I know, I know, the silence emanating from beneath the dusty rafters of Palazzo Trivialista has been deafening.
But the time’s come for La to step up and proffer some explanations, and I swear I’ll do a better job of it than Lance Armstrong or Eddie Obeid.
Am sure you’ve seen the paparazzi pics of me sneaking into Westfield Bongo Junction at obscenely early hours, and leaving a short time later, sporting tousled bed-hair.
Contrary to gossipy media reports, La’s not conducting an illicit affair with the barista at Toby’s Estate for the purposes of securing a lifetime’s supply of caramel slice. Though, there’s an idea…*
And despite what the hacks say, I’m not sharing Boris Becker broom-cupboard moments with the brawny bloke who wields that crazy floor polishing machine, or the Coles trolley collector fella.
No — I’m shrinking.
That’s right, I go to WBJ every morning to shrink. Literally.
La’s in the clutches of a magical Chinese treatment program that promises to help me “live to 101 years old”. If that eventuates, I do hope to have at least one or two old muckers left to moan to about young people these days. Oh, and a tooth or three for eating caramel slice.
(In the famous words of Jack Brabham, I could shoot to “die without an enemy in the world. I’ll outlive the bastards.”)
But the by-product of the internal organ-rebalancing and yin and yang refocusing is extreme weight loss.
So how do they do it? Well, here’s my lunch.
Yup. And, believe me, tasty NOT. These sachets, combined with an hour of massage and acupuncture a day, mean that — in the famous words of Pulp — this is hardcore.
My Chinese friends show tough love. When I complained one day about being really, really hungry, my favourite treatment man, Pei (who works a 7-day, 95-hour week and is therefore unlikely to be sympathetic to the whinings of overweight white women), said very sincerely, “I’m sorry.” And that was the end of that.
When I mentioned one morning after my treatment that I was heading straight to work from Bongo but had forgotten my breakfast and lunch sachets, the sweet receptionist responded, “I’m sorry.” No offers of spares to tide me over, no suggestions for alternative sustenance. Just a caring, but tough, dose of “suck it up, Princess”.
Like La said, this is hardcore.
I cheat, and eat some veges every day, but am still so hungry most of the time I could tackle kids at the JCCs’ school and nick their lunch from them, los ungrateful little sods**.
And don’t get La started on the grief I feel at the loss of my beloved bean.
Anyhow, am supposed to last another 2.5 weeks. Will see how I go.
Just know, though, that to approach La with food right now is — literally — to dice with death. Or at least grievous injury.
Ciao — I’m off for a soothing sachet of sino-sludge.
* Thankfully, I can put that out there as Signor Seriousimo still doesn’t believe in blogs.
** See? This regimen is sending me loopy (I mean, who craves a Vegemite sandwich?!?)
As somebody who can’t eat real bread, I understand the vegemite sandwich craving. What I wouldn’t give for fresh white bread, with lashings of butter and vegemite…. Mmmm.
Sorry. Not helping…
Oh poor you re brot. I miss toast with lashings of butter, just not the sandwich incarnation.
Only La’s brother would crave a vege sanga!! I can’t believe you could do this!!
I may not finish doing this. It’s killing me.