Miss Hippo is a week into Weight Watchers and her 'coincidental' forty days of alcohol abstinence. Thought for the day. Not only do I hate Lent but am rapidly going off Bridget Jones. What on earth did she have to moan about? She was a little on the plump side with no man…big deal. She was barely over thirty. She had a wonderful life. Loads of alcohol, out almost every night, no children, and cartons of cigarettes…the woman had it made. And then what did she do? She wrote a book about how dreadful it was, sold at least a million copies of the book and then starred in the film. (OK magazine said she had to put on weight for the part so how b****y fat was she in the first place?).

I only hope that when she eventually caught her man, she had three children in indecently quick succession and all were delivered with forceps.

Not that WW is getting to me. I can exist on rabbit food and baked beans. My partner

may have temporarily moved into the spare room (otherwise known as the offsprung's

municipal dump) but I feel confident that when he acclimatises to my eau de Brussels sprouts

he will return to the playground.

8.30 am Rudely awoken by the 'A' team…are there no soothing ring tones for mobiles? It's

Angela (the heading towards the menopause and slightly overweight friend responsible for this

whole ghastly saga).

'I've had a letter!' she squeals.

Surely the arrival of a letter doesn't warrant pig noises at 8.30 am? As far as I recall the

post generally arrives at this time, what did she expect to drop through the letterbox a grand

piano? No need to reply she's off again.

'I've had a letter from our leader'. Ah (my comprehension light bulb switches on), she's talking about Weight Watchers.

'I think she likes me '.

No Angela she doesn't like you, she just wants to make sure you're at the next meeting, four pounds sweaty fifty in hand ready to pay for more abuse.

'What does she say?'

'Oh no!'

'No one starts a letter with "Oh no".'

'What? Oh don't be silly of course she didn't start the letter with "Oh no" I said that'.

'So what does Miss concave stomach have to say?'

'Oh no!'

'We've been there already Angela. What does the letter say for heaven's sake?'

'Dear Angela thank you for coming to Weight Watchers and well done for losing so much weight.' (This surely can't be what the "Oh no" is about?)

'Just give me the gist of it'. She's going to go into her 'super seven stars' mode at any moment and at eight thirty in the morning I will throw up.

'The reason you have lost so much weight this week is because of the excess water you were carrying… I don't believe it!' (Thank you Lord, someone else suffers Victor Meldrew moments).

'Never mind they say it's better if you lose it slowly'. Standard caring friend response.

'But I've eaten soooo much this week' the squeal is now a wail. 'What if I've put on?'

Now there's a thought. Wouldn't it be wonderful if everyone else had put on two pounds and Miss Hippo had lost a stone? I mentally bask in the applause and beam benignly at my, at least fifty pound heavier than last week, audience. Even 'on the pull' Trevor can't spoil my mood.

' I said what if I've put on?' Impolitely interrupting my delightful meander.

'Don't be silly of course you haven't! You've only eaten twenty points all week. I'll see you later'.

'Thank you sooo much for looking through Archie's shopping, he was really grateful'.

Archie is Angel's eldest son who is shortly embarking on a gap year. This to Angela is as welcome as Martins' sojourn at her majesty's pleasure is to Pauline Fowler. Angela and her 'desperate to become offsprung' children are still at the symbiotic stage. Having lived through the panic of the tortuous gap, I am now oddly considered a gap year guru. Archie went shopping for necessities yesterday. To be strictly accurate Angela went shopping yesterday. Archie chose the bare essentials and Angela ensured he would need a Sherpa before he left
the house. I merely 'ooohed' and 'aahed' in all the right places and gently suggested that possibly a grooming kit encased in a lead box weighing more than the rucksack might not be the most practical of items. Archie asked me to check this with my Gapee and… damn I forgot
to.

'Oh you're more than welcome…must dash I'll catch up later'.

Phone Gapee… complete waste of time she won't surface from the student slum until at least lunchtime.

Running seriously late… briefly flirt with the idea of standing on the bathroom scales. It is almost a week, surely something has shifted even if it is only water. S**t threw them away last Christmas when they lied…hey ho.

Post's arrived. It's the floaty floaty type; probably bills but at least no rejection slip thud...couldd be a good day. What's this? Dear G*d has the woman nothing better to do? It's a welcome postcard from our leader...she is looking forward to getting to know me...getting to
know a lot less of me if I have anything to do with it. My belly button feels as if it is knocking against my backbone. Check it out in mirror...it isn't, not even close. Hold on is that a cheekbone? No yesterday's mascara casting a dirty shadow. This is becoming obsessive…work calls.

10.30 am. Up to my armpits in compost suffused with thefirst 'flush' of the day and the 'A' team are back on line...it's the Gapee offsprung! Why is she up so early? She hasn't got an exam today has she? Oh my G*d don't tell me I've forgotten to send a card…again?

'Hello babes you all right? Did the exam go well? Did you get my good luck email?' Safe ground here she rarely checks them, mine that is...far too long and wallowing.

'Mum chill, I'm fine. No exams…stop stressing.' A caution to those of you who have yet to embark on the menopausal red route...words like 'chill' and phrases such as 'stop stressing' are guaranteed to send any female travelling on the mid life bus into orbit. Useful if you really want to annoy them but futile if conversation or personal gain is the ultimate objective.

'Don't you 'chill' me, it's f*****g freezing in here and as for stress it's bug***y bol***ks mothering bl***y Sunday in two weeks. We run a flower shop remember? I'm allowed to be stressed! What do you want?'

'You called me.'

My flush no longer hot but cold mortified crimson embarrassment. I am Basil Fawlty. Sybil waits patiently for my response.

'I'm sorry'.

'That's all right. You can't help being menopausal. Did you book my ticket by the way?'

Deep Breath 'Yes but you do realise you'll be away for mother's day?'

'Well you're always busy then and besides you hate mother's day. What do you want by the way?'

I want my babies round me. I want to be as symbiotic as Angela is.

'Nothing'. Oh that's a really bonding response well done ten out of ten.

'You don't mean that, you love presents…stop sulking. Are you still off alcohol?'

'Yes and I'm going to Weight Watchers'.

'That's why you're in a funny mood? Weight Watchers?' (Why does she only ever hear

part of my conversation?) 'You don't need to lose weight!'

'According to the scales I do'.

'Oh my G*d no food or alcohol no wonder you're stressed'.

It's that word again. I am not stressed…think beautiful thoughts…think karma….

Ohmmmmm…it's no use I was only ever a weekend hippy.

'A sun bed session'.

'Mum what do sunbeds have to do with anything?'

'For mother's day… I'd like a sunbed.' At least the fat will look brown and unlike some I

can't afford a holiday… Don't say it…you're the one with a problem not her. '

'Archie wants to know if he should take a lead weight grooming kit with him when he's

travelling. I told him to stuff the nail file and toothbrush into his socks and ditch the

packaging.'

'Mum it's his gap year. It's his journey. I really think you and Angela should keep your

noses out of it'.

Hello? That's like saying to a mother 'it's my birth don't get involved'.

'When we were in Thailand you stuffed your nail file and toothbrush into socks.' I

retaliate.

'You were in Thailand for two weeks Mum!'.

Don't I know it? You'd been gone for nine months and I was missing you so much, I made

your father cash in a life insurance policy so we could drag out the whole family and play

'Bread goes travelling' I almost brought the ceramic chicken along.

'You still stuffed them in your socks! And besides Archie asked me to ask you!'

'OK maybe he doesn't need the grooming kit'. (Either she does have a heart or she's late

for a lecture. Get in quick while you're ahead.)

'Thank you darling…Byeeee'.

4.30 PM Three and a half-hours to weigh in. One banana (two points), an apple (one point)

and two points of 'six cups of tea' milk are all I am surviving on today. Apart from a water

tablet, four senacots and twenty silk cut (I am Bridget Jones' mother). I feel like the

shrewish Kate… 'With oaths (my own) kept waken and with brawling (rabbit food and beans)

fed'.

Perhaps I should do some work? It might take my mind off things. No, that's what staff are

for and besides I'm far too weak.

'Diddlelum'. Can't decide if the text message arrival tannoy is more annoying than the 'A'

team. Who is it? Oh no 'Saddam Sally' head of the residents association. What does she want?

'Photo opportunity on Saturday be there'. I can't I'm busy on Saturday. I haven't got time to

fart on a Saturday... there's more. 'It will only take five minutes so no excuses.' She is so

...like my daughter. How do these things work? 'OK' that should be enough. What do I do now?

'Send'... My fingers feel faint.

How did I get involved in a political issue at my age anyway? Moi who never even held a ban

the bomb banner in my youth. Moi who took heated rollers to the Bath Festival. Well I

wouldn't have done if it that clinging halitosis raging limpet with Nana Miskouri ironed hair

hadn't turned up in an Ozzie Clarke number straight out of Camelot. I thought I looked quite

fetching in my starry velvet flares. Maybe the Giles Brandreth short sleeved sheep jumper

was a little C and A but the big collared, wide sleeved blouse under it was well...almost hippy.

I can't help it if my hair is more Janice Joplin than Joan Baez. And how come miss halitosis

got all the Afghans? I was freezing too you know, and I don't suffer from bad breath...small

breasts perhaps, which grew (dear G*d how they grew), but not one Afghan was proffered in

my direction.

Aaaah the kingdom of Hippy... a fondly remembered, alternative civilisation, weekend

retreat. Oh I could empathise with the pretty flowers painted on cheeks bit and eventually

got the hang of the breathlessly mouthed 'wow' when trying to pull and look limpid

simultaneously. Not easy when your selected pullee is talking the biggest load of Lebanese red

induced bo****ks you've ever heard, but worth it for those eyes. (I may have had the intellect

but my future children deserved a bit of physical help from the gene pool.)

Now fat and over the hill and far too absorbed in my menopausal journey to be even

remotely useful, I have been drawn into a local dispute. Who was that woman who wrote a book

on the menopause? She said it was like a new birth and you emerged cleansed. Well thank you

Miss know-it-all for that, I am currently starring in the revolving doors video bit of it,

someone is playing it on fast forward and now the Oh so demanding Saddam Sally wants me for

a photo opportunity.

The council is threatening to close a sheltered housing scheme and move the waiting for God

inmates out of the area. OK it may not be starving babies in Africa or world war three but I

can identify with it. Worse, I have suggested that we have a day of civil disobedience and

bring the traffic outside the town hall to a standstill…on race day. The racetrack is opposite

the town hall. I'll get arrested. I know I will. I hate politics. I hate being fat and I'm not

even fond of old people, although the goalposts for my 'compulsory euthanasia at 70' campaign

are rapidly expanding.

Daren't even tell the offsprung. Either they will collectively approve which would be

mortifying or they will try and talk me out of it. No this is something I have to do alone. Well

hopefully with a couple of hundred like-minded people and a bus full of geriatrics waving

banners, who will no doubt try and zimmer frame it to the races. On the plus side a few days

in the cells will help shift a few pounds and worst ways the offsprung can bring me a cake with

a file in. Lunch AND grooming and not a sweaty sock in sight.

7.30 PM. Angela is worried. She slipped heavily off the WW wagon this week. More

precisely she dive-bombed into roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and trifle.

There's a queue. People queue to be abused? Angela is talking to the queue; they are

discussing the merits of marmite mixed with baked beans and jacket potatoes. There are no

merits. There are no merits in Brussels sprouts and tuna either, both recipes were maliciously

devised by someone who hates sex.

Our leader awaits; her belly button is definitely touching her backbone. I hate her. We

pour our libations into the collection box and, divesting ourselves of everything that decency

permits, shuffle towards the Rubicon.

Trevor hasn't lost an ounce. Good man Trevor! Was that the footie in the pub night?

Arsenal two Trevor twenty-two.

Marmite and baked beans has put on a pound. Our leader advises her that eating before you

come to the meeting is not a sound and cunning plan. I smirk.

Angela has lost two pounds. She can't have done! The trifle must have weighed at least

three.

'How did you find your first week?'

She's talking to me. I didn't find it at all, I barely b****y survived it.

'About as much fun as a visit to the dentist.'

'Why was that? You didn't have toothache did you?'

Oh my G*d not only a concave stomach but a sense of humour bypass as well…just let me

stand on the scales.

I feel giddy. It can't be right… six pounds! I have lost six pounds!

Marmite I love you! Rock on rabbit food! Who needs alcohol? I could kiss everyone…well

perhaps not you Trevor.

'I've-lost-six-pounds! I've-lost-six-pounds!' My homeward chant.

'You didn't get a super seven silver star though did you?' Snipes a more than put out

Angela.

'I've-lost-six-pounds!' Nothing will spoil my mood.

'Only twenty- two pounds to go then. Don't forget this week it's all water'. Angela has an

irritating habit of stating the obvious.

'I've-lost-six-pounds!' Beginning to sound a bit feeble as the reality of the twenty-two

pounds sinks in.

'Have you got a spot coming?' She's turning into my daughter. Everyone is my daughter.

Why can't I be my daughter? Check the mirror. I can't have? I'm menopausal. You don't get

spots when you're fifty. Oh my G*d I have! I've lost six pounds…not even a super seven and

what is my reward? A traffic light red pus filled blob in the middle of my forehead.

'Turn left' She swerves obediently.

'Why?'

'It's the quickest way to the pub.'

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