Update...

...and the part of that word which spells 'UP' is spot on.

Sorry ladies, but I think what I'm trying to say is 'oh s**!'. The fat lass is back, and I'm sorry to say that I've fallen flat on my face and royally screwed up.

I am currently weighing in at 9 stone 4 lbs, nearly a stone heavier than my happy weight and, oh boy, does it show. My clothes are not comfortable (and some don't fit at all), and my dodgy knee is objecting to the extra load so 'happy' is a term I appear to have mislaid. In fact I'm pretty disgusted with my behaviour.

Ooh, while I remember, thank you if you're one of the lovely people who have commented on my previous posts. For some reason I don't seem to be able to reply nor leave comments back for anyone these days, but I really do appreciate your kind, supportive words.

So than, aside from the obvious singing 'la-la-la-la' with my fingers in my ears as the pounds piled on, oh and eating too damned much, what's the cause of this problem/faux pas/cock-up?

Well, you probably wouldn't be too surprised to hear that a big part of it falls squarely at the door of 'worry' - my constant nemesis.

My darling lovely hubby has had a few health hiccups to deal with over the last few months and has just started treatment for the latest one. I was pretty OK with it immediately after he'd seen the consultant, who seemed fairly blasé and unconcerned, but rather less so when I read the leaflet for the medication he's been prescribed. He's been diagnosed as having actinic keratoses, the symptoms of which are popping up like weeds at the moment, and the fluorouracil cream he's been given is classed as chemotherapy as it's function is to 'destroy cancerous and pre-cancerous cells'. Oh! That has given me pause for thought.

You see, I'd wrongly assumed that this was a pretty straightforward issue - just identify the problem, treat and forget - but it seems that I may have been just a shade over-optimistic in this. Perhaps getting such a rapid appointment with the consultant (within two weeks of speaking to our GP) should have given me a clue.

OK, it isn't a life-threatening matter but isn't quite the harmless inconvenience I'd first thought, and the treatment itself isn't a bundle of fun. My poor darling! At least the various hats he's wearing to shield him from the summer sun (when we see it) make him look marvelously distinguished.

Then there's my super sister. I'm waiting to hear how she got on having been sent for a CT scan after coughing up blood (again) a wee while ago. Shades of my lovely Mum all over again. She is being decidedly calm and stoic about the whole thing, but me... well let's just say I'm twitchy and fretting.

I am also worrying about work - or rather being out of it again. Yes, before you say it, I am very well aware that it was my choice to quit. Indeed, I still think this was the right decision to have taken as the job I had really wasn't doing me any favours, but I'm 'employed' in name only until the end of August and beginning to fret about getting another job again.

I've started looking at jobs websites again (intending to scale up the hunt properly after my sister has visited this coming week) but am not getting particularly warm feelings at the moment. This could be me 'borrowing troubles' perhaps, but that does seem to be my No. 1 skill.

I feel quite ashamed to feel this way. There are so many people in the world with much bigger things to worry about that I have (those poor people in Louisiana dealing with the flooding for a start), but I just can't find the 'off' switch for my fretting. Road-map or user guide anyone?

What I do have is a tentative plan to deal with the weight gain, if not the worries. What has worked for me to lose excess flab in the past is documenting everything I eat, and recording my weight and measurements on a regular basis. So, here goes - and the first step has been telling you good people about it.

Onwards and, this time, downwards please...