seem happy with life.
Further perusal reveals that several women are decidedly thinner than me. That doesn’t seem right. ‘Claire Holloway’s lost three stone,’ Kirsty whispers, as if reading my thoughts. ‘She’s hoping to reach her target this week.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Everyone claps,’ Kirsty says.
‘Is that all? God, I’d want more than that! I’d want cake and champagne at the very least.’
Kirsty giggles, and the woman in front spins round to throw us an irritated look. ‘The thing is not to regard food as a reward,’ Kirsty adds, lowering her voice. I nod, mulling this over. Do I do that? I don’t think so. I eat to cheer myself up, sure, but mostly because I’m hungry, or because food is there and it tastes bloody fantastic. How am I supposed to think myself out of that?
A tall, slim-hipped woman in an elegant grey trouser suit strides onto the stage. ‘Hello, ladies,’ she says grandly, scanning the hall. ‘And gentlemen of course . . . do we have our male member here?’
At this, everyone laughs. ‘No?’ she enquires. ‘Well, let’s get started anyway. Any newcomers, I’m Belinda, your group leader. As you came in, you’ll have been given our Menu Masterplan. You’ll see that there are no tricks here, no miracle solutions’ – aren’t there? Damn – ‘as slow and steady is our motto at Super Slimmers. It’s all about willpower, ladies, and making the right choices in life. It worked for me, and it can work for you too.’ She grins expectantly. My heart slumps to my boots.
‘Slow and steady?’ I whisper to Kirsty. ‘That’s not what I want. I’ve got a party to go to in two days’ time.’
‘You’ll have to be strict then,’ she hisses back.
I waggle my Menu Masterplan at her. ‘Maybe I’ll stop eating altogether and just nibble the corner of this.’ She snorts through her nose and directs her attentions to our Leader. God, I’m starving. Couldn’t face dinner before I came out, and now my stomach is rumbling ominously. I wonder what’s on those foil-covered plates on the table, and when Belinda will get around to sharing it out. On my other side, a woman in a shiny floral dress is texting urgently on her mobile. Bet it says WILL PICK UP FISH & CHIPS ON WAY HOME.
Hmmm, I can almost smell vinegary chips.
‘Now,’ Belinda announces, ‘let me explain what we do here.’ We make you thin , I will her to say. You’ll waltz into that garden party and be wondrous. ‘I start with a short talk every week,’ she explains, ‘which I hope you’ll find inspiring. There’s time for questions and answers, then we do weigh-in at the end.’ She scans the room expectantly. ‘So, if we’re all ready, this week I’m going to talk about tuna.’
An aura of rapt interest descends. ‘Tuna,’ Belinda says gravely, ‘is a slimmer’s best friend – but it’s vital that we choose the right type. Can anyone tell me which type that is?’ Her dramatically arched eyebrows shoot up.
‘It should be in water or brine,’ someone pipes up. ‘Never oil.’
‘That’s right!’ Belinda exclaims as if a child of Toby’s age has explained the theory of relativity. ‘Now, let’s look at the ways we can use it . . .’
I start to faze off, wondering why I’m here on a damp Thursday night, being told that my best friend is tuna. Maybe it’s the club aspect that’s the problem. I’ve never been good at belonging to things. I paid an astronomical amount to belong to Bodyworks gym and didn’t shift an ounce. I felt obliged to leave the new mums’ book group after Grace vomited over the hostess’s glass coffee table, ruining a hand-crocheted doily. It was a relief, really, as it had become apparent that I was incapable of reading anything more taxing than Dirty Bertie .
‘. . . Try to work out if you’re really hungry or just thirsty,’ Belinda chunders on. ‘You can often quell hunger pangs with a refreshing glass of water . . .’
No, sorry. I have
Further perusal reveals that several women are decidedly thinner than me. That doesn’t seem right. ‘Claire Holloway’s lost three stone,’ Kirsty whispers, as if reading my thoughts. ‘She’s hoping to reach her target this week.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Everyone claps,’ Kirsty says.
‘Is that all? God, I’d want more than that! I’d want cake and champagne at the very least.’
Kirsty giggles, and the woman in front spins round to throw us an irritated look. ‘The thing is not to regard food as a reward,’ Kirsty adds, lowering her voice. I nod, mulling this over. Do I do that? I don’t think so. I eat to cheer myself up, sure, but mostly because I’m hungry, or because food is there and it tastes bloody fantastic. How am I supposed to think myself out of that?
A tall, slim-hipped woman in an elegant grey trouser suit strides onto the stage. ‘Hello, ladies,’ she says grandly, scanning the hall. ‘And gentlemen of course . . . do we have our male member here?’
At this, everyone laughs. ‘No?’ she enquires. ‘Well, let’s get started anyway. Any newcomers, I’m Belinda, your group leader. As you came in, you’ll have been given our Menu Masterplan. You’ll see that there are no tricks here, no miracle solutions’ – aren’t there? Damn – ‘as slow and steady is our motto at Super Slimmers. It’s all about willpower, ladies, and making the right choices in life. It worked for me, and it can work for you too.’ She grins expectantly. My heart slumps to my boots.
‘Slow and steady?’ I whisper to Kirsty. ‘That’s not what I want. I’ve got a party to go to in two days’ time.’
‘You’ll have to be strict then,’ she hisses back.
I waggle my Menu Masterplan at her. ‘Maybe I’ll stop eating altogether and just nibble the corner of this.’ She snorts through her nose and directs her attentions to our Leader. God, I’m starving. Couldn’t face dinner before I came out, and now my stomach is rumbling ominously. I wonder what’s on those foil-covered plates on the table, and when Belinda will get around to sharing it out. On my other side, a woman in a shiny floral dress is texting urgently on her mobile. Bet it says WILL PICK UP FISH & CHIPS ON WAY HOME.
Hmmm, I can almost smell vinegary chips.
‘Now,’ Belinda announces, ‘let me explain what we do here.’ We make you thin , I will her to say. You’ll waltz into that garden party and be wondrous. ‘I start with a short talk every week,’ she explains, ‘which I hope you’ll find inspiring. There’s time for questions and answers, then we do weigh-in at the end.’ She scans the room expectantly. ‘So, if we’re all ready, this week I’m going to talk about tuna.’
An aura of rapt interest descends. ‘Tuna,’ Belinda says gravely, ‘is a slimmer’s best friend – but it’s vital that we choose the right type. Can anyone tell me which type that is?’ Her dramatically arched eyebrows shoot up.
‘It should be in water or brine,’ someone pipes up. ‘Never oil.’
‘That’s right!’ Belinda exclaims as if a child of Toby’s age has explained the theory of relativity. ‘Now, let’s look at the ways we can use it . . .’
I start to faze off, wondering why I’m here on a damp Thursday night, being told that my best friend is tuna. Maybe it’s the club aspect that’s the problem. I’ve never been good at belonging to things. I paid an astronomical amount to belong to Bodyworks gym and didn’t shift an ounce. I felt obliged to leave the new mums’ book group after Grace vomited over the hostess’s glass coffee table, ruining a hand-crocheted doily. It was a relief, really, as it had become apparent that I was incapable of reading anything more taxing than Dirty Bertie .
‘. . . Try to work out if you’re really hungry or just thirsty,’ Belinda chunders on. ‘You can often quell hunger pangs with a refreshing glass of water . . .’
No, sorry. I have
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