The ‘ fatbuster fairy’ appears to have stolen my scales! The most relevant and necessary gauging tool at this eleventh hour in proceedings and they have disappeared! The scales have vanished! Disaster! Do I blame it on my temporastate of malnourished insanity? Or is it lack of memory from cramming too many million other things into the day to remember where the left hand was placing the scales while the right hand was whipping up a souffle for the kids pudding?
I must have worked off at least 200 calories, running up and down the stairs, emptying cupboards manically, like a woman possessed. They could be anywhere…after all, I am prone to finding the newspaper in the fridge; this is just another example of typical absent mindedness.
The diet continues and I have images of furtive visits to Boots tomorrow; hiding behind the rows of baby talc until no-one is around , then jumping onto their less than generous digital scales. The potential public humiliation of being spotted on a Boots scale is a fate I certainly don’t relish at this late stage in proceedings. Apart from anything else, they’re not accurate! The mini interrogator shoots monitoring questions at it’s visitor before a single foot is stepped on the platform. Age? Height? Body type? Shoe size? Diet Preference? (Would you like fries with that???). Once satisfied one isn’t a hoax visitor or an alien, an invite is issued to step on the scales. It ‘ then hums and harrs’ for an eternity as to whether it’ll add that extra O.5 kilo JUST to annoy it’s desperate dieter. Inevitably, the 0.5 is duly added and the ticket is presented with a fanfare of indiscreet squeaks and clunks. Without fail, it announces an increase of over half a stone , I’m 4 ft 2, 58 years old and my name is Margaret. All for the bargain price of £2.50. Deep Joy.
Only around 30 hours left til deadline!
The house fills with wails as I can’t find my scales
©Tess Egerton 2011