December 2018. I was rolling, tumbling and swearing at the waves of Banana Beach, a small coastal town south of Hiberdene in KwaZulu-Natal. You can’t actually call it a town; it’s a community of hard-core South Coast surfers and retirees looking to find new meaning after years of slogging away in Gauteng. Throw in the odd musician and a holidaymaker and you have a melting pot of characters, all vying for a place in the sun. Christmas at Banana Beach is filled with sun, sea, family and food – delicious German biscuits and stollen, my German husband’s version of Christmas cake.
I felt like a stranded whale: overweight, unhealthy and lost to the world. I was 53 and in the throes of menopause, continually experimenting with hormonal treatments to reduce the weight I had gained over the previous 10 years. At 1.74m tall, I carried most of my weight in my face, hearty bosom and love handles. I had given up on myself and couldn’t bear to look in the mirror.
Nothing seemed to help. My husband was walking on eggshells; he dared not touch the soft, squishy bulge around my waist. I restricted my eating. I punished myself with daily injections. I took up walking, yoga, Atkins, vegetarianism, you name it. Despite everything, the turquoise electronic scale in my bedroom continued to mock me. You’re a failure;
