All this writing on holiday lark is really playing havoc with my diet. Oh no, don't go sympathising you lettuce-for-lunch freaks. What I mean is that I'm not eating properly.
Due to a little known condition called Gilberts syndrome, I have to eat, and eat regularly, otherwise I'm sick as a dog (weird eh!). The problem is that I don't eat ENOUGH whilst I'm writing and at the moment I'm writing all day. Hah, that'll freak out all the 'I'm trying to look like a lolipop' diet mongers, they'll all start writing their first novel, God forbid!
There has been lots of tittle-tattle in the magazines that I really don't buy - who's put on a pound in the last second and who is subscribing to the latest marmite and sprouts diet from Dr Ipso Notso Fatso. It's mad.
The trouble is that most famous type women have bought into this 'camera puts on six stone' theory leaving us plebs to ogle at the magazines that are filled with less than healthy skeletons. And legs, what can one say about the legs? Encased in skin tight, sprayed on, nothing left to the imagination in the crutch department, jeans. And yes, before you ask, I did wear them but they were nicely balanced out by my legwarmers that were gathered around my ankles before tucking neatly into my pixie boots! Anyway these new age spindly limbs are incredibly lucky that their owners don't break them in the next half hour and have someone's eye out in the process!
The other night, over a fat laden, sugar laced, highly calorific feast, my friends and I were discussing diets and the weighty issues fuelled by JK Rowling and her rant on teenage dieting (which I hasten to add we all agreed with).
"But thin women don't have breasts, that's why they have implants" a friend moaned, whose glorious frontage has disappeared along with her recently shed four spare stones.
"Ah ha, but if you have a pair of these..."another friend said cupping her ample bosom "...then you need a pair of these to hold them up" she added, slapping her ample thighs.
I agreed heartily and helped myself to another piece of pie.
I have long been a champion of the natural 'I've got tits and hips and proud of it' brigade but don't get me wrong, I'm not seriously overweight. I look after myself but have no trouble creating cleavage when necessary.
So come on men, tell me. Would you rather have Mrs Beckham/Paris Hilton of 'I'm only a size away from disappearing altogether' fame or something more substantial like, well, umm, who can I think of who's not dead?
The truth of the matter is that my body thinks it still lives in the fifties. It prefers to be known as curvaceous, voluptuous, but not the 'f' word, never the 'f' word. But I will let you into a secret...it is a little known fact that I did indeed model for the picture below!