There are always ironies in life, or perhaps all life is an irony that makes God smile — an inconsistency between what He expected from the Creation and what actually occurred. Ah, such are the thoughts that provoke us when the late-night film on the TV is one of those straight-to-DVD epics that can only be shown on terrestrial channels when all sane people have gone to bed. Who’d be a night owl when the public library is closed and you can’t pop round to borrow the next few unread tomes from the shelves.

So we have only one more day to go in my diary. As the cycle goes around and comes around, the seasons change. This year, Christmas on phentermine meant no alcohol for me. Curiously, I’ll be starting the Acomplia at the beginning of Lent which poses the question of what I am to give up. It’s supposed to be something I do a lot of and find pleasure in.

When you’ve just spent nearly two years reducing your life’s focus to the bare minimum of eating — something which I used to take enormous pleasure in doing — the idea of giving up something else does produce a slightly less than divine smile. Forty days of additional self-control for the good of my soul. Now that’s a real challenge for someone whose whole life has become one long act of self-denial.

Perhaps I should consider the idea of not starting the Acomplia. As a real test of my will power, could I really keep going without the crutch of medication? There’s my husband, family and friends to help me. But, somehow, the idea frightens me.

So many other people seem to fail. They give up on the exercise first and then the diet slowly slips until they’re eating as they did before and, before you can say, "It’s Palm Sunday!", all the weight has crept back. I wonder why that is. Why does the habit of eating less not stick?

It’s all very strange. A habit is something we learn (or should that be "acquire") through frequent repetition so that it becomes an often unconscious pattern of behaviour. To be a habit, we should do it without thinking. So why don’t good food practices become habits? Are those hormones in our heads so powerful that, through hunger and more subtle manipulation of our desires, all our best intentions can come to naught?

After all, that’s how Acomplia’s supposed to work. All that clever chemistry to block our hunger, to limit the way in which the pleasure centre in our brain rewards us. Now, that’s fighting fire with fire. All those natural little cannabis-like chemicals floating around in our brains that would make us feel good are stopped in their tracks. You know, when I come to think about it, that’s one of the reasons why I feel uncomfortable about taking either phentermine or Acomplia, or any medication truth be told. I liked the way my head worked before I started taking all these magic CB1 blockers. Now I’m never really sure what is me and what is the pill.

Perhaps that’s why I’m sitting here actually toying with the idea of not going on with these weight loss medications. Perhaps my will power is strong enough. And what better time to find out than during Lent?

When I was young, I remember reading Satre. Are we always the sum of our free choices — shaping our lives by defining our essence? Is this my chance to take full responsibility for who I am and what I am to become?

Ah, the ironies just pile one on top of the other tonight. How can I be discussing existence in an indifferent universe when Lent is when we remember the sacrifice that God made out of love for us?

In that TV film I’m not watching, the hero has just rescued the heroine from a fate that might not have been worse than death itself, but it would certainly have been pretty painful for a while. The credits are scrolling up the screen. That seems to be a natural punctuation mark in these thoughts. A full stop that gives me pause and offer me the chance to start a new sentence.

Tomorrow I start taking the Acomplia. It’s in my diary. That’s my plan for weight loss until the next washout and the phentermine comes around. I may be a weak vessel. Assuming that to be true, I’ll carry on relying on the medications until I’ve reached my allotted four score. After that, we can leave it to God.

I’ll talk to my husband about whether we’re going to give anything up for Lent this year. He’s always more practical than I am. Whether that makes him less spiritual. . . and if it does, whether it matters. . . This is not the time to care too much.