Yesterday I weighed myself in a toilet in Windsor, immediately burst into tears and jumped off the scales as though they were pumping a ferocious electric current through my jacksy.
How on earth could I weigh that much? How could I have added such a monumental amount to my body weight and not really have noticed? How were my clothes not fitting? How was I not wandering around the beautiful streets of Windsor in an Incredible Hulk style outfit with a doughnut in one hand and a Bratwurst in the other... and why was I weighing myself in a toilet in Windsor in the first place?
Well, the answer to that simply is that Windsor is an excellent place and the scales were one of those old school type ones that make you feel that you really ought to be wearing bloomers and a bonnet if you're going to hop on board.
I sank down the wall in this cubicle of doom and wondered how I could have been so blind in my stumble into obesity. Cold horror washed over me as I realised people must have been mocking me for weeks... were people appearing in the night and letting out my clothes so I didn't feel embarrassed? Were people watching me eating ice cream after ice cream and just praying for my health?
Then, I realised I had still been holding my hand bag when I got onto the scales. A small ray of hope appeared through the cholesterol heavy smog coating my brain... maybe I should just weigh myself again without my handbag? No. That would be stupid. Would it be? We ought to be accurate about how much despair we're feeling. Fine. We'll try it again sans sac-a-main.
A stone and a half lighter.
What?
How on earth does my hand bag weigh a stone and half? Now, obviously on the one hand I was thrilled that my body weight was now back down in a more manageable stratosphere (I should probably still avoid eating entire cows when I enter a restaurant but it'll be ok to have mayo). On the other hand, how have I reached a point where I am carrying around a bag that weighs the same as a toddler?!
I looked in the bag - purse, phone, keys, make up, filofax, two paperbacks, a drink, my comedy notebook, 3 newspapers, glasses, mp3 player, hairbrush... where did all this stuff come from? Why is there no suited man at my front door who inspects the contents of my bag as though I am going to get on a plane or go to a nightclub?
No shining light of common sense reminding me that no matter how quick a reader I am, I am never going to read the entirety of How To Be a Woman and the History of MI6 in one trip to Windsor... also, he might want to point out that if I get murdered this evening the contents of my bag are going to strongly suggest I was attempting to be the next Mata Hari.
I fled those toilets thoroughly ashamed of myself for;
a) panicking
b) having such a ridiculous imagination
c) carrying around so much crap all day
d) having weighed myself in a toilet in Windsor in the first place... when will I learn...
Today I'm going to try and leave the house with just the keys to get back in to it. And my purse and oyster card so I can get to where I need to go and buy what I need when I get there. And my phone in case of an emergency... and... oh bugger it. Sometimes a girl just needs her stuff. Spinal damage be damned.
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