Saturday, March 19, 2005


I intend that this will be the last time for a while I write about this. This being my realization that I am not quite as svelte as I was. It's unfortunate that each time I sit down to write something and enter pontification mode whilst wondering what to write about, I often seek out, regretfully, the rolls of excess fat that spill over my ever straining trouser belt. And I'm encouraged with feelings of dread (the terrible is always seductive) to clutch at either side of my stomach and squeeze- manipulate what I find. I'm feeling for a rippled tautness, I'm actually kneading two handfuls of strangely positioned dough. This often leads to rather more worrying behaviour, a tendency to shake them - the dough rolls - up and down as if I'm trying to reenact the motion of one of those strange vibrating massage belts they used to try to sell us back in the seventies:
" Just stand and relax and let the flabmaster loose the weight for you."At least I don't avoid the condition. I fumble around with it, gloomily. When I get dressed in the morning I strike naked poses in front of an unforgiving and unsympathetic mirror, wondering at my increasingly pear-shaped soft middle section and alarming cone-like teenage-girl teats. An act that I would imagine must seem to any passing peeper to be part coy-boy, part primping popinjay - but to me a physical lamentation a painful introspection of "how the heck did I come to look like this?"

When I was much younger I had no such problem. On the contrary I was skinny, in fact, worryingly thin. Anyone with decently long fingers could easily make a ring between their middle finger and thumb and run their digit-made circle from my wrist to the top of my arm - I won't mention bicep I'm trying to keep this factual - and back again in a kind of twisted homage to the fairground game (no-ones feelings ever got hurt with the steady metal loop avoiding charged wire gag) without touching the sides.

In the days when the fashion was for tight fitting shirts - bagginess was completely uncool, mine billowed out from the back as if inflated. I could have been under water or doing a little freefall having elected to wear my best Ben Sherman for parachute day. All my clothes had to be adjusted - my shirts had to be administered with no little skill by my sister and her toy sewing machine, three darts either side of a giant centre pleat. They had the heavy duty seamstressed-stitched appearance of a parachute. My trousers all had monster 'v's cut into the back with the material drawn together like a bald man's scalp correction op in a vain effort to conform to the tight clothed style. It all now seems such a distant memory. I am now a fatty. At least comparatively so.

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