Rubber ball...

Bloody hell, my trousers are tight...

Yet again, my waistline has disappeared for it's annual sojourn somewhere far, far away, leaving in its place a rather shabby looking 205/55R16.  (For those of you not blessed with an understanding husband, this is a Ford Focus tyre).

So the tyre sits there, unable to be reduced without regular dosage of Gaviscon (other deflaters are available).  It gets stuck in my jeans zip, and forces my belt to make that awful decision...

Over the stomach, or under it.  Which way is better?

Go over and I look six months gone, go under, and I have a muffin top resembling something not seen since the Michelin Man overdid it on the carbs last Christmas.  Unfortunately, I can blame no one but myself.  I made and bought a lot of food this year, naturally assuming that the children would be with us for the time between Christmas and New Year.  

How wrong I was...

As soon as the presents were unwrapped and stored in their cars, they basically disappeared in a puff of wrapping paper and gift vouchers, kindly leaving me with several items which needed to be returned because they were too tarty/too small/just horrible.  I was responsible for all three of these items, so can't complain too much I suppose.  

So they departed. This left the husband and me, along with Mr W and Mrs W, to plough our way through enough food to keep a small country going till March.  I'm doing my bit to empty the fridge, and am expecting a visit from Royal Mail, demanding that I have my own post code as I've outgrown the one I currently have, and am encroaching on the next county.  

The husband, who sometime between emptying the dishwasher on Christmas Eve and waking up on Christmas morning developed man-flu, is not expected to make the New Year.  This has nothing to do with the man-flu, but is more to do with the fact that I might kill him if he doesn't stop coughing.  He is currently mainlining Day and Night Nurse, and I am sorely tempted to swap the tablets around so that I get a day without him making various requests for drinks and drugs from the comfort of his sofa. 

Mrs W and I escaped the germ ridden house yesterday morning, heading into town so that I could have a rapid emergency toe paint.  This was because daughters one and two were taking me to a spa later on, and looking at my feet yesterday morning, I'm not too sure that they would have let me in.

The only place open was the Chinese nail bar - a place which I have always sworn to never visit after a particularly painful visit to a similar establishment around fifteen years ago.  But needs must and all that, so I went in.  Surprisingly, it was empty, and the lady in charge shooed me over to a massage chair (which wasn't working, so basically, just a chair), flapping at my buttocks with a hand towel.

I'd like to say that I understood everything she did to my feet.

I'd like to say that I understood everything she was talking about (Oddly, the only words I understood were 'Hampstead Norreys' a town just down the road from here).

So fast forward an hour, and I am mincing out of the nail bar to look for Mrs W.  Finding her in the book shop, we did what every one does at this time of the year.  We went for coffee and mince pies in the cafe.

Naturally, forgetting the twelve mince pies residing in my cupboard....



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