Remember the lockdowns? I wish I didn’t, but I do. Especially that insanely grim third lockdown, the winter one, which went on and on and on and which bottomed out, for me, as I did my one allotted weekly walk along the Richmond riverside, in freezing horizontal drizzle. I made sure I had a thermos cup of mulled wine in my hand as I debated with my one permitted friend whether we were legally allowed to sit on a bench together. In the end, we decided best not and trudged further into the sleet.
I’ve learned many things from lockdowns, one of them is: that I am never locking down again. If they try it on, I am tooling up and the plod will have to prise that park bench from under my cold dead coccyx. Also, like many, I’ve learned that lockdowns make you fat.
This last point seems to be near universal. Lockdown lard is a definite Thing, some studies indicate that people gained, on average, about ten to fifteen pounds, as we mastered sourdough starters or spent hours realising that fish cookery is quite easy (sole meuniere, who knew?).
I thereafter learned that this extra lockdown poundage was hard to shift. Even as the pandemic drifted into the past, the chunk did not. During previous blob-outs, I’ve always been able to drop extra weight through a combination of manic fasting, gym, neat vodka, and going to places with boring food (Portugal). This time nothing worked. I fasted, I treadmilled, I knocked back shots instead of dinner, I ate sardines in Sagres. Nope. Still chubby.
And then I discovered Ozempic. I can’t remember when I first heard about it, possibly reading some hey-I’m-thin-again celeb column, possibly when I looked at Donald Trump climbing out of a helicopter and I thought, wait, he might be mad but he looks a stone lighter and ten years younger, Go Donald, and I did some googling and learned of Ozempic, a new wonder drug for weight loss.