whistle as I get dressed, and by the time I walk back down the stairs I’ve got a broad grin on my face.
‘You look better,’ Zoe says as I enter the kitchen.
‘Yeah . . . yeah, I feel better,’ I reply in a dreamy tone of voice.
Actually, it’s not a dreamy tone of voice, it’s a stoned tone of voice. Those pills must have been a lot stronger than I thought.
I amble over to the medicine drawer where I’d put them earlier and inspect the packet.
Oh no.
I picked up the wrong ones in the shop.
I thought I’d bought the 200 mg, where in actual fact they are 400 mg . Twice the fucking strength.
No wonder I’m a bit spaced. I’ve ingested enough anti- in flammatory medicine to stun a gorilla.
‘You alright?’ Zoe inquires from right beside me. I hadn’t noticed her enter the room.
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Because you’ve been staring at that packet for five minutes.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes, Greg.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are you going to be alright to go out?’
I put my hand on her shoulder. The softness of her jumper under my fingers is amazing. ‘Mmmmmm. ’Course I am, baby.’
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘Nothing. I may have just taken a little too much ibuprofen.’
‘Oh, Greg!’
‘Sssshhh,’ I tell her and put my hand on her soft, warm cheek. ‘It’ll be fine. I’m fine. It’s all fine. Fine and dandy. Dandy wandy.’
‘Oh, good grief.’
‘You have lovely skin. I don’t tell you that enough.’ I stroke my finger up her face. ‘Lovely, lovely skin. Skin, skin, skin, skinny, skin.’
‘I’m driving,’ Zoe says, breaking away from this disturbing analysis of her epidermis.
‘Okay, sweetheart. You drive. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’
I drift off to somewhere warm and bouncy for a moment.
‘I’ll not drive,’ I eventually say.
‘Oh, this is going to go well,’ my wife says with a level of exasperation I am completely oblivious to.
‘That’s the spirit!’ I cry happily and then walk straight into the kitchen door.
On the drive to Stream FM I’ve decided that ‘kumquat’ is the nicest word in the dictionary.
By the time I’m stripped down to my t-shirt and shorts and am waiting in the green room I’ve changed my mind. ‘Albumin’ is in fact the nicest word in the English language. ‘Kumquat’ is a distant second, with ‘moleskin’ crashing in to third place, slightly ahead of ‘wombat.’
‘I can’t believe there’s going to be a bloody audience for this,’ Zoe says from beside me.
The weigh-in is to be conducted in the large conference hall here at Stream FM’s offices. They’ve converted it into a temporary studio for this very purpose. A specially selected audience of a couple of hundred have been invited along to lend a certain atmosphere to pr oceedings. The weigh-in will go out live on air and will also be streamed on the website.
This is all making Zoe understandably nervous.
I couldn’t give a rosy, red fuck. I’m too busy thinking of words that rhyme with albumin .
I glance around at the other five couples, unable to wipe the dumb smile off my face. Frankly, it’s a miracle I haven’t started dribbling.
Most of them are looking as terrified as Zoe—other than the two scumbags whose names escape me right now. She’s taking pictures of her enormous child on her iPhone and he’s picking his nose with the kind of enthusiasm you’d normally see from a dwarf in a gold mine.
I do remember Shane’s name, the largest of all of us. Even in my creamy ibuprofen torpor I can tell he’s lost a fair bit of weight, even in the past week. This sharpens my foggy mind a bit. If he’s lost some of his enormous bulk, I’d better have as well.
My male pride has taken a right kicking in the past few days at the hands of Alice Pithering, but standing here sizing up the competition has kick-started it again in no uncertain terms.
Sadly, I’m also still as high as a fucking kite, so my competitive edge is dulled again
‘You look better,’ Zoe says as I enter the kitchen.
‘Yeah . . . yeah, I feel better,’ I reply in a dreamy tone of voice.
Actually, it’s not a dreamy tone of voice, it’s a stoned tone of voice. Those pills must have been a lot stronger than I thought.
I amble over to the medicine drawer where I’d put them earlier and inspect the packet.
Oh no.
I picked up the wrong ones in the shop.
I thought I’d bought the 200 mg, where in actual fact they are 400 mg . Twice the fucking strength.
No wonder I’m a bit spaced. I’ve ingested enough anti- in flammatory medicine to stun a gorilla.
‘You alright?’ Zoe inquires from right beside me. I hadn’t noticed her enter the room.
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Because you’ve been staring at that packet for five minutes.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes, Greg.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are you going to be alright to go out?’
I put my hand on her shoulder. The softness of her jumper under my fingers is amazing. ‘Mmmmmm. ’Course I am, baby.’
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘Nothing. I may have just taken a little too much ibuprofen.’
‘Oh, Greg!’
‘Sssshhh,’ I tell her and put my hand on her soft, warm cheek. ‘It’ll be fine. I’m fine. It’s all fine. Fine and dandy. Dandy wandy.’
‘Oh, good grief.’
‘You have lovely skin. I don’t tell you that enough.’ I stroke my finger up her face. ‘Lovely, lovely skin. Skin, skin, skin, skinny, skin.’
‘I’m driving,’ Zoe says, breaking away from this disturbing analysis of her epidermis.
‘Okay, sweetheart. You drive. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’
I drift off to somewhere warm and bouncy for a moment.
‘I’ll not drive,’ I eventually say.
‘Oh, this is going to go well,’ my wife says with a level of exasperation I am completely oblivious to.
‘That’s the spirit!’ I cry happily and then walk straight into the kitchen door.
On the drive to Stream FM I’ve decided that ‘kumquat’ is the nicest word in the dictionary.
By the time I’m stripped down to my t-shirt and shorts and am waiting in the green room I’ve changed my mind. ‘Albumin’ is in fact the nicest word in the English language. ‘Kumquat’ is a distant second, with ‘moleskin’ crashing in to third place, slightly ahead of ‘wombat.’
‘I can’t believe there’s going to be a bloody audience for this,’ Zoe says from beside me.
The weigh-in is to be conducted in the large conference hall here at Stream FM’s offices. They’ve converted it into a temporary studio for this very purpose. A specially selected audience of a couple of hundred have been invited along to lend a certain atmosphere to pr oceedings. The weigh-in will go out live on air and will also be streamed on the website.
This is all making Zoe understandably nervous.
I couldn’t give a rosy, red fuck. I’m too busy thinking of words that rhyme with albumin .
I glance around at the other five couples, unable to wipe the dumb smile off my face. Frankly, it’s a miracle I haven’t started dribbling.
Most of them are looking as terrified as Zoe—other than the two scumbags whose names escape me right now. She’s taking pictures of her enormous child on her iPhone and he’s picking his nose with the kind of enthusiasm you’d normally see from a dwarf in a gold mine.
I do remember Shane’s name, the largest of all of us. Even in my creamy ibuprofen torpor I can tell he’s lost a fair bit of weight, even in the past week. This sharpens my foggy mind a bit. If he’s lost some of his enormous bulk, I’d better have as well.
My male pride has taken a right kicking in the past few days at the hands of Alice Pithering, but standing here sizing up the competition has kick-started it again in no uncertain terms.
Sadly, I’m also still as high as a fucking kite, so my competitive edge is dulled again
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