An encounter with a sadist...

It's probably quite mean of me to describe Phil as a sadist when he was really just doing his job with extreme prejudice. He turned up last Friday morning, a late replacement for James, who couldn't make our session. Where James is very tall, with movie-star looks (he used to be an actor), Phil was small and wiry, with a shaved head and a broad grin.

The grin got even broader when we got out into the park. We warmed up with a lap of the park, then went straight to the tennis courts. James usually gets me running round the court once or twice, then jogging along the short end and walking down the long side. Phil had me jogging round the whole court, walking along the short end, then running again, with a few squat and thrusts and the odd star jump or ten. Then he started to get me jogging in towards the centre of the court, then jogging backwards out again to the perimeter. At first I thought I was going to die of a heart attack. Then, when I realised I wasn't actually going to die (just sweat a lot), I thought I was going to fall over when I started running backwards. Eventually, I survived half an hour of this treatment.

Just when I thought I deserved a bit of a break as a reward for putting in the hard yards, Phil got me to sit on one of the park benches. Not for a rest, though. It seems that James must have told him my shoulder muscles are pretty weak, so Phil got me to perform a range of exercises to work those muscles, including pushing up against his hands, which were hovering just over my head. Instead of making it easier as I got tired, he pushed harder and harder against me. Once he'd worn my shoulder muscles out, he got me doing push-ups with my hands resting on the bench (when I say push-ups, that really should read half-arsed push-ups – they ain't going to take me as a marine any time soon, based on Friday's evidence). Then another of James' favourite exercises: getting me to step onto and back off the bench several times. Sounds easy. It isn't. Phil got me doing several reps of each exercise, then got me to do them all over again before letting me go home for a few crunches and stretches.

I shouldn't say this (in fact I'm pretty certain that when James reads this he'll just use it as a reason to crank up the volume on his sessions), but a session with Phil makes a workout with James look like a stroll in the park...

Another week, another weigh-in

This week, the scales read 90.3. I've lost four kilos in as many weeks – and most of the loss has been relatively painless. If I can carry on like this, I'll have reached my target some time in September. I don't reckon the sailing is going to be quite as plain and smooth as all that, but this has been an encouraging first month.

The love of a good man

Before you all reach for the sick bags, I've got a serious point to make. If you're going to go on a diet for any length of time, you've either got to be single or have the full and wholehearted support of those you live with.

Now, the idea of gastronomic restraint doesn't come naturally to either Mark (with Laszlo in our kitchen last weekend, above) or myself. In fact, over the three years we've been together, I've put on around 10 kilos. I can probably put some of that gain down to work – but I reckon the fact that we love eating together has something to do with it too. A good weekend for both of us would involve a trip to Borough Market, where we buy loads of fresh fish, delicious ravioli, armfuls of seasonal fruit and veg, Italian cheeses (specially this aged Pecorino that Mark enjoys so much that I'm almost jealous of the cheese). For dinner we might enjoy a big steak with a baked potato, and there's often a dim sum lunch somewhere on the way to a film and a bottle of wine between us most evenings. Although we don't eat out in restaurants all that often, when we do we rarely restrain ourselves. And, when we moved in together just over a year ago, I took up cooking a big dinner for the two of us just so that I would get to hear how much Mark had enjoyed it.

I loved that bit of our lives – unrestrained, greedy and full of the pleasures of great food. But these days I can't give in to the luxury of rampant gourmetism. I'm not saying that the food I'm cooking and eating at the moment is boring – I'm trying my hardest to make sure it isn't. But I do know that Mark misses certain aspects of the way we used to eat. However, because he loves me, because he wants a slimmer, healthier me (and, to be frank, because he could stand to lose the odd pound or two himself), he's prepared to stick with my dietary game plan.

I sometimes give Mark larger portions of whatever we're eating than I take myself and I occasionally add a dollop of something indulgent to his plate, but by and large, he's eating what I'm eating. And he's trying really hard to be as encouraging and supportive as he can be – without looking like he's trying (if you know what I mean). How lucky can a dieting girl get?

Photos – one month on

It's kind of difficult to tell much from these pictures, I have to admit. However, I'm pretty sure that the profile views seem to reveal fewer lumps and bumps, especially round the tummy area. And even if I'm a long way off being able to do up the zip on the beige suede trousers in the middle images, I can at least get the things over my hips and up to my waist, which I wasn't able to do a month ago. The black trousers on the right, which fitted me snugly a month ago are now getting loose round the thighs and although it's difficult to see this in the image above, I'm holding the waistband away from my tummy – without breathing in.

I guess a month is not a long enough time to see much other than the most subtle differences, but those who know me best are beginning to see a difference. Honest.

Dishes that pack a punch (part one)

One of the reasons I've always dreaded going on a diet is that the recipes in most diet books are so bland. The prospect of nibbling on rice cakes, lunching on cottage cheese and dining on steamed chicken and veggies for a week horrifies me. The thought of eating beige food for several months, a year even, just doesn't bear contemplating.

But over the past few weeks I've stumbled upon a secret. For me, the key to dieting lies not only in eating little and often but also in making sure that the food I eat is really and truly tasty. Most of the meals I've really enjoyed over the past month have been packed with taste – some of them have been spicy while others have just featured strong flavours.

There's one particular dish that's becoming a bit of a regular round here: sweet potato and feta. Quick to prepare on a weekday evening, but full of punchy flavours, this combination of sweet, savoury and salt is something that appeals to both Mark and I. Mark's portion is almost double the size of mine and we both fill the rest of the plate up with a zesty salad (try a bag of rocket and watercress or herb and green leaf salad, slice up half an avocado and add a handful of roughly chopped walnuts, then dress it with a small amount of simple vinaigrette – I usually use some walnut oil to enhance the walnuts in the salad, plus a tarragon or white wine vinegar and a dash of Dijon mustard in my dressing).

Sweet potato and feta for one

1 x 200g sweet potato 50g feta, cut into small cubes 1 tsp cumin seeds, toasted in a frying pan 1-2 spring onions, sliced 1 tsp orange juice
1 tsp olive oil fresh coriander, chopped
freshly ground black pepper
Heat the oven to 200C, then roast the sweet potato for about 40 minutes (it's done when a knife will cut through to the middle easily).
While the sweet potato is cooking, mix the other ingredients together (you can add a pinch of salt, if you want, but taste the mixture first as the feta can be quite salty anyway).
Once the sweet potato is cooked, slice it lengthways, then pour the feta mixture over it. Serve with the salad.

Another dish I find I'm enjoying at lunchtime is inspired by Japanese cuisine. A mixture of rice, fish and vegetables, it's very simple to prepare, but its salty/smoky/umami flavours leave me feeling really satisfied for a long time.

Japanese rice and fish for one

50g brown rice
100g sprouting broccoli or broccoli florets
50 smoked eel
1-2 tsp light or Japanese soy sauce
furikake seasoning (available from Asian food stores)

Cook the rice and set aside to cool.
Cook the veg and set aside to cool.
Place the cold rice in a bowl. Slice the broccoli and eel and stir into the rice.
Season with soy sauce and sprinkle with furikake.
That's it. What could be simpler?

The loneliness of the short-distance runner

I think I may have mentioned before that I'm not much of a runner. I have made attempts to go jogging before, using a treadmill in a gym. Up until now, however, I haven't got very far – quite literally. Even when I've managed to get up to a point where I can run (slowly) for a quarter of an hour at a time, it's always been at the expense of a very sore right knee.

Somewhere round about my third or fourth session with James, he got me jogging round one of the tennis courts in my local park. I'd only gone a couple of hundred metres when he pulled me up to ask me whether I had a problem with my left leg. It turns out that my shortened Achilles tendon (a problem I was vaguely aware of) has been making me favour my left foot as I run, never planting my heel firmly on the ground. As a result, my right leg (and knee) was taking the brunt of the impact. Hence the problems.

We've been working on the problem for the past couple of weeks, with James watching carefully to ensure I use a full range of movements when my feet hit the ground. And the jogging is starting to get easier.

I'm doing a lot of stop-start jogging, going halfway round the court, then walking a bit, then jogging some more, then turning 180 degrees before jogging a bit further in the opposite direction, then slowing down again before speeding up, then turning once more. The reason I'm doing this, rather than trying to run further and further in any one particular direction, is that interval training – or so James tells me – helps get you fitter faster than endurance work. Apparently it's something to do with not allowing the heart and muscles to get acclimatised to working at any particular pace. So, stop-start-turn is the way to go. Jog, then walk, then jog some more, then run before slowing to a brisk walk, then starting up again. Add some twists and turns to the routine for optimum effect. Even I can handle that.

Fair Verona

I spent most of last week in Verona. Lucky me... Verona is one of my favourite cities in Italy. Unlike nearby Venice, lots of Italians live and work in the city, which means it isn't such a tourist ghetto. (Which is not to denigrate Venice itself, which is a wonderful place to be, especially once you're off the main tourist drag.)

There are a few touristy things to gawp at in Verona, including the Roman arena (left), which is the location for splendid open-air opera concerts in summer (or so I'm told – I haven't yet been lucky enough to go). There's a marble-paved shopping street lined with glitzy boutiques, quiet little side streets with tranquil-looking restaurants and bars, a delightful main piazza with a stunning clock tower and a couple of delis groaning with Italian cheeses and exotic salumi and hams. The historic centre is easy to get round on foot, yet large enough for you to get lost enough to make some serendipitous discoveries while you're wandering around.

We (the group was a veritable United Nations of wine hacks, with representatives from Belgium, Germany, the Netherlands, Russia, Sweden, Denmark, Canada and the US, as well as a British contingent consisting of me and one of my colleagues, Patricia Langton) also got to spend a couple of days outside the town centre in the wine-growing valleys that lie within a half-hour's drive from Verona. Most of the vines here are trained along high pergolas, a very traditional way to grow grapes (to the right are some pictures of pergola vines in winter – you have to imagine them in their full summertime splendour to get the full effect). The countryside – like that of many wine-growing regions around the world – is stunning. There are four valleys nestled between hills that extend upwards into the Dolomites. In late spring and summer, the vineyards that cover much of the land are green and leafy, while in autumn the leaves of each of the five or so main grape varieties cultivated in the region each turn a different colour. This, though, was winter, and although the vineyards look rather sparse, the majestic snow-capped mountains help to frame them rather beautifully.

Needless to say, like any Italian town, Verona has some fab restaurants. The Italians take their food very seriously, and as long as you stay away from places whose menus are too complicated and fiddly, you can eat very well indeed.

As I'm beginning to realise, when I'm travelling, the best way for me to deal with my diet is to revert to portion control and an attempt to guesstimate my calorie intake. There's absolutely no way I can dictate a GI-friendly plate-load, with its idealised 50% veg, 25% complex carbs and 25% protein. A case in point was the lunch provided for us on Saturday, the day of the big Amarone tasting.

The Amarone tasting was the reason I was there in the first place. A quick aside for those of you unfamiliar with Amarone: this is a dense, richly alcoholic red wine made from partially dried grapes that would otherwise be used to produce Valpolicella, a much-maligned wine that can provide an awful lot of bang for your buck. Amarone's have Valpolicella's tell-tale cherry flavours, but these are often layered with notes of dark chocolate and flowers, particularly violets and roses. Not wines for the faint-hearted, but utterly delicious when paired with big, hearty dishes like beef stew or roast duck.

Anyway, I digress. I'd been invited to Verona to taste the newly released 2004 vintage of Amarones, and after a quick press conference, we were let loose on a tasting room that must have contained some 70 big, bold young wines. Inevitably, we got hungry, and all that was on offer was cheese and charcuterie. Sigh...

Ah well. The dinners over the four days attempted to make up for this shortfall by providing us with ravioli with a variety of stuffing (there was one filled with brocolli that was absolutely delicious, as well as a heavenly truffled version the previous night), polenta with wild mushrooms, beef braised in Amarone and risotto, also cooked in Amarone (which turns it a wonderful purple colour). There was loads of cheese to enjoy, too – especially the local cheese, Monte Veronese, which comes in a number of incarnations, from mild-flavoured and daisy-fresh to a slightly aged version whose skin had been turned purple with (you've guessed it) Amarone and an aged, nutty cheese that tasted like a very tangy Parmesan.

Although I found myself tempted to eat all that was put in front of me, I resisted the urge and found an unexpected benefit. By the time we rolled back to the hotel it was easy for me to fall asleep – most of my colleagues, nursing full bellies, had a tougher time of it.