Beefed up

Yup, it's true. I've been a bit preoccupied and blogging has taken a back seat lately. Oops.

Unfortunately my back seat has taken this as a signal to spread out and make itself comfy.

Unimpressed, my jeans have staged an intervention.

Jeans: "FAT COW FAT COW FAT COW!"

Me: "What? Who?"

Jeans: "You heard us missus. You're doing it again. You've stopped listening to your body and Inner Goddess has obviously gone AWOL so we had no choice but to speak up. We're not going to let you do up that top button till you start 'thinking slim' again. It was working so well, why are you slacking off?"

Me: "Good question. Not sure. Other things on my mind, probably."

Jeans: All the more reason to get a grip then. Unless of course you WANT to look like that Kenny Everett sketch of Rod Stewart prancing around singing 'If you think I'm sexy' while his leopard skin pants inflate to they point they explode?"

Me: Good point, Jeans, good point. OK, I'll get back on the case tomorrow, I promise. But today's Valentines Day and Mr S is rustling up roast beef, Yorkshire Pud and all the trimmings. Oh, and there's cheesecake for afters.

Jeans: "Brace yourself lads, looks like we're in for another uncomfortable evening then!

Me: "Oh quit you're panicking. What do you think tracksuit pants were invented for? Sport?
. . . "oh yeah, once more from the top....If ya think I'm sexy..."