The Last Supper(s)
As soon as disgusting lard-arse me had been ceremonially smothered by empty calories, I would surely rise from the Kit Kat wrappers like a foxy phoenix and claim my rightful place as sexy power goddess.
Call me a fat cow, I dare you.
I was impressed that my big fat presence in the classroom caused them to think about their social sensitivity as well as a health issue, but couldn’t help wondering if it had limited the discussion.
I'd rather be a weirdo loser misfit.
Twenty years on, we look back on that episode where we were segregated due to our inability to meet one person’s view of what's attractive, with outraged hilarity.
Walking on purpose.
The worst exercise of all is unplanned movement for practical reasons - having to walk somewhere in a city, or run to catch a train. Nope. Not on my watch.
All diets start on Monday.
Believing that you should aspire to resemble the models in fashion mags is the dog equivalent of a Yorkshire terrier being told again and again it should look like a Greyhound. Never gonna happen.
I came last in a marathon and it felt fabulous.
As the crowd of racers gathered on the leisure centre’s athletic track, I side-eyed the other competitors and began to twig that I may have been misled.
