I am having a Fat Attack. It won’t be the first or the last. I am a right chubster and no mistaking.
It is as if I am dragging around a pink Draylon sofa in my knickers with two winged armchair outriders and an Ikea pouff up my jersey. If I linger too long in John Lewis strangers will plop their carrier bags down and take advantage of my scatter cushions.
If this is not enough Dorian Gray has gone AWOL and I am confronted with the harsh overhead light of middle-age. There is no SJP here ladies, tripping around town in a child’s tutu and FMBs with a feathery frippery on top of her heed, how could her mother let her out without a vest? I am the real deal, a middle aged, saggy arsed, blancmange gutted, wibbly wobbly jelly being.
I am peering at my visage in the en suite mirror, pulling up my forehead, and thinking about the immediate benefit of Spanx and a fringe.
‘This’, I weep, as a grey hair falls into my G and T, ‘this,’ I cry, as I hoist my bosoms to the nipple height of an 18 year old, ‘is not the life I ordered!’
I am lying in bed with my favourite husband. He grabs the light switch with his free hand and fixes me with a rueful stare.
Switching the light off he exclaims,
He turns the light on,
‘Jade Goody!’ he says
‘This’ he says snuggling deeply and gratefully into my ample comforts, ‘this,’ he says burying his head in my warm and wobbly valleys, ‘is a lot more wife than I ordered’.