Champagne diet

Petronella Wyatt

It's bad news for 'yo-yo' dieters. A 'yo-yo' slimmer is apparently someone who diets repeatedly, losing and then putting on the pounds. Scientists have warned that this can be highly dangerous, as it risks weakening the immune system.

Women such as Geri Halliwell, the former Spice Girl who lost two stone in 2001 and then ate her way back to her original figure, allegedly make themselves vulnerable to viral infections and colds. This is according to the American Dietetic Association which says, 'Allowing our weight to go up and down can cause problems.'

After reading this I nearly called up this body and offered to donate them mine. For I lay claim to being the world's greatest yo-yo' dieter. I have never lost two stone, of course. But, at the risk of boasting, my yo-yo bounces up and down with more speed and frequency than that of any woman of whom the world has yet to hear.

It took Miss Halliwell over three years to lose and put on weight again. It takes me just one week. I go through more diets in seven days than Oprah Winfrey and Elizabeth Taylor have in a lifetime.

Let me take you through a normal everyday week in my life. It is Monday morning. My stomach feels bloated and I feel liverish. My skirts are not exactly button-poppingly tight but they are not exactly loose either. It is time to start my diet.

Shall it be Atkins? For what a cornucopia (you see, I'm thinking about food, already) of diets are now before us. Yes, let it be Atkins. It once worked four Januarys ago when I stuck to it for three weeks and lost eight pounds.

So I have scrambled eggs made with one egg — what rigid abstinence! — and a cup of coffee. Without milk or sugar, of course. I drink a great deal of water during the morning because it is supposed to depress the appetite. It certainly depresses me. I have to go to the loo every half an hour.

At lunchtime I have some slices of ham. By seven o'clock I feel that I have lost at least half a pound. This certainly merits a drink. I know wine is on the verboten list, but I have always successfully conned myself into believing it is carb free. For dinner I have chicken or fish and some green beans.

On Tuesday morning, however, the half a pound is back on, How can that be? It simply can't be the wine. I know, today I won't have anything in the evening at all — except wine.

On Wednesday I find I have lost a whole pound. This is surely a vindication of my belief in wine. I eat some more scrambled eggs and this time have chicken slices for lunch. I am going out for dinner so I have some more chicken at home before I leave so as not to be hungry when I arrive.

My host has a huge bottle of champagne in his hand. He refills my glass about six times. The first course is carb free but there is a lot of delicious warm bread on the table. I eat butter instead, scooping it out with a knife, while no one is watching. But then, it seems so unfair, I've been so good. To paraphrase the old king in the nursery rhyme, I do like a little bit of bread with my butter. The rest of the evening goes like this: I eat three pieces of bread, all the potatoes that are put on my plate, half the cheeseboard and a large slice of strawberry tart.

By Thursday I have put on two pounds. Today, I say firmly, I must be rigorous. I have some coffee and cut out the scrambled eggs just in case there is a rogue carb hiding in them somewhere. By lunchtime I am feeling faint. I can't face that piece of slightly curling ham in the fridge. I spot a tub of hummus. That can't have many carbs in it. But I don't like eating it with my finger. I look for bread. But I haven't bought any as it is fattening. There is, however, a small packet of pasta in the back of a drawer, so I cook some of it and eat it with the hurrimus.

How disgusted I am with myself by the evening. I have a drink and eat the curling bit of ham. But the next day I have put on another pound. Time for the yo-yo to fall, again. I have coffee, followed by a rather dry bit of left-over smoked salmon at lunch. I have my usual drink in the evening — because drink can't be fattening — and one sardine.

On Saturday morning, I find I have shed a pound. Then the yo-yo bounces up. I visit a friend at lunchtime who offers me white wine and chocolate biscuits, Well, it is Saturday. But my appetite is heightened by the biscuits and I go home and eat sausages with a baked potato for supper. I have put on half a pound again.

On Sunday I have lunch with friends. There is shepherd's pie. I scrape out the meat and leave the top. There is more champagne. It seems so uncongenial not to drink it. On the way home I feel a bit woozy. I must stop and buy some bread to soak up the alcohol. By Monday morning I have put on all the weight I lost during the week. Impressive, eh? Beat that, Miss Halliwell.