"That's my Mum -the chubby one over there."
Why is it that when people discuss child abuse they are never referring to the psychic damage that can be done to mothers by the casual remarks of their feckless offspring? The Ukranian Fruit Bat (who shows no signs of growing out of her tendency to spend a good many waking hours hanging upside down off stuff) was explaining that she'd have to check out the sleepover arrangements with "the chubby one".
"She's not that chubby," said her friend, also upside down, who I decided I quite liked. "Ahhh. Yeah she is." Said the fruit bat who I thought might be getting close to the not-so-cute cut-off point that might make me sign those adoption papers now, before no one would take her. As they swung off to play aerial "lava tiggy" oblivious to the psychological train wreck they'd left behind, I decided something must be done. What if ginger crunch was not an essential part of the food pyramid ? What if dark chocolate and a glass of red now and again was not in fact, a necessary religious rite? What if there were more to exercise than beating eggs for a chocolate almond cake? But what if ... the time had come to ... gym?! I had taken tentative baby steps towards that slippery slope over the last year as I noticed my jeans shrink in the wash. We had an abominiser or whatever that circular contraption is that women who've married their cosmetic surgeon and then ditched him for their orthodontist use. The fruit bat used it to swing on. Later we dried laundry on it. There was the vintage cycling machine - but the mad Latin said it threatened his manhood and was pointless being, by nature, motionless.
The fruit bat begged him to stop waving to our neighbours while using it because a) it was lame and b) they had only just recovered from his attempts to follow the Brazillian yoga teacher (now married to a good friend) doing "downward dog" on our verandah in his undies last winter. She felt that it was possible to die from embarrassment and she had, according to her telling of it, seen the light in the tunnel that morning and the neighbours had seen far more than was indeed necessary or wholesome.
I had asked a number of people over the last few months, feigning casual research, their secrets for maintaining their svelte outlines. I wanted exotic Japanese teas and interesting yogic postures - preferably ones that could be held while eating chocolate cake. Disappointment reigned. Without exception the advice was to eat less and put a pair of running shoes on. Who knew? For a brief moment I held on to wild hope as a local radio journalist advocated "good food and a determination to continue bonking into your dotage" as sage beauty advice - which I thought was promising. Until she wrecked it by adding that she also did quite a lot of weights. No escape.
