I joined Weight Watchers today.  For about the tenth time.  For about ten minutes.  I made all these promises to myself before I walked in.  The same promises that I make whenever I start a new diet.  I am not going to let it rule my life.  I am just going to use it as a guideline.  I am not going to get obsessive about it.  I filled out the form.  I met the leader.  I peeled off my layers, though stopped short of stripping down to my undies and going to the loo as others were doing and am sure I too have done in the past.  I stepped on the scales.  I politely answered 'roughly' when asked if the number was what I expected when what I really wanted to scream was 'No, I am completely flummoxed, I've been walking around thinking I am the size of Kate Moss and that is what brought me here'.  I looked over the 'aids' on offer, roughly translated as 'highly processed snacks which taste like shit' which sustain you for a nanosecond.  I paid my fee, stood my ground about only wanting to pay for today as opposed to 5 years in advance.  Then I sat down.  And read the 'plan'.  Let's not kid ourselves here, a diet is what it is.  Why can't we just call things what they actually are any more?  I tried to drown out the too familiar drone around me.  People talking about weight tips, using 'diet coconut yogurt to make curry and you'd never know', how 'this is the fifteenth time I've joined but it really works', the leader's voice talking to the new recruits about the new plan which is 'so much easier and successful than all the previous ones'.  Then inside me.  One word.  Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!  Before I knew what I was doing, I stood up and walked straight out.  Palpitating.  Fully expecting a pair of hands to grab me by the shoulders and shout  'and just where do you think you're going missy?'.  I can't do it anymore.  I just can't.  I know for many people, these sorts of clubs are fantastic, but for me, they just hit that rebellious button in my head with the 'I won't be told' sign with a sledgehammer.  This is not the way forward for me.  I don't know what is but know for sure that this isn't it.  As I was sitting on that chair, I could think of only two things.  At roughly this time last year, at Slimming World, a friend that had just rejoined, said there was an awful sense of familiarity and she said it with an awful sense of forboding.  And secondly.  That fucking brilliant line from Little Britain.  'Oh man, she fat cos she looooooove de cake'!