to get used to being punished, it needs more. Well, more of the benefits the punishment and suffering bring at least, and the stinger is that if you're hurting the best way to ease the hurt is to do more of the same!

So the only answer to workout-induced aches are more workouts, which seems rather unfair in the whole positive scheme of trying to better oneself, but it's probably just as well most of us don't know The Truth when we start out. I'm not 100 percent sure that had I been given a notice saying ‘Congratulations! You're about to embark upon a life-changing regime. It's going to be hard, and you're going to hurt a lot, but the benefits will be amazing! Disclaimer: you'll never be able to stop once you start because exercise malady begets exercise remedy. Vengeful God, Old Testament style' I'd have been quite so eager to start.

I exaggerate, of course. I'm only really complaining because I ache an awful lot more now than I did when I was a couch potato; a time when the only heavy lifting I did was the dragging of my larger self from place to place, and the only ‘cardio' my heart got was the straining it had to do all day and every day just to keep me upright. Ah, good times, good times!

In essence I was punishing myself a thousand times more per day back then than I do now, in an unhealthy and unconscious way, but even though I think I've now tipped the balance in my favour, I still maintain the right to lament over the fact, yes fact, that tomorrow my rear, thighs, mid-section, and upper arms will be ruing the day four years ago when I first picked up that Wii remote and changed my life!

Keep A Green Tree In Your Heart

I found myself headed towards the Haagse Bos for my first decent (i.e. with the purpose of getting some exercise, not just to trek to the shops to replenish my empty fridge) walk in Europe of 2016, on the first sunny day that came our way. I have to admit that I'd been pretty much house-bound thanks to the atrocious weather lashing Northern Europe recently, and I think I was feeling it even more after enjoying the balmy climes of the Middle East. Even as a Scot, I found the perpetual rain back here to be just a wee bit too much, so was raring to go when blue skies finally made an appearance!

I do love the low sun this time of year, and revel in the shadows it brings the woods around the city, throwing long lines of tree limbs across the pathways. I find real beauty in such starkness!

Most of these woods, as well as the Scheveningse Bos, are relatively newly planted (having been destroyed in the Second World War) which is shown in the distinct lack of trees of a larger girth. Wikipedia tell me that there was only thirty percent of the original woods left after 1945, and you do see a few older trees dotted around, but due to the war, and from what I guess to be quite a stringent park management, the woods maintain quite a youthful appearance.

A more light-hearted part of the woods is the area near the Royal Palace full of wood sculptures, most of which are in one piece. I was sad to see a beautiful hawk carving whose face had been hacked away, but there are many other statues, carvings and artwork left whole to charm and fascinate.

And occasionally you come across a bench dedicated to someone who obviously loved the woods when they were alive, and continues to add to the atmosphere even though they're no longer here to enjoy it in person. 

O Thou That Walketh Good Pathways Of Zion

I was fortunate enough to be introduced to Jerusalem while I was over in Israel. (Yes, that's where the misappropriated and somewhat mangled Handel lyrics of the post title were leading!) What an astonishing city, with an even more astonishing history, one that I started reading about properly a year or so ago when I bought a ‘biography' of the city by Simon Sebag Montefiore (long before any thoughts of visiting) and I believe I got to around the mid-18th century, bang-slap in the middle of a few hundred years of (surprisingly peaceful, all things considered) Ottoman control, and then I mislaid the book. It's here somewhere. I just can't find it at the moment to verify the place I left off...

But I digress. (In the first paragraph. I can't decide if this bodes well or not...)

We started what was to be an incredible walk around the Holy City on the balcony of the Hebrew University on Mount Scopus in north-west Jerusalem, where an unprecedented view of the old city met my gaze. I have to admit to being rather awestruck by the sight, and even more so when important landmarks were pointed out to me, and as much as I'm not a person of religion, the power of the stories, the power of history, was overwhelming! Here was the golden Dome of The Rock; over there was the tall Tower of David; the part of what was left of the ancient second century city wall swept itself in front of a swathe of dark green trees just under Temple Mount; and over there the twin grey domes in a direct line behind the huge light cream Rockefeller Museum were of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; and slightly to the left was the tall bell tower of the Church of the Redeemer; further left was the white dome of the Hurva Synagogue; and Dormition Abbey with it's impressive bell tower, sitting behind it, just beyond the city walls.

There are certainly less auspicious ways to be introduced to a new city!

Afterwards we made our way down to park the car at the other side of the old city, near Montefiore's Windmill in the very nicely renovated (read: expensive) Yemin Moshe area where there were gorgeous old houses that had been rescued from hovels and turned into dwellings worth a small fortune dotting the not-too-steep hillside.

We then walked up to the Jaffa Gate, past the Tower of David and entered the Old City for real.  

What an incredible maze of ancient alleys, lanes, and tunnels! Thankfully everything was very well signposted, but it was fascinating to walk round the miles of market stalls that lined the walkways, then stumble upon, I don't know, the alleged final earthly resting place of Jesus Christ, for example.

Indeed.

We wandered over the Christian, Jewish, and Muslim quarters, and there was something astounding, juxtaposed with something banal and touristic, around every corner. 

We tried to get near the Western (Wailing) Wall, but as it was approaching dusk, and we would have to separate to get there (men and women weren't allowed to approach the holy site together) which would end up being rather time-consuming, one of my friends suggested we visit an amazing look-out point instead. And amazing it was. The Mount of Olives in the background with the Jewish Cemetery; the dome and tower of the Al-Aqsa Mosque right in front of us; the Western Wall reaching out to the left; and Temple Mount just behind it.

We then re-entered the Jewish Quarter and passed the Hurva Synagogue just as the sun went down, on our way out of the Old City through the Jaffa Port again.

A quick visit to the YMCA to experience the opulence of the entrance hallway was to be our final tourist stop, and after a day of amazing sights and experiences (and an excellently long walk), the mix of old and new rounded it all off very well!

What an epic journey! A small (somewhat pedantic) part of me rather wishes I had worn my pedometer, because we covered a lot of ground that afternoon, but in any case, I've been introduced to so many places I would love to get to know better in Jerusalem, that I will just have to come back, with or without a step counter!

Jaffa Kijk*

There's nothing new about January sun. Well, yes, it is a rare phenomenon and can seem like something new and unusual after weeks of dreich winter cold and grey skies, but really, January sun does exist, shy and retiring animal it seems to be, or for one thing we'd be hurtling through space on a frozen lump of rock and ice in our most basic, star-dust form, not really caring very much about the concept of sun, never mind the months of the year. What I've never experienced, however, is a January sun that brings a warmth of which a Scottish day in June might only dream. 

Winter sun. I've seen the phrase many times on shiny posters with photos of bronzed families soaking up tropical rays on exotic, white-sanded beaches, while slurping on overly-fruited, fluorescent cocktails richly festooned with paper umbrellas and bendy straws.

I've never been a fan of the concept, which I suspect won't come as a shock. I have enough trouble avoiding summer sun, red-headed, fair-skinned, burn-under-the-glare-of-a-60-watt-bulb Scot that I am, that trying to avoid it when I'm supposed to be wrapped up in layers of warmth, and, presumably, huddled under a straining umbrella, is a notion that goes against the very essence of my cold-blooded being!

Colour me slightly lobster then, when the planets aligned to the extent that some dear friends from college planned on being in their home country of Israel at the same time as each other and wondered if I'd like to join them for a week or two, see the sights, dispel some myths, and maybe make a little music together if we felt like it.

Winter sun. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was more perturbed to have to cobble together a new summer wardrobe (because there's not much left that's serviceable, fits, and looks nice after a clear-out revolving around a somewhat teary realisation that all my favourite comfy summer clothes were all now way too big and looked ridiculous on), or you know, to have to contend with our western, terror-laden, perception of Israel. 

But this as this it the place that houses my meandering thoughts on my attempts to lose weight, I leave any ponderings along other lines to those who know more than I about the subjects!

My friends had family to visit and spend time with while we were there, so I used one of my spare days alone to partake of a good, long walk down from where I was staying near the Old Port in the north of Tel Aviv to the outskirts of Old Jaffa. It was, according to Google maps, just under eleven kilometres there and back, and even with a ‘cool' twenty degrees, I wasn't sure if I'd be overdoing it to contemplate anything more, especially as my planned route down the boardwalk than runs all the way down the beach-line from the Old Port of Tel Aviv to the Old Port of Jaffa would be buffeted by a brisk sea breeze, as well as beat upon by an already warm (for me) and bright sun. 

But never one for shying away from a good seaside jaunt, I donned my walking shoes (brought especially), applied lashings of factor 50 sunscreen (see note above about burning under low-level lighting), made sure I had the spare battery for my phone safely tucked away in my shoulder bag (because photos would happen), and set off, pausing about ten minutes in to catch a view of the boardwalk, shrouded in sea-spray a little further on, the marina in the middle distance, and Jaffa way, way off on the horizon.

I enjoyed the opportunity to revel in sights I'd never see at home, like stands of sheltering palms on the beach;

and stands of sheltering umbrellas on a boardwalk look-out point.

It's a lovely long walk, though in places somewhat damp, where waves crashing into the rocks sent their topmost curls onto the path, soaking both the walkway, and passers-by unaware that the path was wet in places for a very good reason.

It was quite fascinating watching the distant skyline of Jaffa slowly come into focus; almost with each passing step being able to discern more of the buildings and landmarks as they separated from each other into individual entities. My camera roll, before it was judiciously pruned, bears testament to this! Had I my wits about me before deleting them, it would have been interesting to make some kind of electronic flip-book of the (otherwise very similar and not altogether worth keeping on their own) photos from the last couple of kilometres leading up to Jaffa's Old Port. But, as usual, I continue to come up with good ideas only after the fact!

But then, suddenly, you're there, at the Port of Old Jaffa, the port from which Jonah embarked (according to the stories) for Tarshish before getting swallowed by the whale.

You'll notice that I didn't, as originally planned, turn back at the outskirts of Jaffa, because by the time I was in the mutual outskirts of the old and new cities I was already of the mind that seeing as I had just walked 5k to get this far, it would be ridiculous to turn back without seeing a little bit of one of the original settlements of the region. Not that there's much left of anything original, mind you, being habitually turned to rubble over the millennia, but I was drawn to the sheer historical weight of the place, and decided to walk on.

Yes, yes, and I was also drawn to the possibility of finding pretty doors. I admit it. I continued on in part to search out characterful portals. What can I say? I like doors. (They're all over on the companion blog to this one, which you can find by clicking on my profile picture.) I wasn't disappointed, either, and coming across a wall in the centre of the old city that was the resting place of several gorgeous specimens (just the doors; no doorways) reinforced my feeling that exploring the old place had been a good idea.

My PRESHUSSSS!!

I walked a little around the port, finding the Greek Orthodox Church of St Michael to be rather photogenic,

wandered around a little cliff-top garden that sported lovely Mediterranean views and interesting flora (I won't tell you how many photos of cacti, palms, and other exotic plants I only ever see in botanical hot-houses, I took whilst on my wanderings. It was like wandering into an IKEA megastore for the first time, having only ever seen their merchandise in captivity on a magazine page, then actually seeing them live in the wild of the showroom. Forgive the comparison.),

and found St Peter's Church near a lovely square full of cafés, jewellery boutiques and a visitors' centre, (and I realise that I didn't actually take a photo of the beautiful peach brick and white stone building, the bell tower of which can be seen for miles around, although I did capture the doors, so there's that?...).

It was then that I realised the rabbit warren of tiny streets called ‘Old Jaffa' on the map, wasn't a potentially run-down, possibly scary labyrinth in which to get lost, but a gentrified (and no doubt extremely expensive, property-wise) tourist-trap of an artists' colony, whose enclosed lanes, named after signs of the zodiac, contained art galleries, craft workshops, and picturesque views.

And just when I thought it was time to turn back to Tel Aviv, I came across a suspended Jaffa orange tree; Oranger Suspendu by Ran Morin, made of steel, artificial stone, and an orange tree. A final photo before I retraced my steps north and headed beach-ward once more to discover, after plotting my course on the map once I got back, that I'd walked over fourteen kilometres. It was worth every step to experience more of this complicated, beautiful, and fascinating country!

*Jaffa Kijk is an unashamed pun over two languages for which I perhaps apologise a little... Kijk means ‘look' in Dutch, and sounds like ‘cake'. If I wasn't so averse to littering my blog with emoticons, here would be the perfect place for a sideways wink!

I Dream Of Jeanie With The Size Sixteen Waist

“Thunder thighs? Check.

Round lower portions of which Homer Simpson would be proud? Check.

Muffin top more like a three-tier wedding cake? Check.

Overwhelming sense of fabulousness? Check.

Four years ago today I turned on my Wii Fit for the first time, in the hope I might change my life, and along the way perhaps reduce my girth from a size UK 32 to something a little healthier. Wearing size 16 jeans (tight though they are) was such an alien concept that it was never considered, even as a hope or a wish.

Yep, overwhelming sense of fabulousness (and maybe just a bit of delayed astonishment?) Check!"

Yesterday I posted a little teaser (although I didn't know it was a teaser at the time) of a close-up photo I took of the waist band of a new pair of jeans. A pair of jeans bought in a ‘normal' (i.e. not plus-size) part of a chain-store.

Yes, it says EU 44, which is the equivalent of a UK 16, yes, the jeans are from Clockhouse (the ‘trendy' section of C&A), yes, they're flared but not for long (as my short legs require less yardage than has been generously bestowed upon me by Clemens and August, and they will soon be set about with a pair of scissors), and yes, they took a little persuading to get on, but I'm pretty sure getting them buttoned, and the zip up, and not feeling like I'm about to be cut in half, means that they might actually not be far off the right size!

Now, I admit I already have a pair of jeans in a sixteen; from Evans in fact - their classic, and wonderful, ‘pear' jeans, for those of us with wide hips and a non-proportionate smaller waist who hate having to buy large jeans that accommodate our juicy mid-portions, because it means that we'll be beset by Gappy Waistband Syndrome. The thing is, their pear-style jeans seem to be cut just a wee bit on the large side. Most of the reviews for the product say that if you're an eighteen, then it's probably a good idea to get the size smaller. In fact, I pooh-poohed those reviews until I bought a size eighteen, and found them a little roomy around the thighs and, well, juicy mid-portions. I sold them on eBay suggesting that they'd probably fit a small-waisted (proportionally) size twenty. So yes, I already have a pair of sixteen jeans, but according to the reviews (of which I am now a subscriber) and my own experience (of which I am also a subscriber - better late than never), they're more like a seventeen, if such a size existed.

It's intriguing for me, though, this getting into a size sixteen jeans thing, because, believe me, I haven't done much in the way of actually shedding weight this past year. I've been working at it, gods, I've been working at it: exercising; walking (oof, lots of walking); 5:2-ing, etc but it's been a bit up and down, and I've reached no milestones since March. (In fact I've rather back-pedaled.) So losing a real dress size in a year, and not a pretend Evans pear jeans dress size, is rather confounding. But don't get me wrong, I'm loving it. I had to try very hard to contain my jubilant WHOOP in the changing rooms when I got everything closed without trapping skin, or harming any major organs, especially as I'd taken the jeans to try on as more of a ‘let's see how far off I am from getting this size to fit' rather than an honest-to-the-gods ‘I need new jeans and these should do'. That I was pleasantly surprised by the outcome, is, as you can probably tell from the above, an understatement.

Of course, I wouldn't actually get into a size sixteen dress without it straining considerably at the stomach (if I could get into it at all), which would make me feel horribly self-conscious and lumpy, but jeans are supposed to be tight, no? I'm sure a thousand adverts showing both guys and gals huffing and puffing to get into their pair of 501s can't be wrong! I wear jeans for comfort, and for warmth, because sometimes going outside wearing a long skirt and a pair of tights to fend off the chilly fingers of Jack Frost just isn't enough. (Which makes him sound like a right letch. Sorry for the character assassination, Jack.) And I normally wear long jumpers and tops to cover my stomach anyway, so who's to know that although technically I might not *be* a size sixteen, I can certainly rock a pair of size sixteen jeans?! 

My new confidence-boosting mantras include: My Thunder Thighs Are Worthy Of Hugh Grant In Love Actually (although I believe the expression used was ‘thighs like tree-trunks', but it's close enough), and My Muffin Top Could Be A Bakeoff Showstopper. I'm still trying to find a positive spin on having Homer Simpson's rotund lower portions, but I'll get there...!