Mum on the Run by Fiona Gibson

have done it on my own. Come on, you can sit with me.’
    I grin stoically and follow her inside, still worrying that, despite her reassurances, I’ll have my weight boomed out through a megaphone and my fat bits measured with a sinister pincer device. Jed couldn’t believe I was going tonight. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he’d asked, furrowing his brow. ‘It sounds a bit . . . desperate.’
    ‘I am desperate,’ I’d replied.
    ‘Well, I think you’re fine as you are,’ he’d added, although recent evidence suggests the contrary.
    ‘Quite a scrum this week,’ Kirsty observes as we squeeze into the hall’s entrance area. Everyone seems to be clustering outside the loo. I’m surprised to see so many familiar faces: an elderly lady from down our street, a couple of girls who work at Scamps nursery, and the woman who sold me a highchair after Grace had somehow managed to dismantle hers at three years old. All greet me as if this were a perfectly ordinary evening out.
    ‘That can’t be the queue for the loo,’ I whisper to Kirsty.
    ‘Afraid so. Everyone goes before weigh-in,’ she explains.
    ‘Why? Are they nervous?’
    ‘No,’ she says, sniggering. ‘So they’re lighter .’
    ‘You mean it really makes a difference? Surely a teeny amount of wee can’t alter your weight . . .’
    ‘Oh yes it does. Every ounce counts, our great leader says. Hope you’re wearing something heavy tonight – that way, you’re bound to lose for next week.’
    I unbutton my trenchcoat and hold it open. ‘Does this look heavy enough to you?’
    Kirsty frowns, scrutinising my outfit. ‘Your jeans are fine. Sweater’s a bit on the light side, maybe you should’ve gone for a chunkier knit . . .’
    ‘My boots are heavy, though . . .’
    ‘Yes,’ she snorts, ‘but you take those off for weigh-in.’ Damn. There was no mention of heavy clothing on the Super Slimmers flier I saw in the newsagent’s window. ‘Embrace the new you!’ was all it had said, plus a phone number and the promise of a ‘fun, supportive atmosphere’ and an idiot-proof eating plan. If I’d known, I’d have worn several outfits on top of each other.
    My stomach churns nervously as Kirsty and I step into the main hall. Despite Ruth’s stinginess with the biscuits, I’m yearning for the familiar turf of playgroup. A girl with a waist measurement of around twenty inches takes our money. ‘First time?’ she asks, flashing large, gleaming teeth.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Here you go. This is your Menu Masterplan’ – she thrusts me a glossy booklet depicting a woman grasping a banana in a rather phallic manner – ‘and your membership card. Fill in your name and address but not your weight, as we’ll have to weigh you accurately.’ She smiles encouragingly, and I smile back, wondering if she’s implying that I might fib on the card, thus guaranteeing a gargantuan loss next week. If I come next week. I wasn’t intending to carry on with this after Celeste’s party. A quick fix – that’s what I want. A short, sharp shock. Kirsty pounces on two vacant seats at the back of the hall, for which I am hugely grateful.
    I glance around the room. It’s filled with row upon row of chairs with a makeshift stage at the front. There’s a table on the stage, laden with foil-covered plates, and the air is thick with excitable chatter. So where do I fit in in the fat stakes? Several woman are hugely, almost heroically fat, and are bantering jovially as if this is somewhere they come for fun rather than because they ought to. The majority, though, are around my size – women who might once have given their weight little thought until pregnancy and child-rearing made them rounder and softer and added a stone or two. I wonder if their husbands still find them attractive and go to bed without the protective armour of pyjama bottoms. There’s no reason why not. They are all well dressed, with make-up and hair nicely done. They are perfectly presentable, and