Cooeee! You dear. Excuse me. Hellooo. it’s me. Don’t shut the door, please. I have been hanging in this wardrobe for eight dusty years and I just want to talk to you.
Listen, don’t ignore me, dear. I’m not going anywhere. I am too expensive to throw away so I guess you are stuck with me. I certainly get stuck on you when you try and wear me. Last time you nearly broke my zip (you imbecile) so you owe me a bit of your precious time.
I promise I am not taunting you. Well maybe a little as I am a bit spoilt and haughty – it is my breeding – being a high end dress and all. I am used to much better treatment than this.
You promised me when you brought me that you would wear me loads and loads. That I would be worth every penny and every time you went out I would go too. That’s what you told that man you were with anyway. The new husband. How you twisted him around your little finger.
Do you know how many times you have worn me since you brought me on Honeymoon in Hong Kong?
Don’t pretend you can’t remember. Let me remind you.
And where did we go – Planet smelly Hollywood.
I am not even sure I am in fashion anymore *cries, controls itself and then snarls.*
Kate Galloway could have brought me and at least I would have seen some good times. And I would have looked fabulous on her on GMTV.
There was a moment there I thought I’d be going to Marbella on that hen do. You managed to skinny up for that didn’t you. Just because there were 15 women going and you didn’t want to be the blob on the beach. How long did that last – not bloody long enough I tell you.
And then, oh my days, you got pregnant again. I think we both know you’ll be lucky to see a size twelve again. Get your head out of the clouds – that last pregnancy destroyed your figure. It was not the baby’s fault. You were the one that stuffed and stuffed and stuffed. My friends are probably with women that live on half an apple seed and I end up with Mrs Piggy’s greedier sister. Pah!
At least put me in a charity shop or give me to one of your nieces. A trip to Nandos might be preferable to this hell.
Do you like being a fatty? Sorry was that mean? Did I hurt your feelings?
Well, I’ll tell you what being mean is, being stuck next to these size 14 Next jeans (Next jeans!! I could just about stomach Levi’s). I now see that some size 16 tops are creeping in (don’t give me that crap about liking them a little loose). It is an outrage. I cannot keep the company of this riff raff a moment longer. If it wasn’t for the Gina shoes you got for your wedding, I’d have gone slowly mad.
Enough, chubster. This is what you need to do:
- Have the lovely breakfast of cereal and juice, just don’t have the tea and toast an hour later after the school run (I don’t care if it’s what you do when you watch Don’t get done, get Dom).
- Elevenses are for pensioners. You do not have to partake with a Kit Kat.
- You do not have to reward yourself for doing the shopping with a Double Decker, hoovering the house with a Topic, or tackling the breakfast/lunch combo dishes with a Bubbly bar.
- The children are hungry when they come in from school as they have not eaten since lunch. They need a snack. You do not. And cheese strings are for toddlers (and no, cheese is not healthy no matter what you tell yourself).
- Just because the children have leftovers does not mean they can’t go in the bin. You are not doing an injustice to the third world, by not eating that smiley face and half a fish finger.
- You do not need a brew and orange Club when you watch 90210 or the Apprentice in the evening.
- Friday and Saturday night do not have to be take-away party nights just because you want to mark the weekend. That man of yours is a good cook let him rustle up some healthy versions of the calorie laden cack you consume at the end of the week.
I’ve been watching you and I am not happy. Not happy at all. Those big fat boobies of yours will never fit inside my delicate threads as they stand. Bursting out all over the place. So common.
I know you have joined a gym because I was chin-wagging to your trainers – who were also gathering dust with only two outings in the past four months. But two outings more than me. That is so not fair.
Right, dear, it is time to get yourself together. Stop waiting for an event, or a thing to make you start getting in shape. Do it for yourself. And yourself only.
I know it has been stressful of late and I hear from your orange stained tee-shirts (tut tut!) that you often reach for that biscuit tin when your little boy is ill or refuses to eat. I’ve heard you joke that for every pound he gains; you will try and lose one. Well, it is time to start. Overeating will only make you feel worse, drain you of energy and prevent you wearing fabulous frocks EVER again. Good golly – can you imagine.
STOP RIGHT THERE. Put down that Warburton’s Toastie.
It starts today. One step at a time. One small change at a time. Okay? Got that. Thank you.
We will be reunited. You can do this. I know I will be eight seasons old *sobs* so I am expecting you to carry me off with aplomb and some rather fabulous shoes. No doubt that will be fine anyway as we are hardly going to the Mayfair Hotel; I heard your rock and roll kicks come from the curry house at the top of the road anyway.
Right, then. Sorted, It’s a deal. But mark my words missy if I’m not given an airing in at least a year’s time, then I am making the Primark cardigan’s life hell and you know how sensitive they can be – fall apart at the smallest thing. That’s what happens when you are from the wrong side of town.
|Gabe says: “I love my mummy’s comfy belly. And you have delusions of grandeur dress as
you were in the sale and a snip at a quarter of the price. So there.”