Fit or fat

So a funny thing – turns out that smoking really does keep you thin. Either that, or giving up makes you fat. My trousers are buckling. I have a gut. My thighs are gracefully arabesquing out sideways. In short, when I go to lie by a pool in three weeks time, I am going to be the slow, determined walker who has to think about where they put their feet in case they crush a stray child.

Last night, I tried on my swimwear for my post-Edinburgh holiday. It was disastrous. It’s a positive kindness that nobody has to see me naked apart from my mirror which must have the moral fibre on an epic scale not to have cracked in fright.

Iin this case, the cat most certainly cannot have the cream: I’ve been punished for my dithering by a spare tyre that you could throw to swimmers in distress. I genuinely cannot remember a time when I had this much excess poundage lurking around my midriff. Thank Christ for low-rise trousers, anything higher and I’d be constricted to tracksuits. Only I don’t own a tracksuit, so I’d have to go and buy one. Dear God, don’t make me go and have to buy a tracksuit.

I wonder if going to the gym twice today and tomorrow and two weeks of frantic flyering will somehow distract me from food and boredom. It better had – dumpy 5’ girls look cute and voluptuous. Dumpy 6’ girls look like wrestlers.