Fatty Bum Bums

“Your bottom seems to start a lot higher up these days” commented Accountant, as I bent over to pick something up off of the floor. I pinged upright and scurried off to the mirror, glaring at him as I flew past.

Bottoms are always tricky to properly assess without being able to rotate your head around like an owl (or Chickie, mid-tantrum). I got as far as my spine would allow but still couldn’t see properly.

Turning side on, I hoiked up my shirt for a better view. I looked up to find Accountant’s eyebrows telling me what I didn’t want to admit. I seemed to have a second bottom growing out of the top of my jeans.

I suppose I had eaten quite a few packets of Party Rings during Chickie’s latest “challenging" phase. Plus the odd Martini, everyday at 7pm sharp. And all those easter eggs everyone kept buying Chickie. But then it was a mother’s duty to protect her child from excessive cocoa solids wasn’t it - what choice had I really had?

I wandered into the kitchen and stared dreamily at the nine remaining Easter Eggs I’d planned to spend that evening with. Now they were forbidden, the longing became deep and chocolately.

But wouldn’t it really be sensible to start a diet with a clean plate? To remove all temptation? Yes, I decided - it definitely would and began plans to eat the contents of the ‘yummy’ cupboard immediately.

A week later, engorged and looking slightly pregnant, the diet began. No mid-morning packet of Jammy Dodgers with my tea, no scrumptious butter lathered on sweet waffles, no dastardly mayonnaise. Just boiled rice with boiled peas and boiled fish for dinner.

The weight loss initially was encouraging. A 4lb bag of sugar was stationed, like a bodyguard, in front of the cracker cupboard - my usual stop after the 'yummy' cupboard. It obstructed entry and served as a reminder that the equivalent weight in blubber just wouldn’t fit into my jeans no matter how vigorously I tucked.

It was going well, my resistance strong, until today, when, for the second day running, I was a 1lb heavier. Where that pesky pound had come from, I didn’t know but I hated it and it needed to be punished.

After making a serious effort to eat my "Weightwatchers" tomato and lentil gloop that evening, I could take no more. Scrumptious wafts of Accountant's 456 calorie four cheese pizza bubbling in the oven wafted up my nose. I floated towards it, carried along by its vapours. Four slices of pizza and a Bart Simpson easter egg later and the diet was over. High from the sugar rush, I felt an odd mixture of elation and shame.

But then, perhaps having two bottoms wasn’t so bad? At least I’d have a spare if anything ever happened to the first one?