Evil French Thigh-Expanders

For me, chocolate is not one of life’s optional extras, so when some cursed wretch bestowed upon me a box of France’s finest, I was dismayed. Chocolate is my gastronomical Achilles’ Heel; occasional indulgence is not possible. Once the visitors had left, I fell upon the box with all the grace and decorum that a horde of ravenous wild beasts would display when dining on fresh antelope. Chocolate wrappers were flying like bullets.

Filled with complete and utter self-loathing (and regularly pinching my thighs to make sure they hadn’t started to expand), I at least felt pleased that the chocolates were gone. This pleasure only lasted until the next wave of visitors had left... Leaving behind yet another box of evil French thigh-expanders. The ravenous horde/chocolate-wrapper bullet similes may be repeated.

That, combined with the embarrassing amount of champagne consumed (my recycling bins doth overflow), fills me with fear. I have been trying on different sets of clothes several times a day, to check if any seams are splitting or buttons popping. Not yet. However, my thighs are inexplicably wicked, and I am certain I shall wake up one morning to find that they have grown so large as to engulf the house.

My daily walking regime will be increased this week from ninety minutes to three hours.