Carol’s Column

So who said fat was fun?

THE lightning flashed, the thunder roared and plastic bags rained down upon my head.

Which some might think is just retribution for a midnight-snack thief.

This tragic scene took place as the battery-clock chimed "The Yellow Rose of Texas" at the stroke of 12, causing me to jump out of my guilt-ridden, wrinkle-draped skin.

Duly punished for my temporary lapse from the lettuce, I repacked the fridge and crept stealthily up to bed to join my slumbering spouse.

It's a depressing state of affairs when a person reaches middle age to discover his or her once svelte, sylph-like body has been replaced by a shapeless form that, in motion, looks more like two fighting cats incarcerated in a sack.

What is infinitely more serious is the fact that your spouse of the once slender body is equally, if not more, larger than you are.

And that causes problems of space.

For what could be worse than overcrowding!

Especially in a bed built for two that suddenly finds itself accommodating four.

My husband, his stomach, me and mine.

However, this problem is not unique to the Lazar household.

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Why, only the other day, while eating bean sprouts and a lettuce leaf at the Goldies', my friend Beth — a well-rounded figure of womanhood, remarked on the success of her various diets through the ages.

"There's nothing to it," she said, while munching the almond tart dessert with a dollop of cream from a cow as opposed to cream from a machine.

"All that's necessary is willpower," she said, taking her second slice.

We went home chastened, determined to live healthy, fat-free, gravyless lives.

That night I served spaghettiless spaghetti bolognaise with a crisp undressed salad.

After dinner, we watched television in comfortable harmony — my husband's stomach rumble matched only by Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.

Breakfast, normally a happy family occasion, when everyone spreads thick marmalade over hot buttered toast after the cornflakes and poached eggs, became a silent affair.

"What is this?" said my financial asset, who looked distinctly slimmer that morning.

"That? That's a grapefruit with fat-free cottage cheese."

He shuddered, then: "There's no coffee, only hot water. Where's the coffee?"

I was horrified. "You can't drink coffee — good heavens, don't you know, it's bad for you. Hot water clears your system — coffee is full of toxins."

And so it went for a week. Food was banished. The children ate in the kitchen and we existed on lettuce leaves and grapefruit.

Until Friday.

On Friday I went into the kitchen to discover my husband, smacking his chops — a look of satisfaction on his face.

The evidence was there in front of him — he'd devoured the Liquorice-the-labrador's dish of gravied beef chunks with the extra-strong flavour and a dash of chutney.

"Are you mad?" I asked, calmly.

"No, just hungry," he replied, calmly. And that was that.

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