In the spirit of New Year self improvement/ self loathing/ not wanting to go up a dress size, whatever you want to call it, I am trying to clean up my diet. Mainly because I can’t face the trauma of buying new jeans, which is, as all big-bottomed women know, the worst kind of shopping in the world. This butt makes it really clear to jeans that it does not want to be confined — it’s a free spirited kind of butt like that — and, no matter how stretchy the denim is, my curves rebel when I try and ram them into their denim prisons. So I’m trying to avoid that because, my current jeans have succumbed to my shape a bit and now I can get them on without crying and rolling around on the floor tugging desperately at the belt loops. But, unfortunately, all that feeling sorry for myself and winter binging has finally caught up with me and the zip on my jeans is straining against my I-live-in-Europe-now-and-so-I’m-going-to-eat-all-the-delicious-European-chocolate-in-the-Netherlands belly. I walked up the stairs two-at-a-time at work today and I feared the crotch would rip open.

So, yeah, I’m trying the lazy kind of diet, in which you just target your very worst habit and try and make it a bit healthier. My worst habit is my raging 4pm sweet tooth. When 4pm comes around, I start scouting the office for sweet snacks and, if they’re not there, I go out and buy cake or chocolate or something else that’s a delicious combo of equal parts fat and sugar. My favourite combo.

You can stick your pasta, your pizza, your crisps and pies; I can take or leave savoury food. But when it comes to sugar, I have all the self control of a bratty toddler standing in front of a Frozen display. It’s kind of a frenzied, animalistic lack of control, like a werewolf on a night of a full moon. Unless I’m chained down, the chance of me succumbing to sugar is inevitable.

It’s Day 3 right now of ‘no 4pm sugar snacks’ and it’s only 2pm, so I can’t tell you how I’ve fared today. But, on the other two days I’ve had a 50 per cent success rate. Sugar is that friend when you’re bored and, while I’m new to Amsterdam and too lazy to go out and make actual human friends, it’s that old, familiar pal who always knows the right things to say. You’re never lonely when you have a giant bar of whole nut choccy. Ahh, chocolate. We’ve been through a lot together. Some people call it comfort eating but, for me, it’s more like a long-term commitment to a faithful partner. But, maybe I’ve become too dependent on this ‘ole friend. My jean zip certainly seems to think so. Until now I’ve been a bit flaky on the socialising front in a ‘not tonight, I’m eating my feelings’ kinda way.

I just need to summon the courage to take a little time apart from it and, you know, actually start making an effort to meet people and get involved in Amsterdam life.