Ah the hell with it...and gallstones.

Long time, no blog. I’ve been keeping a low profile, right?  Except today I seem to have managed to get pictures of myself in, not one but two papers.  Which is unfortunate.  To put it mildly.

Really though, I have to laugh.  Out loud, in a very unladylike cackling manner.  Because there’s nothing like the press to bring you down to size.  I mean…why?  Why the hell did I spend several hours expunging every unflattering photograph from my Facebook page when the Daily Mail merrily prints a pic of me looking like the wicked witch of the West that will be seen by around 4 million people?  Huh?  Someone up there is laughing his/her/its head off at me – cos of course God has a mean sense of humour. 

Talking of mean,  I mean…why didn’t the photographer have the heart to tell me that grape really isn’t ‘my’ colour and that pouchy pockets on a blouse isn’t a great look on the well-endowed and that what I thought were nice jeans look like jodhpurs?  And that skinny jeans really should be tucked into boots, not dragged over them. Men, huh?   

‘I look seriously crap,’ I said, mournfully, showing the page to the girls in the Tantivy café.  There was a long pause.

‘Nah, it’s not that bad,’ said lovely Rose.  Then looked again. ‘Though it does look like you’re wearing a nightie. Who told you that blouse was a good idea?’

Great.

‘But, hey, there’s a nice one of you in the Western Daily Press,’ she said, smiling encouragingly.

What?  Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Our campaign to save the Exmoor gym continues and now the press are getting very interested in why a not-for-profit organisation is shutting a gym which was founded via initiatives from the NHS and local government.  So another photographer pitched up and yup, sure enough, there I am, all gleaming white legs and mad woman eyes, charging across the Dulverton bridge.   

Why am I telling you this?  Because, frankly, I’ve gone beyond.  I have not one shred of dignity left, not after selling my gallstones to the highest bidder. I mean, what's left? A piece on my ingrown toenails?  

The one they didn't use! 

Of course, if you felt so inclined, you could comment on the Daily Mail piece, telling them what a wonderful writer I am and how much you’d love to see me paid a big fat fee to write on a regular basis (about my wild and wanton life, of course – not my squalid gallstones; and no, the ingrown toenails were a joke).  Or, hey...how about a whole series on how I changed my entire life in a year (not just my shape) - cos they cut out all the interesting bits.

Then again, you could comment on the gym story, expressing your disbelief at the callous way in which a small but vital little gym is facing closure in the year of the Olympics. 

Or not. J

Now I and my gallstones shall take ourselves off into a corner and binge-eat chocolate by way of waving two fingers at the world.

 Pics (c) Richard Lappus. Not to be reproduced without permission.