Yesterday I waved off a reluctant Brian for a 2 week business trip to the Far East and welcomed a return visitor from the West (of Canada). She too has been waging war on the lbs so today she came with me to brave the Witches of Weightwatchers who were, of course, charm personified. Despite some misgivings, we each recorded a 1.5 lb loss (bringing my personal tally to 9) and skipped the pep talk for a celebratory coffee, and no cake, in more congenial surroundings. Later on, after an hour's perambulation around the sights of Gazeuponafactory Estate, we found a novel method of curbing our worked-up appetities by watching a recording of "My Half Ton Dad", a Channel 4 documentary about 40 year old,27 stone Kenneth Brumley from good ole Houston, Texas (apparently exisiting, not living, quite close to our erstwhile abode as it was members of the Klein Fire Department who arrived to wrest him from his broken bed and, via a demolished internal wall, convey him to the Renaissance Hospital downtown). The surgery he underwent before a gastric bypass could be performed was truly gruesome and Good Friend and I were so engrossed (and grossed out) that we forgot all about our healthy suppertime potatoes baking in the oven
. By the time they were rescued and arranged on a plate together with fish and steamed veg they, in their wrinkled dark leathery skins resembled nothing so much as rounded portions of tissue carved from Kenneth's inner thighs - more tumour than tuber, to paint a not very pretty picture. So without any effort or feelings of deprivation, GF and I were able to save 3 precious points apiece which will be spent later tonight on large G's with slimline T and, I'm ashamed to report, if hysterical laughter can burn calories, they're in for a very big surprise at WW next week!
Since my recent post extolling his exemplary behaviour, Sir William hath been comporting himself in a mighty strange manner. For the last two evenings he has launched himself at the front door then charged out into the night, all of a doo-da, twitching from tip to tip (whiskers to tail). On Sunday night he was seen crossing the forbidden Gazeuponafactory Drive with scant regard for oncoming traffic (there was none) and marching purposefully to The Roundabout. Brian was all for calling the police but I bravely decreed that we must sit tight and await developments. An hour later, William of the Wild had returned and immediately reverted to being our dear little Willy Wonka, sleeping all night on Brian's side of the bed thus ensuring that he (Brian) would arise next morning with a strangely lop-sided gait - not the best condition in which to undertake a 13 hour flight. I blame the effect of the amazing full moon we have been enjoying lately which, I believe, is due to reach its zenith this very night. At the time of writing, William is lounging on warm tarmac in front of the garage doors, languidly casting the odd pitying glance at the poor canine saps forced to accompany their humans on the Twitcher's Turning leg of the passagiatta. But appearances can be deceptive (just ask the Yorkies) and in a couple of hours time the feline equivalent of Clark Kent will, before my horrified gaze, morph into William the Werecat. Just as long as he is home by 11.30 pm because that's when the Silver Shadow's Mummy is going to bed!
. By the time they were rescued and arranged on a plate together with fish and steamed veg they, in their wrinkled dark leathery skins resembled nothing so much as rounded portions of tissue carved from Kenneth's inner thighs - more tumour than tuber, to paint a not very pretty picture. So without any effort or feelings of deprivation, GF and I were able to save 3 precious points apiece which will be spent later tonight on large G's with slimline T and, I'm ashamed to report, if hysterical laughter can burn calories, they're in for a very big surprise at WW next week!Since my recent post extolling his exemplary behaviour, Sir William hath been comporting himself in a mighty strange manner. For the last two evenings he has launched himself at the front door then charged out into the night, all of a doo-da, twitching from tip to tip (whiskers to tail). On Sunday night he was seen crossing the forbidden Gazeuponafactory Drive with scant regard for oncoming traffic (there was none) and marching purposefully to The Roundabout. Brian was all for calling the police but I bravely decreed that we must sit tight and await developments. An hour later, William of the Wild had returned and immediately reverted to being our dear little Willy Wonka, sleeping all night on Brian's side of the bed thus ensuring that he (Brian) would arise next morning with a strangely lop-sided gait - not the best condition in which to undertake a 13 hour flight. I blame the effect of the amazing full moon we have been enjoying lately which, I believe, is due to reach its zenith this very night. At the time of writing, William is lounging on warm tarmac in front of the garage doors, languidly casting the odd pitying glance at the poor canine saps forced to accompany their humans on the Twitcher's Turning leg of the passagiatta. But appearances can be deceptive (just ask the Yorkies) and in a couple of hours time the feline equivalent of Clark Kent will, before my horrified gaze, morph into William the Werecat. Just as long as he is home by 11.30 pm because that's when the Silver Shadow's Mummy is going to bed!
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