edits/ww1
Created | Updated Sep 20, 2004
Angela has persuaded me to go to weight watchers with her. Angela is a cook. She would be insulted if I called her a chef. A chef, she tells me, organises the delivery of exquisite food to customers. A cook cooks the food magnificently. Ergo you can be a good chef without being a magnificent cook, presumably because you can hire a magnificent Angela to create the gastronomic perfections. Conversely a good cook may not make a good chef. The food may be perfect but the organisational skills could be lacking. I'm so glad we cleared that up.
Angela is a cook. A magnificent cook of magnificent proportions, the mama Cas of the culinary world. She needed my support. Perhaps I could lose a few pounds but more importantly I would be there for my friend.
Now suspecting you are a little Miss Hippo and actually attending a Weight Watchers meeting is a bit like knowing you can't sing and discovering your beloved has secretly taped you in the bath and insists on playing it back at full volume to entertain your guests at a 'don't want to be reminded of how old you are' surprise birthday party. Excellent voyeur sport but no fun for the athlete.
It's bad enough that you have to cross a religious threshold. Nothing against religion but Churches fill me with a feeling of foreboding akin to a summons from the headmaster's office. As WW meetings seem to be held in either church or village halls there's no getting out of it but it does not inspire the usual girlies night out enthusiasm. To add to your misery you then discover that the whole thing is run like a 'jolly' club. Team leaders, report backs, super seven silver stars... a veritable guide's jamboree.
'New member eh? That's £13.50 please'.
Thirteen pounds fifty! I want to lose weight for God's sake, not buy shares in the company.
'Here's your information pack. Don't lose it, it will help you keep a tally of your points. Now if you go over there you can meet the team leader and pick up this week's specials. Oh and here's your Tracker.'
It's the wrong hall it has to be. This is a reps welcome meeting for a 'should never have Come', Club Med holiday... that or I've unwittingly joined the SAS and been seconded to the find Bin Laden detail. What on earth is a Tracker?
No time to find out.
'How tall did you say you were?'
Thirty assorted female shapes and one solitary male (who foolishly thinks it might be a good place to pull... no chance mate), turn to look at you in united disbelief at your attempted 'five foot six'.
'Five foot…?'
'Two, but six in my best boots'.
'Mmmmmm.'
'Mmmmmm' obviously means not only several stone overweight with no hope of losing it, but a compulsive liar to boot. Joy.
William Tell overture kicks in (whoever put that ring-tone on my phone is dead.) Thirty, definitely all thinner than me and positively smug about it, females and Mr getting fatter by the minute on the pull no mates, glare disapprovingly. OK so mobiles not especially welcome, how was I to know?
'I can't talk now I'm in a meeting'.
'Mum it's seven o'clock you can't be in a meeting. I need to speak to you.'
'I am in a meeting and I've given up alcohol for lent'. (Where did that come from?)
'It's important I need to book a flight to Brussels... you've what?' Hysterical laughter, hysterical young thin laughter. 'You've given up alcohol?'
Team leader's eyes drill into my skull with a dentist's fervour.
'I'll speak to you later.'
Curtain has obviously gone up. Our leader addresses us.
'Right girls, oh and... 'Trevor' (sycophantic sniggers from 30 blobs) it's time for the weigh in'.
'Take off everything possible,' hisses Angela. 'Not your top you idiot! 'Trevor' will have a heart attack'.
Tentatively stand on scales acutely aware that almost webbed flat feet with chipolata appendages are not amongst my most attractive features.
They're wrong. The scales are definitely wrong. That fat cow in front of me has broken the machine... I have never weighed that... not even when I was nine months pregnant.
'How much were you hoping to lose?' The lot! The whole bl***y lot! Perhaps I should start by just chopping off a leg, maybe two. A Victor Meldrew moment swamps me.
'How much do you think I should lose?' This pathetic voice cannot be mine? I sound like a simpering Lady Di when she worked for the elitist nursery; at least her legs were long and thin under the back lit skirt.
'We'll start with a stone shall we?'
START with a stone? That's fourteen pounds. To add insult to injury I know she really means two stone. I can read print that size you know even upside down and without my glasses.
Despair is my cardigan; my comfortable denial anorak has been rudely removed. Twenty-eight pounds overweight and that only takes me to the top end of the BMI... whatever that is.
When did twenty-eight pounds of butter sneak up and mount my sleek chassis? Why did I not see the lard terrorist approaching? Shylock where are you?
'We'll start you off on twenty points a day. Don't forget to fill in your Tracker'. My leader's concave stomach beams my dismissal.
Still none the wiser about the tracker, Little Miss Hippo (now known as Blob thirty-one) wobbles over to chair and sits down as Angela approaches the Rubicon.
While Angela is being weighed I take a moment to inspect the welcome pack more closely. This isn't Weight Watchers this is more like the football league. It's all about points, one for an apple, four for a jacket potato and half for ten olives... in brine? (Well I suppose I could lick the oil off first). Twenty-one for a chicken Korma... without a Nan! That's impossible! Hold on this reminds me of something. Why does Terry Wogan spring to mind? It's not football at all, it's Eurovision and I have to achieve Norwegian status... nil points.
'Oh well done you've lost seven pounds!' Angela has lost seven pounds. I find myself joining in the rousing applause, why? Why should I be pleased? I haven't lost an ounce, I've just discovered that I weigh more than a baby elephant and I'm cheering along with the rest of them. Surely I am in greater need of psychiatric help than of Weight Watchers.
'Help yourself to a teaspoon of WW cheesecake... No points for a teaspoon, two points for a slice', trills our leader.
What good is a teaspoon full of cheesecake? You can't even taste a teaspoon full. The whole cake is bl***y snack sized. That's like saying help yourself to a thimble full of red wine. I want the whole bottle and the cake as well. Somehow I don't think this club is for me.
Angela is positively preening with her Super Seven Silver Star stamped on her Tracker as we drive home. (Found out what the Tracker is at last. It's a bit like an early maths book/food diary. You have to write down every point that passes your through your lips and keep a running total). Oh whoopee looks like I can have two pears for breakfast, a jacket potato stuffed with rabbit food for lunch and a baked bean bonanza for tea... how much for red wine? (Lent is only forty days after all). Two points for a medium glass. Great... no breakfast, no lunch, no tea and a thumping hangover on Easter Monday is the best I have to look forward to.
William Tell overture kicks in again.
'Student travel agent speaking.'
'What do you mean by that Mum?'
'Well you only ever call me when you want a flight booked'. Guilt trips are such fun.
'That's not fair'. She's very good in the injured party role.
'True occasionally you email and ask me to work out the whole itinerary'.
'Well you never call me!' Standard political student tactic... if in doubt attack is the best method of defence.
She is so much stronger than I will ever be; the war of words is already lost and we've barely engaged in battle.
'When do you want me to book the flight?'
'No I can book the flight... Oh my God you have to take over everything don't you?'
Hello? It's my credit card, my seven days a weeks of back breaking toil and I don't even get the fun bit of trawling the net to find the cheapest flight. Something wrong here. Weight Watchers has sapped my strength, I hand over the numbers.
'Thanks Mum Love voooo! Oh, it's £120 pounds by the way... Byeeee'.
Angela is still banging on about losing seven pounds.
'Let's get a bottle of wine and celebrate then. You've lost seven pounds, I've just lost a hundred and twenty pounds and I haven't used a single point.'
'But you've given up alcohol for Lent?'
'Bu***r Lent.'
Angela is a cook. A magnificent cook of magnificent proportions, the mama Cas of the culinary world. She needed my support. Perhaps I could lose a few pounds but more importantly I would be there for my friend.
Now suspecting you are a little Miss Hippo and actually attending a Weight Watchers meeting is a bit like knowing you can't sing and discovering your beloved has secretly taped you in the bath and insists on playing it back at full volume to entertain your guests at a 'don't want to be reminded of how old you are' surprise birthday party. Excellent voyeur sport but no fun for the athlete.
It's bad enough that you have to cross a religious threshold. Nothing against religion but Churches fill me with a feeling of foreboding akin to a summons from the headmaster's office. As WW meetings seem to be held in either church or village halls there's no getting out of it but it does not inspire the usual girlies night out enthusiasm. To add to your misery you then discover that the whole thing is run like a 'jolly' club. Team leaders, report backs, super seven silver stars... a veritable guide's jamboree.
'New member eh? That's £13.50 please'.
Thirteen pounds fifty! I want to lose weight for God's sake, not buy shares in the company.
'Here's your information pack. Don't lose it, it will help you keep a tally of your points. Now if you go over there you can meet the team leader and pick up this week's specials. Oh and here's your Tracker.'
It's the wrong hall it has to be. This is a reps welcome meeting for a 'should never have Come', Club Med holiday... that or I've unwittingly joined the SAS and been seconded to the find Bin Laden detail. What on earth is a Tracker?
No time to find out.
'How tall did you say you were?'
Thirty assorted female shapes and one solitary male (who foolishly thinks it might be a good place to pull... no chance mate), turn to look at you in united disbelief at your attempted 'five foot six'.
'Five foot…?'
'Two, but six in my best boots'.
'Mmmmmm.'
'Mmmmmm' obviously means not only several stone overweight with no hope of losing it, but a compulsive liar to boot. Joy.
William Tell overture kicks in (whoever put that ring-tone on my phone is dead.) Thirty, definitely all thinner than me and positively smug about it, females and Mr getting fatter by the minute on the pull no mates, glare disapprovingly. OK so mobiles not especially welcome, how was I to know?
'I can't talk now I'm in a meeting'.
'Mum it's seven o'clock you can't be in a meeting. I need to speak to you.'
'I am in a meeting and I've given up alcohol for lent'. (Where did that come from?)
'It's important I need to book a flight to Brussels... you've what?' Hysterical laughter, hysterical young thin laughter. 'You've given up alcohol?'
Team leader's eyes drill into my skull with a dentist's fervour.
'I'll speak to you later.'
Curtain has obviously gone up. Our leader addresses us.
'Right girls, oh and... 'Trevor' (sycophantic sniggers from 30 blobs) it's time for the weigh in'.
'Take off everything possible,' hisses Angela. 'Not your top you idiot! 'Trevor' will have a heart attack'.
Tentatively stand on scales acutely aware that almost webbed flat feet with chipolata appendages are not amongst my most attractive features.
They're wrong. The scales are definitely wrong. That fat cow in front of me has broken the machine... I have never weighed that... not even when I was nine months pregnant.
'How much were you hoping to lose?' The lot! The whole bl***y lot! Perhaps I should start by just chopping off a leg, maybe two. A Victor Meldrew moment swamps me.
'How much do you think I should lose?' This pathetic voice cannot be mine? I sound like a simpering Lady Di when she worked for the elitist nursery; at least her legs were long and thin under the back lit skirt.
'We'll start with a stone shall we?'
START with a stone? That's fourteen pounds. To add insult to injury I know she really means two stone. I can read print that size you know even upside down and without my glasses.
Despair is my cardigan; my comfortable denial anorak has been rudely removed. Twenty-eight pounds overweight and that only takes me to the top end of the BMI... whatever that is.
When did twenty-eight pounds of butter sneak up and mount my sleek chassis? Why did I not see the lard terrorist approaching? Shylock where are you?
'We'll start you off on twenty points a day. Don't forget to fill in your Tracker'. My leader's concave stomach beams my dismissal.
Still none the wiser about the tracker, Little Miss Hippo (now known as Blob thirty-one) wobbles over to chair and sits down as Angela approaches the Rubicon.
While Angela is being weighed I take a moment to inspect the welcome pack more closely. This isn't Weight Watchers this is more like the football league. It's all about points, one for an apple, four for a jacket potato and half for ten olives... in brine? (Well I suppose I could lick the oil off first). Twenty-one for a chicken Korma... without a Nan! That's impossible! Hold on this reminds me of something. Why does Terry Wogan spring to mind? It's not football at all, it's Eurovision and I have to achieve Norwegian status... nil points.
'Oh well done you've lost seven pounds!' Angela has lost seven pounds. I find myself joining in the rousing applause, why? Why should I be pleased? I haven't lost an ounce, I've just discovered that I weigh more than a baby elephant and I'm cheering along with the rest of them. Surely I am in greater need of psychiatric help than of Weight Watchers.
'Help yourself to a teaspoon of WW cheesecake... No points for a teaspoon, two points for a slice', trills our leader.
What good is a teaspoon full of cheesecake? You can't even taste a teaspoon full. The whole cake is bl***y snack sized. That's like saying help yourself to a thimble full of red wine. I want the whole bottle and the cake as well. Somehow I don't think this club is for me.
Angela is positively preening with her Super Seven Silver Star stamped on her Tracker as we drive home. (Found out what the Tracker is at last. It's a bit like an early maths book/food diary. You have to write down every point that passes your through your lips and keep a running total). Oh whoopee looks like I can have two pears for breakfast, a jacket potato stuffed with rabbit food for lunch and a baked bean bonanza for tea... how much for red wine? (Lent is only forty days after all). Two points for a medium glass. Great... no breakfast, no lunch, no tea and a thumping hangover on Easter Monday is the best I have to look forward to.
William Tell overture kicks in again.
'Student travel agent speaking.'
'What do you mean by that Mum?'
'Well you only ever call me when you want a flight booked'. Guilt trips are such fun.
'That's not fair'. She's very good in the injured party role.
'True occasionally you email and ask me to work out the whole itinerary'.
'Well you never call me!' Standard political student tactic... if in doubt attack is the best method of defence.
She is so much stronger than I will ever be; the war of words is already lost and we've barely engaged in battle.
'When do you want me to book the flight?'
'No I can book the flight... Oh my God you have to take over everything don't you?'
Hello? It's my credit card, my seven days a weeks of back breaking toil and I don't even get the fun bit of trawling the net to find the cheapest flight. Something wrong here. Weight Watchers has sapped my strength, I hand over the numbers.
'Thanks Mum Love voooo! Oh, it's £120 pounds by the way... Byeeee'.
Angela is still banging on about losing seven pounds.
'Let's get a bottle of wine and celebrate then. You've lost seven pounds, I've just lost a hundred and twenty pounds and I haven't used a single point.'
'But you've given up alcohol for Lent?'
'Bu***r Lent.'
