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Laab-ly jubbly

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Have referred several times to the need for a re-energised quest for svelteness. Just cannot go on loading up los online Wish Lists with forgiving tunic tops, jackets with ‘buverage’ (bum coverage) and nightie-like frock scenarios. Fabulous shoes can help divert attention from flabulous butts and flanks, but even they only go so far.

Thus, meet my new friend — laab.

Currently, there’s a lot of whizzing up of carb-free, limited lipid meals going on beneath los dusty rafters of Palazzo Trivialista. The other night, Mr Laab went down a treat; it was up there with another current Palazzo Top of the Pops, Bo Luc Lac.

When faced with such carb-impoverished meals, one corner of Signor Seriousimo’s aquiline nose often curls upwards ever so slightly. But as we like to say around these parts (preferably in a nasally, whiny, highly irritating sing-song voice), “You get what you get and you don’t get upset.”

The quest to lose la avoirdupois is not helped by watching food programs at night while trying to physically restrain onself from attacking los chocolate bikkies. Jamie and his whazzings of oil, Guillaume and his udders of butter and Nigella and her forests of coconut milk should really loiter on other people’s TV screens. Skinnier people’s TV screens.

Also not helping was lunch yesterday at one of la faves, Bridge Room. I am sorry to report that a ducky was killed in the making of that pleasurable experience. But not for nothing did he give up his life — I savoured every morsel of his subcutaneous chubbiness and crispy skin. He went so well with Potato Puree with Joseph Olive Oil.

Rather than leave you with unpleasant mental images of duckicide or my post 40 35 physical excesses, I’ll instead say goodbye on a different note: the acceptable face of chub.

It’s my male Junior Cost Centre’s still well-upholstered little paws. If only society saw equal beauty in my porridge tummy, we’d all be at peace.

And eating less rabbit food.


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