arrive breathless, late and starving.
Mother greets me dressed for a cocktail party. I greet her looking more like I am dressed for a painting party.
‘Good Lord, Libby, what are you wearing? And why are you so breathless, you didn’t forget did you?’ she says grabbing the ginger cake and slamming the front door.
‘I’d almost given you up for dead,’ she calls over her shoulder as she hurries to the kitchen.
The aroma of roast lamb reaches my nostrils. Guilt punches me in the stomach. I really should be tucking into my chopped salad and 50 grams of tuna and not indulging in a lamb fest. Oh dear, this will mess up the diet but I guess just one non-dieting day will not make much difference, I can start the diet in earnest tomorrow, although since I’ve split up from Toby there seems little point in dieting now.
‘We have some news,’ she announces as I approach the kitchen. Dad sits at the table fixing a tangled mass of wires and fairy lights.
‘Have you lost weight?’ he asks hopefully. ‘I must say you are looking jolly good.’
I shake my head miserably.
‘You can’t expect people to see your weight loss if you insist on wearing those baggy jumpers. You look like a beached whale in that thing,’ remarks mother as she delicately slices the lamb. ‘Do you have any ideas what you would like us to buy you for Christmas? Your father and I were just discussing it. Would you like one of those fancy weighing scales that do your BMW and stuff? We could also get you a voucher for Debenhams or something. Buy yourself some clothes. I could come shopping with you.’
She gives my jumper a dirty look.
‘Don’t you mean BMI?’ I correct, accepting the glass of wine my dad is offering while wondering if I can ask for fifty quid as an early Christmas present.
‘You do know there are about a million calories in a glass of wine?’ I say taking a gulp.
‘Have one less potato, that’s the idea,’ he smiles and walks into the lounge.
‘Or would you like us to pay for someone to staple your stomach?’ asks mother, accepting a small sherry.
Honestly, my parents. I swear someone should have removed me from them when I was five. Still, apart from a bad case of mumps, which mother insisted was a toothache and took me into school every day, I actually came through my childhood surprisingly unscathed.
‘What’s the news then?’ I ask, peeping into the fridge to see what dessert is on offer. ‘You haven’t drawn up a bucket list have you and are off to the Himalayas or something?’
Dad hovers in the doorway holding a jug of gravy.
‘That was a joke,’ I say quickly.
‘Who told you?’ asks mother crossly. I grab the lamb. If food was ever needed then this is the time.
Oh my God. My sodding parents are off to the Himalayas while I sit freezing all alone in my little cottage having myself a very miserable Christmas. Honestly, they could have timed it better.
‘You can’t go to the Himalayas. It is Christmas. Besides, you should think of the children.’ I gulp down my wine and pour some more.
‘You’re an only child.’ Father smiles at me indulgently.
‘All the more reason, because I don’t have siblings to comfort me.’
Jesus, can things get any worse. Why didn’t Madam Zigana predict this? I’ve a good mind to return and demand my money back.
‘Anyway, you can’t. Not at your age, it would be obscene.’
I take my plate and help myself to lamb. Mother shakes her head.
‘The way you dive at food is obscene. Anyway, we are not going to the Himalayas for Christmas.’
Thank God. I let out a sigh of relief.
‘We’re going to Kilimanjaro for the Kilimanjaro Christmas Extravaganza. We are going mountain climbing.’
I choke on a potato and hold out my glass for dad to top-up. Bloody hell, I need to put myself up for adoption.
‘But it’s
Mother greets me dressed for a cocktail party. I greet her looking more like I am dressed for a painting party.
‘Good Lord, Libby, what are you wearing? And why are you so breathless, you didn’t forget did you?’ she says grabbing the ginger cake and slamming the front door.
‘I’d almost given you up for dead,’ she calls over her shoulder as she hurries to the kitchen.
The aroma of roast lamb reaches my nostrils. Guilt punches me in the stomach. I really should be tucking into my chopped salad and 50 grams of tuna and not indulging in a lamb fest. Oh dear, this will mess up the diet but I guess just one non-dieting day will not make much difference, I can start the diet in earnest tomorrow, although since I’ve split up from Toby there seems little point in dieting now.
‘We have some news,’ she announces as I approach the kitchen. Dad sits at the table fixing a tangled mass of wires and fairy lights.
‘Have you lost weight?’ he asks hopefully. ‘I must say you are looking jolly good.’
I shake my head miserably.
‘You can’t expect people to see your weight loss if you insist on wearing those baggy jumpers. You look like a beached whale in that thing,’ remarks mother as she delicately slices the lamb. ‘Do you have any ideas what you would like us to buy you for Christmas? Your father and I were just discussing it. Would you like one of those fancy weighing scales that do your BMW and stuff? We could also get you a voucher for Debenhams or something. Buy yourself some clothes. I could come shopping with you.’
She gives my jumper a dirty look.
‘Don’t you mean BMI?’ I correct, accepting the glass of wine my dad is offering while wondering if I can ask for fifty quid as an early Christmas present.
‘You do know there are about a million calories in a glass of wine?’ I say taking a gulp.
‘Have one less potato, that’s the idea,’ he smiles and walks into the lounge.
‘Or would you like us to pay for someone to staple your stomach?’ asks mother, accepting a small sherry.
Honestly, my parents. I swear someone should have removed me from them when I was five. Still, apart from a bad case of mumps, which mother insisted was a toothache and took me into school every day, I actually came through my childhood surprisingly unscathed.
‘What’s the news then?’ I ask, peeping into the fridge to see what dessert is on offer. ‘You haven’t drawn up a bucket list have you and are off to the Himalayas or something?’
Dad hovers in the doorway holding a jug of gravy.
‘That was a joke,’ I say quickly.
‘Who told you?’ asks mother crossly. I grab the lamb. If food was ever needed then this is the time.
Oh my God. My sodding parents are off to the Himalayas while I sit freezing all alone in my little cottage having myself a very miserable Christmas. Honestly, they could have timed it better.
‘You can’t go to the Himalayas. It is Christmas. Besides, you should think of the children.’ I gulp down my wine and pour some more.
‘You’re an only child.’ Father smiles at me indulgently.
‘All the more reason, because I don’t have siblings to comfort me.’
Jesus, can things get any worse. Why didn’t Madam Zigana predict this? I’ve a good mind to return and demand my money back.
‘Anyway, you can’t. Not at your age, it would be obscene.’
I take my plate and help myself to lamb. Mother shakes her head.
‘The way you dive at food is obscene. Anyway, we are not going to the Himalayas for Christmas.’
Thank God. I let out a sigh of relief.
‘We’re going to Kilimanjaro for the Kilimanjaro Christmas Extravaganza. We are going mountain climbing.’
I choke on a potato and hold out my glass for dad to top-up. Bloody hell, I need to put myself up for adoption.
‘But it’s
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