“In general, you should try to drink between half an ounce and an ounce of water for each pound you weigh, every day.” For example, if you weigh 150 pounds, that would be 75 to 150 ounces of water a day. That means, about 3 litres daily is plenty.

Welcome to this week’s blog. Fluid retention? I’ve got that. Obsessive compulsive disorder? Yes, by self-diagnosis. Extra trips to the loo? Yes, up to 15 a day. I’ve been googling a lot lately, and am delighted to tell you why.

Over the course of the last week, I have consumed 4 litres of water a day for 5 days in a row. It’s true, I’m on a new health kick (who isn’t, since things have started getting back to normal?) I have included ‘drinking water as much as possible’ on my regime. I’ve also made a conscious decision to CUT BACK on alcohol, in an attempt to rid my evolving menopausal body from un-wanted sugar. I never said it was un-wanted, but apparently, according to society and her ever-present labels, it’s definitely un-wanted. I use the term ‘evolving’ loosely and hesitate to contemplate which direction said body is evolving. In addition, I rather sheepishly admit that I do use the menopause as an excuse for putting on a few extra pounds.

“Oh, it’s the menopause”, I cheerfully say when friends comment on my ‘fullness of late’.

“Still playing squash?” they ask sarcastically.

“Not as much” I reply in between mouthfuls of pistachio nut ice-cream. (It’s my favourite).

My FULLNESS has been quite noticeable, I’m definitely rounder, some might say I’m CUDDLIER, and my comely-ness more marked. The thing is, I’m okay with the way I look. I feel happy and I’m writing like a fiend about all sorts of things. But yes, I miss my athletic side and for the sake of my health, I agree it’s time for a few little tweaks.

So, I made a choice to stop drinking ‘as much’ alcohol, and increase my water consumption. I have noticed a strange yet interesting factor about my intake of non-alcoholic fluids. I never thought I’d say this, but I think I drink too much water. I might be over-doing it. I can’t figure out how I have put on 2 kilos in 10 days even though I stopped with the jugs of Prosecco and black rubbish bin-size bags of crisps, ate ONLY salads, and drank copious amounts of fizzy water.

Fizzy water. Voda. Aqua. Pervo. Sparkling. Frizzante. Bubbly. I can say it in multiple languages now. It’s like an obsession. Except I discovered that this obsession is now potentially causing me to turn into a walking reservoir of fantastic fizz. I am bloated beyond belief, which is why I turned to Dr. Google last night. Apparently, I am challenging my kidneys. Challenging my kidneys? Yes! My urine is definitely on the clear side, which is an indication that my kidneys are having a hard time keeping up with my intake.

Now, normally my ‘go-to’ drink of choice would be Prosecco (or Champagne if I was loaded). I love a good Cava. I’m not particular about the brand, but I let on that I know if it’s dry or semi-dry or sweet. I also have a tendency to drink it rather quickly, more like a beer. I prefer my Prosecco in a mug to be honest. Those slender and delicate slim-line glasses are absolutely pointless. I know I know, I’m so uncouth! But seriously, you might as well have a shot of prosecco by the time the fizz on the top of a standard pour dissipates.

“Oh, that’s lovely and dry” I’ll say, feigning a fancy swallow as I try to contain the massive gulp I just took.

“Isn’t it?” my cousin Maria doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about but is a better faker than me.

“It seems wet to me!” a friend from the north side of Dublin thinks she’s hilarious. She never really enunciates her T’s. Thus, the word WET sounds like WEH. You get the idea.

“Time for a top up?” I ask thirty seconds after the first glass is poured. And so, the story goes.

I drink Prosecco like I drink water. LITERALLY. Or, (getting to the point of this blog) in more recent weeks, I actually drink water like it’s Prosecco. I’m trying to do the right thing.

But today, I played squash and I imagine myself bumbling around the court, surprising my opponent with the odd bump into the back glass wall as I ricocheted off it. Those walls are far springier than I thought.

“Are the courts getting bigger?” I panted, bending over to pretend-tie my shoelace. It’s not easy to silently gasp for dear life, hoping my rival is just as knackered as me.

“Seems that way”, she chuckles and invites me to a shiny new bottle of Pellegrino. I can’t resist.

After the match, I waddle home while fiercely syncing my Polar watch to my phone, desperately looking to see how many calories were burned in that 65-minute battle. Once home, I collapse on the sofa feeling very proud of myself for lasting that long, and thinking I could have probably won if only I’d had a better grip on my racquet. Oh well, time to shower.

“There’s something wrong with the scales!” I call out to anyone in my Prague apartment who will listen. I’m in disbelief, so step on and off again, then stand on one leg with the other dangling, then hold up my boobs thinking that gravity might actually weigh heavier than we think.

“I don’t think so!” my partner pretends she’s not laughing at me. I’ve already caught her hiding her grin once today, and when I accuse her of making fun of me, she tells me she simply can’t get the image of me looking like a walking reservoir out of her mind.

“I imagine you like a moving geezer with holes in it!” she says.

Picture me, an upright water fountain much like the coolers at work. Imagine standing next to me on Monday morning as you stagger into work with a shocking hangover, grab a paper cup, place it under my spout (we won’t SAY WHERE that’s located!) and you look up to see my smiling face asking you how your weekend was. Along comes Sally, who’s equally pale, wiping the cold sweat off her putrid neck as she complains ‘there was something in that fish last night’…and grabs a paper cup.

“Hello”, I bubble, as a small helping of spittle oozes down my chin.

“Nice weekend?” I can’t help but launch into a rapid monologue of pure drivel in an attempt to hide my Michelin Man persona.

“Don’t drink too much water. It’ll kill you. Ruined my kidneys. I only found out because my urine is completely clear. Kidneys aren’t working at all. I’ve challenged them too much. Overdid it. The bloating is the worst though, look at my tummy. I’m not pregnant, no, don’t have any eggs left to be honest, so there’s no chance of that. Why do I look like the purple girl out of Willy Wonka? You know the one. The Oompa Loompas roll her around for a while as she slowly inflates and then we don’t see her again until the end of the movie.”

At this point, yourself and Sally begin to slowly back away from the water cooler curiously eyeing each other wondering if these hallucinations were from that fish last night, and then you promise Jesus Christ himself that you’ll never drink again.

“Don’t go!’ I plead. ‘I’m begging you! Stick a pin in me or something!”

It’s a funny thing isn’t it. You think you’re doing the right thing, giving up the booze, drinking more H2O. I’m SURE this bloating isn’t coming from all the water – or maybe it really is, at least according to our friends on the World Wide Web – but isn’t it fun to think about? Anyway, it’s Sunday night.  Prosecco anyone?