Eva Bradley: Big Brother spies on bulge battle

I have a new pal and I hate him already. He goes with me everywhere, constantly demands my attention, has me in a constant state of guilt and (although not in so many words) he keeps calling me fat. Who does that?

Myfitnesspal is an iPhone application I downloaded in a moment of hopeful optimism after a illicit post-pub Big Mac combo a few weeks back.

As I sat and stared at the greasy wrappings knowing the even greasier contents were now making a permanent home on my hips, I voiced an urgent need to go on a diet. This was hardly news to my friends. Like all women across the developed world, I am regularly on some sort of diet for a few hours at a stretch, mostly between lunchtime and dinner.

I fall off the wagon and climb back on so often it actually counts as my main form of cardiovascular calorie burning. But this time thanks to Myfitnesspal, I have Big Brother watching my every move (especially those that take me in a beeline for the fridge). Each morning I am allotted the niggardly sum of 1200 calories and throughout the day I am required to enter in all the foods I eat and then watch in dismay as my remaining calories shrink faster than my waistline could ever be expected to.

The system relies on equal measures of honesty and guilt. If I accidentally-on-purpose forget to enter that rogue savoury muffin that appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as fast at morning tea time, the waves of guilt that wash over me throughout the day hurt more than the hunger pangs had I simply not eaten it.

And so it is that where once I was a popular friend to meet with for a ladies' lunch or a sneaky calorie-loaded savvy after work, I have instead become two things I despise: a person who counts calories and one who does it by sitting at a cafe tapping away on her iPhone.

Worse, I am constantly irritating my friends by informing them every time they lift a forkful of food to their mouth that (according to my iPhone) they are about to consume two-thirds of their recommended daily food allowance.

Of course like any diet, there are some fabulous ways to cheat. Last night I ate an entire pizza at a restaurant but walked out (okay, waddled) with my head held high knowing the trim flat white at the end had artificial sweetener in it instead of my usual large spoonful of sugar.

The night before I ate three courses at the local curry house but left one spoonful of ice-cream at the bottom of my dish out of respect for the fact I was still taking my diet seriously. There is of course the honest way to get the calorie count down - actually doing exercise. Like a good mate always eager to help, my darling little iPhone app has a cardio counter that offsets calories burned with those consumed.

Ignorance was bliss, though, and I have to admit it is rather devastating to learn that while a glass of Hawke's Bay sav goes down so easily in just a few minutes, getting rid of it takes 20 minutes of blood, sweat and tears on the treadmill. It's enough to put a girl off drinking. Almost. At the end of each day, Myfitnesspal compares my final calorie tally with my goal weight and tells me how long it will take to reach it. For a few weeks I was on track to cross the finish line in a couple of months. Now thanks to all the pizza and butter chicken, I expect I'll be celebrating my goal weight along with my retirement. Myfitnesspal is fast becoming Myfitnessenemy. Fortunately unlike irritating friends in the real world, this virtual one can be deleted with the touch of a button. And a celebratory glass of wine, in all its 100-calorie splendour.