I feel fat. None of my trousers seem to fit me anymore. I blame the tumble dryer. The gallons of wine and eating all the kids' leftovers has nothing to do with it. But I think I'm going to have to finally take the wrapper off my fitness video and watch it. That should make me feel exhausted. Perhaps by next week I'll actually try to copy what they do.
I've actually just returned from the Royal Berkshire Show and I think I saw the solution to my fitness issue. It is a Powerstep Plus (or something that sounds like that) and basically you just stand there, it vibrates and it supposedly tones you up and makes you look goddess-like without you having to break a sweat or spend too long doing it. Sounds marvellous. Except for the £1000 price tag. That bit was less marvellous. But I am tempted. I can just see me standing on it vibrating away while watching Desperate Housewives on TV, turning ever more svelte with every passing TV show. Maybe Father Christmas can bring me one?
Anway, part of the reason I feel fat is because of the enormous hog roast roll I had to eat at the Show, along with quite a bit of crackling. Having gorged myself on roasted pig, we then went over the livestock area and viewed the pigs in the flesh. Looking at the size of them, I feel they would do well to get onto a Powerstep Plus. But then again, they wouldn't be able to make the lovely crackling. We also saw many sheep all being paraded around by very young children dressed up like butchers in white coats and ridiculous hats. I think they were farmers-in-waiting. They weren't attractive. Or glamorous. You could just tell that their future was spelled out for them and it wasn't going to involve anything to do London Fashion Week ever.
I attempted to look at the food halls and craft stalls. My children wanted to go on the army assault course repeatedly or sit on tractors. My husband wanted to lust at some 4x4 car porn. The children were irritable. They wanted a ride on the merry-go-round, then didn't. They wanted to win a prize at the Hook a Duck stall, and did, but then changed their minds about a million times and ended up with an inflatable dolphin on a blow up hammer and a furry worm on a stick. They decided the best thing for these lovely prizes was to poke them at passers-by, drag them on the ground and get them trapped under the buggy wheels. I was delighted when the inflatable dolphin died a deflating type death. They wanted an ice cream. NOW. They didn't want hog roast rolls. They wanted sausages that might have come from a pig but probably didn't and were more fake than Jordan's chest.
We admired the combine harvesters and the feeding pens that were for sale. I imagine the farmers getting quite hot under the collar looking at some of this fine merchandise 'Ooh-ar, look at the thresher on tha one darlin.' We watched some soldiers dressed in their finery prance around on horses to the strains of Hope and Glory. One of the horses obviously felt the whole thing was way beneath him as he refused to do what he was supposed to do making his rider feel like a bit of a twit.
And then when the children were becoming quite unpleasant to be with, we went home. And all we had to show for our endeavours was a deflated dolphin, a furry (now quite frayed) worm on a stick, indigestion and a large luminous pink plastic washing basket (because our old one broke).
I feel exhausted and fat. I think I will have a soak in the tub to wash off the livestock grime and contemplate changing my name to Moby Dick.