Surely they are the work of an evil genius.
I imagine he was cackling madly to himself when he secreted an invisible gremlin to stubbornly hold the dial oh, about a stone, above where I want it to be.
He infiltrated the scales with the most heinous of human qualities.
My weighing scales mock me.
My scales instinctively know that I am a wine guzzling, chocoholic lardass.
But I have a complicated relationship with it.
It is the despised, angry teacher that I desperately want to please.
I abhor waste, and will hoover up the remains on my children's dinner plates, smug in the knowledge that I am averting some global catastrophe by doing so.
Shockingly, the only thing going global is my girth.
(are there any other kind???...oops...did I say that out loud???)
On one hand there is the seductive, but malevolent, temptation to hide the scales in a drawer and comfortably relax into my cosy folds.
On the other, there is my gym instructor who I thought was really nice until he upgraded my exercise programme from smugly manageable to sudden cardiac arrest. (These are real levels of fitness they teach them in
I feel like a pawn in a giant apocalyptic chess game between good and evil.
Or maybe I'm over-estimating the importance of my fat arse.
In order to restore balance in the universe I have committed the ultimate sacrifice.
Not, temptingly, of sending my children to all-year-round boarding school...but I have exchanged the wine and chocolate for my Reeboks.
So far I have lost the princely sum of one whole pound.
But luckily it's not about weight loss anymore, which is fortunate as the whole episode may have resulted in a scales-shaped hole being punctured through my bathroom wall.
I just feel better.
And my turbo-charged Autie Kid who can sprint from nought to ninety in a heartbeat had better watch out. Mammy is catching up