Four weeks, six days, eighteen hours, 45 minutes and ten seconds into my diet I stood in eager anticipation in front of the all-singing, all-dancing ARGOS special edition digital scales in the lads locker room at the Police Station.  Mine had broken after one particularly good night out on the Town.   Returning home I had misjudged the distance between my intoxicated body and the toilet seat and had landed heavily and with utmost accuracy, butt first onto the bathroom scales.  They had since refused, even with minor encouragement, to work again.  I steadied myself for the grand moment of truth.  Heart pounding, I stared at all the zero’s, willing them to be kind to me.

I had starved myself to the point of near death and delirium, forgone chocolate, crisps, chips, curly fries and wine – and I was well and truly miserable as a result.

The initial elation I had felt when I thought that my jeans had loosened off a few sizes around my ample curvy butt during Week Two of The Diet From Hell, was replaced with a wail of despair and a dislocated thumb when I fell over the extra leg length when running from the bedroom to the bathroom.   Joe,  who had been wandering around the house in his Tesco Best Boxers trying to find his jeans, didn’t show me an ounce of sympathy as he dragged them off my legs whilst sniggering;

“Jeez Mavis I know you’re a bossy cow at times, but surely to God I can still wear my own trousers……”

Damned Unisex clobber.

Standing here now with baited breath on the threshold of triumph, I stepped upon the frosted glass and looked down…….

10 stone 4lbs 9oz  ………….

Noooooo – there had to be some mistake.  I was 10 stone 5lb 9oz when I started.  Malnutrition, near starvation, cabbage soup, the ensuing flatulence and total denial of earthly pleasures for over a month all for the sake of losing just one measly, rotten pound.  It had to be what I was wearing, it just had to be.  Hastily stripping off down to my matching pink Primark undies, I tried again.

No change.

Jumping off the scales and quickly looking around to make sure I was still alone, I flung caution to the wind and off came the pink Primark Undies too.  They might skimp on the material so they probably wouldn’t weigh much, but what the hell, every little bit helps.

Stepping back on the Scales of Doom, stark naked and with eager anticipation I looked down……..still no change.  Sighing loudly I realised that this called for a more serious approach.

Grabbing my pony tail I yanked out my velvet scrunchie along with four hair clips.  These were quickly followed by my watch and earrings.  In fact I was feeling that desperate, if I had been wearing a set of dentures they would have been yanked out and placed on the nearby bench to sit along the discarded jockstrap, solitary trainer and a rolled up copy of Exchange & Mart.  Standing on tiptoe on one leg with my fingers clinging onto the window sill to alleviate a little more pressure on the scales, I sucked my stomach in, gracefully lifted my other leg and skilfully executed a near perfect arabesque whilst dropping my head forward to look down.   Now there was only skin, bone and me between my foot and a decent digital reading.

10 stone 4lbs 6oz…………….

I was just about to let out a groan of complete disheartenment and failure when the swing doors to the locker room suddenly creaked and thudded open. Hearing a collection of very manly voices, I panicked. Scooping up my clothes I desperately looked around for an escape route.  No such luck, my Guardian Angel was clearly faffing around on a cloud somewhere eating Philadelphia Cheese and not paying attention.

“……..Tell yer what, I think I’m in with a chance with that redhead from The Farmers………..”

The voices were getting closer, I had less than five seconds until they emerged from behind the row of lockers.  Squeezing myself into one of the open lockers and pulling the door shut by the metal rod, I sat, still naked and with my knees up to my ears, in total darkness on top of a pair of smelly riot boots, a spare truncheon and a rather large A4 Court File.  Praying that my hiding place didn’t belong to one of the lads from my section, who were now indulging in wishful and delusional bragging and boasting on the other side of the locker door, I slowed my breathing to an almost non-existent gasp as little beads of perspiration began to form on my top lip;

“Nah, no chance Johnny, she’s got the hots for Bernie from the Dog Section mate, dream away sunshine.  If I were you I’d………..”

……………….and suddenly the locker rod was yanked out of my fingers as the door swung wide open to reveal the owner of the smelly riot boots.

I was left staring eye to eye with my totally gobsmacked colleague, Constable 8632 Charlie Banks, who was rapidly changing from a pretty shade of pink to a more radiant tone of red.  A deathly silence followed, where I suddenly found the ability, even though I was sitting on my big fat curvy butt,  to actually think on my feet.

Tutting in utter disgust at Charlie, I wagged my finger at him and hissed;

“For God’s sake Charlie, stop gawping and shut the bloody door will you – this is an Undercover Covert practice session……. the Detective Inspector will have your arse if you blow this you bloody idiot….”

Coughing loudly, Charlie turned beetroot red and slamming the door shut mumbled;

“Shit, sorry Mave…….hey, you couldn’t pass me my butty box whilst you’re in there could you?   They’re my favourite, Cheese and Pickled Onion…..”

Sniggering in the darkness, I couldn’t help but be relieved at what a flat cap, a helmet and an A4 file will cover in an emergency!

(c) 2013 Gina Kirkham

2 thoughts on “EVERY LITTLE BIT HELPS……..

  1. Laptop Lil says:

    Gina you are such a damn genius, your stories crack me up all the time (no pun intended re Primark thong lol!) Keep them coming 🙂

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