No pictures are available for obvious reasons.
Over at fat club this evening folk were waddling in as fast as they could manage to shelter from the unexpected thunder storm outside. ‘It’s been threatening all day’, said the person of restricted growth ahead of me. I was pretty entranced by her: in any other context, I’d assume my usual aggressively defensive inclusive demeanour but there’s a hint of political incorrectness in my thoughts. Purely from an academic point of view.
So, how does the ‘consultant’, who’s about as PC as Plod, know what a midget’s ideal weight is? Well, for a start, you’re not allowed to say ‘midget’: you have to say ‘dwarf’. If you Google the difference, you find that a midget has normal body proportions. Clearly, this is untrue or else they wouldn’t be in front of me in the queue at fat club. A dwarf, conversely, weighs 150 pounds. What, all of them? Surely that’s a massive (or tiny) discriminatory generalisation. And in any case, we should use the term ‘small person’.
There are lots of small people here tonight as the joint is full of post-natal types who haven’t yet lost the weight accrued in pregnancy and have brought their offspring along in order to have someone to blame. I should know, I’m one of them. Not that I’m accompanied by my children, but it would be nice to weigh less than I did 41 years ago. Fat chance.
Time I got away from small people so I start on the bloke behind the book stall. All the recipe books are £5.99 apart from the one I want – Mediterranean Stuff. They’ve only got one copy and it’s been here since I joined in 1873. It’s got a picture of mussels on the cover and I want to know how you cook them without wine and cream. Badly, I suspect. ‘How much do you want for that dog-eared book I shout?’ The PORG in front turns round to laugh. ‘Not £16.99’, says consultant’s sidekick, ‘only £6.99 to you’. ‘I’ll give you a fiver’, I say; ‘everyone in the hut’s had a butchers at it’. ‘Ask Jon’, says the sidekick incapable of taking a good offer when he hears one’.
We trundle on and eventually I get weighed. I’ve lost half a pound which is the same as last week and the week before. ‘I’ve reached my plateau’, I say to Sherpa Tenzing in charge of the scales. ‘I’m the same’, says she. ‘It says here your BMI is 26. You need to get to 25 for the breakthrough’. How do they explain this to small people? ‘So’, I continue, ‘I’m still obese’. ‘We’re not obese’, she confides, ‘we’re just overweight’. Well, I was overweight in January, I don’t say because she is kind.
I take it out on Jon: ‘I’m going to give you a fiver to take Mediterranean Stuff off your hands’. ‘Done’, says Jon. ‘We’ve been trying to get rid of that old thing’. Should’ve offered him three.