edits/sunny afternoon
Created | Updated Sep 20, 2004
Lazing on a Sunny Afternoon
It's Sunday, it's hot (relative to the past four months of sub zero temperatures, chilblains and thermal knickers kind of hot that is) and I've put on at least half a stone. Why do I get fat the moment the sun comes out? The instant the thermometer reaches the 20 degree mark skirts get tighter, love handles turn into Michelin tyres, thighs become cellulite city inc. and just how many clothes do I have to try on before I can find a semi-fashionable tent that won't make me look like Mama Cas?*
The offsprung are back for the weekend. That’s another thing, why do children never actually leave home? They start life dribbling over anything of value that you might happen to own, grow into the spreading jammy dodgers and ketchup over the replacements phase, and then, having broken your collective heart by disappearing to the other side of the planet with most of your retirement fund to 'find themselves', bounce back so they can throw recycled tequila slammers over what remains of the furniture.
So what does fat Sunday have to offer? No computer access as, for the duration of their stay, it is logged into hotmail accounts and 'touch it at your peril' looks, an SAS trail of dirty washing that is guaranteed to make an industrial washing machine consider voluntary redundancy and a mountain of ironing that inspires a quick sprint up K2 as a preferred afternoon treat. It wouldn't be quite so bad if they spoke to you but, having wrecked the soft furnishings yet again, they are far too clever to show themselves before nightfall. When they do eventually surface it will be to empty what remains of the fridge, borrow a car, copious funds and at least one mobile phone, (theirs being without any credit or stuffed down the back seat of the last bus home). You might get a tuna filled 'love voo' on the way out as you vow to fill the fridge with hot chilli dip and cat food in preparation for their next visit.
While they snore obliviously all Little Miss Hippo wants to do is mow the lawn and get a free starter tan. Which reminds me, I love sun beds. Not relevant to anything but I do love sun beds. Alongside Eastenders and sex they have to be among life's most satisfying experiences and, unlike children, they are reliable. Ten minutes of uninterrupted Madonna... uninterrupted because without your glasses you cannot change the channel, turn down the facial tanner or turn up the fans. Six hundred satisfyingly selfish seconds of your own time in your own sweaty, slippery space. No one can see the mounds of flesh sinking into the plastic, and you don't get zebra stripes. Sun beds ensure a perfect all over tan (except for that irritating bit at the bottom of the spine that seems to get squashed into the buttocks). You don't have to suck in your stomach in case your neighbour or the window cleaner is checking you out. You don't have to worry about any female competition gloating over the folds of flesh hanging like pink blancmanges under the shadow of your sumo wrestler arms, smug in the knowledge that their pink blancmange folds are nowhere near as plump or pendulous as yours are. Hmmm think 'plump' and 'pendulous' are adjectives more suited to sexy young breasts than the lard like appendages that sway independently from ageing female humeri.
'Do you want chocolate?' he asks, thoughtlessly interrupting your mindless, but comforting, cerebral diarrhoea, and doing it in a manner which suggests it is something you do every weekend (eating chocolate that is) whilst watching Eastenders or, 'Easters', as he disparagingly refers to it. I ask you, not even 'Enders'. Is there any hope? Is there truly a God?
Of course I don't want chocolate. I want low calorie still fruit drinks, melon and a stone to magically disappear from my arms. I want to be twenty-two. I want to be thinner than Geri Halliwell!
He waits patiently for a reply.
OK, I hate low calorie still fruit drinks and melon makes me fart. Why can't it just chuck it down all afternoon? Why can't the temperature drop by at least ten degrees? Why wasn't I born to be a stick insect? Why aren't children born rich? I want Eastenders to have at least one broken romance and a death, and Grant to come back and have a punch up with... anyone really, and I want it to last all afternoon so I can't even think about the ironing.
'Mmmmmmm'
'I take it that's a yes then?'
Why are men so s*****g smug? And why don't they get cellulite? And why do old men's faces look 'craggy and interesting' while only moderately middle aged women look like Jabba the hut?
'Yes please I want b****y chocolate!'
*female singer in the 70’s band The Mamas and the Pappas not renowned for her waif like appearance.
It's Sunday, it's hot (relative to the past four months of sub zero temperatures, chilblains and thermal knickers kind of hot that is) and I've put on at least half a stone. Why do I get fat the moment the sun comes out? The instant the thermometer reaches the 20 degree mark skirts get tighter, love handles turn into Michelin tyres, thighs become cellulite city inc. and just how many clothes do I have to try on before I can find a semi-fashionable tent that won't make me look like Mama Cas?*
The offsprung are back for the weekend. That’s another thing, why do children never actually leave home? They start life dribbling over anything of value that you might happen to own, grow into the spreading jammy dodgers and ketchup over the replacements phase, and then, having broken your collective heart by disappearing to the other side of the planet with most of your retirement fund to 'find themselves', bounce back so they can throw recycled tequila slammers over what remains of the furniture.
So what does fat Sunday have to offer? No computer access as, for the duration of their stay, it is logged into hotmail accounts and 'touch it at your peril' looks, an SAS trail of dirty washing that is guaranteed to make an industrial washing machine consider voluntary redundancy and a mountain of ironing that inspires a quick sprint up K2 as a preferred afternoon treat. It wouldn't be quite so bad if they spoke to you but, having wrecked the soft furnishings yet again, they are far too clever to show themselves before nightfall. When they do eventually surface it will be to empty what remains of the fridge, borrow a car, copious funds and at least one mobile phone, (theirs being without any credit or stuffed down the back seat of the last bus home). You might get a tuna filled 'love voo' on the way out as you vow to fill the fridge with hot chilli dip and cat food in preparation for their next visit.
While they snore obliviously all Little Miss Hippo wants to do is mow the lawn and get a free starter tan. Which reminds me, I love sun beds. Not relevant to anything but I do love sun beds. Alongside Eastenders and sex they have to be among life's most satisfying experiences and, unlike children, they are reliable. Ten minutes of uninterrupted Madonna... uninterrupted because without your glasses you cannot change the channel, turn down the facial tanner or turn up the fans. Six hundred satisfyingly selfish seconds of your own time in your own sweaty, slippery space. No one can see the mounds of flesh sinking into the plastic, and you don't get zebra stripes. Sun beds ensure a perfect all over tan (except for that irritating bit at the bottom of the spine that seems to get squashed into the buttocks). You don't have to suck in your stomach in case your neighbour or the window cleaner is checking you out. You don't have to worry about any female competition gloating over the folds of flesh hanging like pink blancmanges under the shadow of your sumo wrestler arms, smug in the knowledge that their pink blancmange folds are nowhere near as plump or pendulous as yours are. Hmmm think 'plump' and 'pendulous' are adjectives more suited to sexy young breasts than the lard like appendages that sway independently from ageing female humeri.
'Do you want chocolate?' he asks, thoughtlessly interrupting your mindless, but comforting, cerebral diarrhoea, and doing it in a manner which suggests it is something you do every weekend (eating chocolate that is) whilst watching Eastenders or, 'Easters', as he disparagingly refers to it. I ask you, not even 'Enders'. Is there any hope? Is there truly a God?
Of course I don't want chocolate. I want low calorie still fruit drinks, melon and a stone to magically disappear from my arms. I want to be twenty-two. I want to be thinner than Geri Halliwell!
He waits patiently for a reply.
OK, I hate low calorie still fruit drinks and melon makes me fart. Why can't it just chuck it down all afternoon? Why can't the temperature drop by at least ten degrees? Why wasn't I born to be a stick insect? Why aren't children born rich? I want Eastenders to have at least one broken romance and a death, and Grant to come back and have a punch up with... anyone really, and I want it to last all afternoon so I can't even think about the ironing.
'Mmmmmmm'
'I take it that's a yes then?'
Why are men so s*****g smug? And why don't they get cellulite? And why do old men's faces look 'craggy and interesting' while only moderately middle aged women look like Jabba the hut?
'Yes please I want b****y chocolate!'
*female singer in the 70’s band The Mamas and the Pappas not renowned for her waif like appearance.
