"We've had this conversation a thousand times!" Magro groans as he is forced to tear his eyes away from the fifth Game of Thrones book yet again.

In case you're new to this blog, Magro is the nickname I give to my boyfriend to afford him a bit of anonymity. It's a mix between "Maro", an abbreviated version of his surname and high school nickname, and the fact that magro means thin in Italian which he definitely is.

As in... thin and Italian.

"I know but you're not helping me!" I whine in a fit of petulance, staring at my stubborn figure in the mirror. "Why are you so slim? It's not fair, it must be your genes!"

"You can have any type of body you want. Just give up sugar." He shrugs, going back to the book, a line of determination set between his brows.

I gape at him in horror. He has tossed this "simple" instruction out as if it were a case of giving up brussel sprouts (which actually, for the record, I quite enjoy).

"I can't just give up sugar! You may as well tell me to give up water!"

He fixes me with those lovely brown eyes which for the moment I can't appreciate as they're regarding me with a mixture of despair and expectation.

"Yes. You can." He says quite simply.

I know that when he's got a book on his lap, it's not the right time to grill him on exactly what this means ("Do strawberries count?" No. "Does alcohol?" Yes. Damn.) but I just can't help myself; I'm hooked on the idea of shedding the Italy-kilos.

It's not that I'm anywhere near overweight but since arriving in Italy 10 months ago, my weight has slowly but surely crept up. This strikes me as mightily unfair seeing as I cycle to and from work every day, swim at least twice a week, power walk a couple of lunchtimes each week and have exchanged going to the local restaurant with my colleagues at lunch (where, for a mere 50 cents, I am guaranteed a huge steaming plate of delicious pasta) for quinoa with grilled vegetables and yoghurt with compote. I normally eat a piece of fruit or a couple of biscuits for breakfast and then eat dinner with Magro in the evening.

He, on the other hand, drinks a huge mug of full fat milk with two hefty teaspoons of Ovalmaltine chocolate powder and at least six Loacker wafer biscuits for breakfast, eats at least two courses at lunch time which will normally be pasta or pizza and then meat or fish and then eats the same dinner that I do in the evening.

Not. Fair.

But other people always see us for what we really are don't they?

And he has noticed, more than I have, that I have a serious sugar habit.

I grew up having dessert with every meal (sometimes I'd have dessert for breakfast!) and the cravings I get after passing six hours or more without sugar just do not bear thinking about.

If we're eating out, I'll have a dessert without fail even if I'm already stuffed. If we're walking around the city, I'll have an ice cream because how could I not? If we eat in, I'll snaffle a few squares of chocolate in afterwards without thinking. And when Magro's Dad offers me second, third, maybe fourth helpings? It would be rude not to.

In short, I lack the self control which my infuriating over half relishes in and I am now embarking on a journey of to find my own.

I'm going cold turkey.

I know it's more likely that I'll crack but if I can scrape the motivation together to get through the first week(s) I'll be laughing before I know it.

I'll let you know how I get on and hopefully convince any of you fellow sugar dependents out there that it is possible!

Just someone get the strawberries ready...