Farewell fatty class, bring on Barbados

ELEANOR GOGGIN

IREAD a wondrous thing on Facebook the other night. There’s a new resort in Barbados that specifically caters for larger people. Five miles of beach exclusively for fatties, to ensure that they will not be watched by prying eyes. Just by other fatties. And that’s OK. The doors have all been widened and the chairs are one metre wide. The sun loungers have even been reinforced with steel bars to bear 40-stone. I would love a trip. I’d look sylph-like for once in my life. Strut my stuff up and down the five miles. Maybe even ask loudly for a smaller lounger.

Now, unfortunately, I’ve thrown my toys out of the pram with regard to my fatty class. I wasn’t losing weight any more and after a good few weeks of losing a pound and putting on a pound, I decided it was futile. And money sapping. The fault was, of course, entirely my own. Maybe I’m just growing into my body. I’ve put back on the stone and a half that I lost. And of course more. I’m afraid to check. The slightly smaller clothes have been returned to the back of the wardrobe and the bigger ones brought back out. My own take on recycling. The nice girl who runs the class has my mobile number and continues to send me texts exhorting me to return and telling me the “kettle is always on”. I don’t think she’s taking a particular interest in me, I think she sends them to all lapsed fatty class members. Now if she was sending me texts telling me the wine was chilled I might consider it. I get excited every time I get a text — always hoping it’s an invite to some exciting event but invariably it’s from my local DIY store or a furniture shop or a ‘when they’re gone they’re gone’ message. And now it’s the fatty class as well. I just hope I don’t get a message from Barbados.