"Gosh, I am terrible for snacking at work" the Director of Operations, Mama's eldest sister, revealed to us over her coffee. "I have to eat half my lunch by about half past ten" she said.
"Urm, don't you start work at ten, though?" I asked.
"Yeah!"
You see, what help are genetics like that to a chubby girl like me?
As we sat having breakfast, Mama got up to give Harry the Dog some chew bits to keep him quiet. At the rattle of the box, both Hermione and Rose the pussycats wanted in on the action too.
"Arrrrrrr" they moaned, weaving in and out of our legs.
"Ooooh, bloody hell" Mama cursed, as she fed the dog, manoeuvred the cats out of the way with her foot and filled up the cat bowls, seemingly all in one movement.
"Rrrrrrrr....." the cats miaowed loudly again, eager to be fed and be shown the same love as the dog. Somebody once told me that you feed and love and water and look after a dog, and they think that you are God. You feed and love and water and look after a cat, and they think that they are God.
Mama put the bowl down, and instantly Rose- her cat- got stuck in.
Hermione, however- my cat- simply walked off, satisfied that she could command our attention when necessary.
I laughed. "She just likes the fuss over her" I said. "She is just like me".
Mama snorted. "The difference being that wouldn't have walked off, you'd have licked the bowl clean".
That might be true, but she didn't have to say as much, did she?
"And would madam care for a few more sandwiches? Or perhaps you'd like to move on to the scones?"
I looked at mama who silently communicated to me that for her, it was all about the cake. I looked at the outrageously handsome waiter looming over me and considered how he was implying a direction, not a choice. I looked at the really thin woman sat opposite us and how she probably wouldn't have more sandwiches if offered.
"One last sandwich would be wonderful" I replied, taking not one but two when he came back with the silver tray. It would have been easier for the bottom-like-a-ripe-peach waiter just to leave the sodding tray instead of coming and going like a yo-yo, but as we were in The Dorchester, the Queen of England's home away from home, I thought it best just to follow protocol. And every time the waiter walked away from the table I got a glimpse of how God intended man to look, so all was not lost.
Me, my mama, and my Primark dress had quite a lovely day. We went to see the taping of 'Loose Women' at the London Television Studios and then took afternoon tea to celebrate (belatedly) her birthday. Minnie Driver was a guest on the show and surprisingly likable. She wore a great dress, too. I bet that hers was not Primark.
"Gosh, I've had sushi today and look at me pigging out on salad now!" the thin woman opposite us squealed. Even from the opposite side of the room I could see that she had not touched her leaves at all. She omitted a high-pitched giggle. She was very annoying.
"Yar, yar, totally" the chap whom was chatting her up over his business college's head nodded. "But, um, yar, what is sushi but, urm, yah, calorie-free orderves?" He followed this insightful comment with a "Uh-huh huh huh" posh laugh.
That is the thing about London, isn't it? There is just so much poshness and money and sex everywhere. And thinness. We saw Fern Britton walking down the road at one point during our little mother-daughter day trip and even she was half the size she appears on camera. If I were not made of stronger stuff, I'd have resisted any more sandwiches at all. But as we had it, I had the sandwiches. And the scones. And the little mini cakes that were not dissimilar to tiny works of art. I had two whole pots of tea, too. I now feel very full.
"Can't life be grand?" Mama said on the way out, patting her belly.
It certainly can, I agreed. It certainly can.
I feel all warm inside. Really, really warm. In fact I'm a bit sweaty to be honest.
I am STILL ill. The only plus side to being ill this long (nine days and counting, folks) is the drugs. Oh yes.
Today alone I have consumed:
- Thirteen throat lozenges
- Two-thirds of a bottle of cough syrup
- Eight ibuprofen tablets
- Eight paracetamol
- Eight puffs on an asthma inhaler
- Six spurts on a nose inhaler
- Three bouts of 'Happy Nose'
- Six anti-histamines
As well as having:
- Rubbed half a tub of Tiger Balm on my wrists
- Massaged nearly a whole tub of Nivea into my nose
- Liberally applied Vaseline to my chaffed lips
If you try to give me a cuddle, I'd slip right through your arms I am that lubricated up. The Boyfriend thinks it is quite funny that I am falling to bits in such an extent that I am practically being held together with gaffa tape.
I know how poorly I really am because of the things I have found myself crying at:
- Coronation Street (*ahem*, urm... twice)
- The O.C.
- Saying goodbye to The Boyfriend for another week yesterday
- Hermione the Cat looking cute
- Not having enough attention from The Parents
- Having too much attention from The Parents ("You guys... hiccup... are just so kind... hiccup")
The best bit about being so poorly though? I've barely eaten for eight days. That means two things:
1. I look thin.
and most importantly
2. When I am better I have every excuse to eat the cupboards bare.
Roll on full health.
"How was your X-Biking last night then?" the Director of Operations asked me.
"I... urm... well, you know. I haven't been...urm... this week" I mumbled, aware that I had the eyes of Nice Auntie, Sober Auntie, Mama, the D.O. and Nanna all on me, questioningly. "What with The Boyfriend being back and everything..." I reasoned. "We did a nice long walk last night instead".
I omitted the fact that I also ate six huge truffles from Switzerland in front of the telly last night too. It was ying and yang, you know- Karma and Feng Sui and that. Plus, the label on the packet says 'BERGRENZTE HALTBARKEIT CONSERVATION LIMITEE'. I believethat is Swiss-German for 'Breathe Easy Calorie Content Limited to Zero', which I thought was particularly thoughtful of both The Boyfriend and the chocolate maker.
"Eeeeee" Sober Auntie said, "Look at this!" She was holding up a baby-pink stuffed rabbit toy by the ears, which would have been quite strange if it weren't the fact that the whole reason we were all assembled was because we had bumped into each other in the local market place and decided to pay the Director of Operations a visit 'in situ' of her new job at a children's boutique.
I was relieved that my exercise interrogation was over before it had begun.
There was a chorus of "Eeeeeeee" in reply, which I think was some sort of family Derbyshire chant for 'Gosh, how lovely'.
"Oh! And this!" said mama, holding up a little pink dress.
"And look at that!" Sober Auntie pointed, relinquishing the rabbit to Nice Auntie in favour of fiddling with a stripey all-in-one that read 'If You Think I am Cute Then Just Look At My Mum'.
"Eeeeeeee!" they chorused, again.
We had been in the children's boutique less than three minutes and already I had a headache. I had only wanted to pop in to see my auntie, not to actually look at kids clothes. But alas, what with Verbose Auntie having become a grandma again recently the game was on for buying presents.
"Look at this!" Mama said, holding up a blue dress that wouldn't even fit my thigh (I don't suppose that is the point though- I know).
"Nope" I said flatly. "Tacky buttons. Crappy flower-shaped buttons. I'd never dress my kid in that." I pursed my lips for effect.
Everybody went silent.
And stared at me.
They blinked.
I had forgotten about Commandment Number Four. "Thoust shall, at all times, show a strong desire for settling down and pro-creating". I learnt, in that quick ten seconds, that critiquing any garment of child's clothing counts as blasphemy under this very commandment.
"What?!" I exclaimed. "It is true!"
"You wait" they chorused. There was so much chorusing going on I felt like I was in a stage production of 'Antigone'. "You wait until you have your own kids. Then you'll think it's cute" they smiled.
"It is not because I do not have children that I do not like it. It is because it is ugly" I replied. "Those are horrible buttons".
"Not long before you do have them though, isn't it?!" the D.O. teased, to much (chorused) laughter from everybody else and only a mild bout of frowning from Sober Auntie, who is so desperate to become a grandma that she thinks that she has the monopoly on her two boys fathering children next. It is only fair, she argues. It would break my heart to tell her that I don't think anybody would have their babies any time soon. Well, sort of. I'd be smiling just a little bit.
"Yes, I suppose the twins will be on their way soon, won't they?" Nanna said, laughing.
It is a running joke amongst the aunties that I am supposed to give birth to twins this year- when I was a teenager I had both my tarot and palm read on two unrelated occasions and both said that in 2008 I would get pregnant. With twins. Everybody in the family has a twin (practically), so I don't find it very funny. But...
"Actually, if it happened I wouldn't mind" I replied sweetly. "I can't wait for little Clementine and Sebastian. But I wouldn't dress them in that" I said, pointing at the offending dress.
And when I really, really think about it, I was telling the truth. I wouldn't mind babies. It's a girl thing.
On the way back to the car Nice Auntie asked me, "Were you serious back there?"
"Well, sort of" I replied. "You know, like if it happened then it'd be okay but I wouldn't plan for it or anything. That'd be weird. I think I'd be a good mum though"
"I do too" she said.
And, I thought to myself, there is absolutely no X-Biking involved in pregnancy. I'd never need another excuse not to go again. And I could eat more than six Swiss truffles. I quite like the idea of 'eating for two'.
"And I cannot wait to get involved in the drama club, and maybe the dance club, ohhh and I hope that there is some sort of comedy club" I twittered on at The Boyfriend, as we took the most lovely walk around a huge local reservoir today. "I'd like to learn to be funny" I declared.
The sun was shining, the birds a-singing, and amazingly despite the fact that The Boyfriend has been here two whole days I haven't yet throttled him, nor him me.
Needless to say I had an enormous sense of well-being as we happily rambled on about This, That and The Other. Before long the conversation had turned to our plans for the summer and then to my excitement at impending mature-student-dom in September.
The Boyfriend nodded encouragingly at what I was saying. He was excited that I was excited I think.
"If there was a comedy club maybe I'd find the French to my Saunders" I enthused.
He nodded manically.
I had a silent vision flash before my eyes of meeting a like-minded soul who would make me laugh and me them, us taking over the comedy circuit together and making others laugh forever more. There would never be a sick person again, not with me and my comedy twin! Hospitals would be defunct- we could laugh people better! People would never be mean to one another ever again because we'd make them laugh with gay abandon and so they would make love, not war. The world would be saved from itself and my comedy double act would be responsible!
I thought for a second or two longer, and suddenly images of Doctor Nasty flooded my mind.
The Boyfriend furrowed his brow, questioningly.
"Oh who am I kidding?" I sighed. "It'd be more like the Saunders to my French."
"So." I said to The Boyfriend over a glass of Pinot Grigio and a bowl of pitted olives. "Since you have been gone, I have added another thing to my 'Things I would Like to Achieve in My Lifetime' list".
I had just picked him up from the station, and even though his anticipated month-and-a-bit-trip to Switzerland (blah, blah, blah) was only ten days in the end, I have missed him enormously. The evening was like a competition to see who could say the most words per sentence in an attempt to catch up.
"Right. Okay" he replied, anxiously. "Go on then..."
"I would like to pen a Mills and Boon style novel" I shook my hands in a jazz-style shimmy, excited by my own news.
"Mills and Boon?"
"Yup."
"Isn't that quite a hard thing to have on your list?"
"Harder than becoming a Loose Woman?"
"I see your point."
"I think I'd be very good at it. I've started a bit already. So I thought that tomorrow we could go to that second hand bookshop I was telling you about so that I can do some research"
"Baby?"
"Yeah?"
"Is this just some excuse to read a bit of porn?"
"No! I am serious!"
"Baby?"
"Yeah?"
"Why don't you write a cookery book?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you have already done the research for that."
The novelty of him being home wore off right about... then.
"That's great, just one more hill! Come on! That's great guys! You can do it! Brilliant! Yeah!"
The very skinny woman leading our semi-circle of stagnant bikes uses a lot of exclamation points when she speaks. She is thin. And tan. And... perky. I hate her.
"And we'll just do it one last time!" she exclaims, pretty much to a resounding, "No, we won't!" from the rest of us. There is a lot of pinky flesh on show by the end of the class, and not an inch of it hers. I hate her. Did I say that already? Fortunately, the hills are only virtual so it is entirely possible to sit them out.
On the advice of Doctor Nasty I have paid my £1.90 to partake in this charade. They call it "X-Biking" (Not Yet Patented), which is basically an exercise bike with movable handlebars, "...for a really great workout!" says the skinny woman at the front. After my first class on Tuesday my bum was really sore so I suppose it must be doing something.
In fact, the last time my bum was this sore was when I had not long learnt to horse ride, and I went on a two hour beach trek with The Boyfriend in India where he galloped and cantered all over the sand and into the waves whilst I rose to the sodding trot for an agonising hundred and twenty minutes. Bounce, bounce, bounce.
Even by the time I had gotten back to our guesthouse there were already bruises showing on my derriere and inner thighs. The Boyfriend had to rub some magical Tiger Balm into the sore spots for me and then forgot that he still had it on his hands when he went to the loo and ended up practically burning his Johnston with the menthol delight. I think he might have even cried.
But alas, he is not here to rub in Tiger Balm to my sore spots now. He is in Switzerland (blah, blah, blah). I cannot reach myself. I will have to suffer. No pain, no gain. Plus, I do not want to risk burning my own 'Johnson'. Ouch.
Anyways.
I threatened, if you remember, that if everyone was in Lycra and thin then I would not be staying. As I made it to my second class this evening I suppose you can guess that aside from the instructor there was no no thin-ness. There was Lycra though. Oh yes.
It would seem that one family in the whole area has a monopoly on the class, so I sweat and huffed and puffed with leotard-clad Crazy Jane (the Grandma at about fifty years old), her two daughters, and between them four more kids of varying ages. One of them was called Chantelle. I think the others were Candice, Chelsie and Courtney. Probably.
Halfway through the class Chantelle's mobile rings. She answers.
"Mum!" she calls across the room. "Dad says where is the Indian takeaway menu so that he can have it on the table for when we get home?". I felt very smug when I had my vegetarian low fat, low-taste supper later on.
Next week, I'm going wear a crop top sports bra. Crazy Jane and her family are in for some Lycra-clad competition. Oh yes.
I hope they invite me for takeaway afterwards- or at least share their Mars Bars.
"You are overweight" the doctor told me, as she uploaded my details onto the computer. "But you probably knew that, didn't you?" It is as if she is unbelieving that I can even walk with my thighs joining at the top and all this junk in my trunk. I can seem her muse exacly how I even manage to waddle out of bed in the mornings. She stares at me over her glasses.
I look to the floor. "Urm, well... I... No, actually. I didn't". I was telling the truth.
"Yup" she says, again. "Overweight". She is judging me. I can tell.
I am mortified. Embarrassed. And very, very, upset. Overweight? Like, Daily Mail reader overweight or Texan deep-fried chicken overweight? Big, or super sized? Am I disgusting? These are questions that I am too afraid to ask, I fear the answer, so I sit quietly and say nothing instead.
It is the longest ten minutes of my life.
I wrangle through the rest of my appointment with her- I only wanted a repeat prescription of The Pill for crying out loud!- and then forcefully hold back the tears as I wait in the adjourning pharmacy for the dispension.
I get into my car and cry.
They are big, heavy tears, right from my belly. It doesn't make me feel any better.
I get home. I stop crying. I eat an apple and have a very big glass of water. That is what thin people do, isn't it? I feel very boring. I crave sugar.
I think. I love my body. I love myself. I have a brain and a sense of humour and not an altogether unattractive face. If I was thin would that not be a bit too much? Surely no fellow female would like me is I was thin- isn't that the rule? I am likable because I am flawed. My tummy is my flaw. I am united with other women in my flaws. Aren't I?
I play back recent 'chubby' related events in my mind. Baby Brother calling me 'Shieeda' and grabbing me from behind to tell me 'Belly has got you!". Dad 'thoughtfully' picking up a leaflet for a spinning class at the local leisure centre. The Boyfriend noting every time I ate a chocolate this weekend. Am I fat? Is being overweight the same as being fat?
I finished my apple. I wanted chocolate to calm me down. I took a breath. I dialled the number for the leisure centre.
"Hi" I said, in a wobbly voice. "I'd like to book in for the X-Bike class tonight please".
If everybody there is in Lycra and thin, then I'm not staying.
  
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