Scottish Field’s online columnist Brash McKelvie was in for a shock when they went to the chemist.
Here are the cast of characters that share the vicissitudes of life:
Scragend – a Rhode Island Red of indeterminate age and foul nature.
Shitting Cat – does exactly what it says on the tin.
The Beloved – a paragon of virtue and a self-appointed critic of most of my thoughts and actions.
Snr and Jnr Orifice – our fledged offspring.
‘Multum in Parvo’ was the killer blow, delivered by the Beloved, as I slunk past armed with a bacon roll and large milky coffee en route to the shed.
Once safely ensconced in my sanctuary I had to admit that either the shirt I was wearing had, of its own volition, shrunk several sizes or that my stomach had increased its girth substantially.
The buttons holding my whole attire together were struggling with the unequal challenge of maintaining my decency. ‘Time to make some changes,’ I thought… ‘After I’ve eaten the roll and downed the coffee’.
Fare thee well starch, sugar, processed meats, dairy and a big ‘Hello Dolly’ to everything else. And to REALLY drive home the point, and to ensure that my brain and body knew that it had been very naughty, I would do the weekly penance of a visit to a well-know high street chemist and use their public weighing machine.
There would be no hiding, no blaming the domestic scales for not working properly. And what a penance this is.
First there is the placement of the machine within the chemists. Not in some dark recess, or round a quiet corner, no – loud and proud and in pole position at the entrance to the store for all to see.
Secondly the machine is a bully. It does not lure you on with soft words of encouragement, it bellows its intentions to take your weight and your height and then scolds you for not standing still, not standing straight enough.
Having thoroughly humiliated you it then disdainfully spits out the results on a small ticket which invariably shoots off like a small projectile into the middle of the shop, with the inches and feet, pounds and stones all on show for people to wonder at,,, ‘Is that really possible?’
‘Can one person have eaten so many pies in such a short life?’ You get my drift. But I have developed a guerrilla warfare tactic. I jump on the bloody thing before it can go ‘Hey, fatso, how’s it hanging?’
Pump it with the required coinage and stay stock still, don’t upset the damnable thing in any way, dive for the ticket then scuttle out of the premises and retire bloodied but unbowed to home, much like a crab scuttling for the nearest rock.
And all was well until last week. It was pouring, and many soaking tourists – the early birds of the year – were taking shelter wherever they could.
I stumbled into the chemists for my weekly humiliation and noted a small family of Italians who had gaggled together somewhere betwixt the athlete’s foot powder and the syrup of figs (sensitively placed just alongside the flavoured prophylactics) – all of this being dangerously close to my arch nemesis – that machine.
To be continued next week…
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