Monday, 2 May 2011

Brixon Innit

I have just been reminded that I forgot to tell you about the bizarre woman from wibblies I mentioned in the post before last. How rude of me. I was just too tired last night to think of anything, but I had a bonus lie in this morning so all guns are blazing now.

So, it was last Tuesday. (Oooh I should just say that being so ridiculously unprofessional is probably a massive mistake for my fledgling career, plus I should hate to hurt anyone's feelings, but I'm going on the side of statistics with this, and as there are only a relatively few people reading each post I'm thinking that statistically it is extremely unlikely that anyone out of these few are likely to come into contact or indeed mention this to anyone at WW HQ and even less likely, to the woman herself. However, in the extreme unlikelihood that either of these likelihoods should occur then please pretend you have no idea who the hell I am. Thanks.) So, cast your mind back to last Tuesday, post Easter weekend and pre the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. I had to leave K to evening childcare and go forth into the uncharted territory that is Brixton. I have lived in south London for ten years but I have never been in to Brixton, a. as there has never been any need to but mostly, b. I'm a bit of a snob so have never felt compelled to go out of idle curiosity. All of my preconceptions were validated upon entry of the Brixton postcode and I instinctively locked the car doors, (just as my mother used to upon entering anywhere slightly 'urban') thereby conclusively confirming my old lady status. The group itself was being held inside the Brixton Rec Centre. Again, probably the least salubrious place I have ever entered, and rather scary on the approach. I held on tightly to the large orange Wibbly board I was carrying to put outside the venue beckoning people to join. Still having a bit of weight to lose, it is ever so slightly embarrassing walking along holding a large sandwich board advertising Weight Watchers. Still, I did all this with a smile on my face, accompanied as I was, by the lovely leader whose meeting I was watching. Let's call her 'Jane'. So Jane was about 5ft tall, a size 10 (but used to be smaller which you could tell as that was how she dressed), had a deep long term smokers' voice and a complexion which instantly conveyed her love of the sun. The main problem was she was the stereotypical 'old school' wibblies and more than a little reminiscent of the Marjorie Dawes (Little Britain) character, their voices were almost identical although obviously Jane was a lot slimmer. She had lost her weight in 1988 (two stone) and had remained petite ever since which meant she showed no visible empathy to anyone I saw her interact with and was positively rude to the members of her Clapham group who had made the trek over the border (they hadn't had their usual Monday meeting due to the bank holidays). The entire thing was hilarious from beginning to end - the fastidious way she made members sign is as most of them weren't to be trusted, the large West Indian helper who sat and told me all about her theories on high profile celebrity contract killings (Marilyn, Diana, another actress I had never heard of) and then the woman who was 'mental' and 'hilarious' as she kept singing and talking at a high volume and so assumed I must think she was a 'character'. The whole event took place in a long uninspiring room which wasn't laid out or decorated to make anyone feel it was anything else. Even the merchandise had been unceremoniously dumped on a table, what little there was of it.  There was an overwhelming feeling that she didn't give much of a shit about the meeting or any of her members but she assured me they all adored her. Natch. The rest was really protocol issues which will mean nothing to those of you who aren't as meticulously trained as I am (don't blame yourselves) but suffice to say that I left a. slightly mortified that the Clapham women thought I might be aspiring to be 'jane' and b. with pain in my cheeks from smiling so much. It was like living through a comedy sketch.

I cannot do the experience justice and it seems far less funny when written down - still I hope it paints a picture. The following day I went to my usual weigh in and as I've said, discovered that after a week of not eating a single large Easter Egg (obviously had to eat some mini eggs or it wouldn't have been Easter) I had not lost even half a pound. I can barely speak of it without being upset. If there is not a considerable weight loss this Wednesday I shall be very close to volunteering to undergo thorough medical investigation as I clearly have a problematic thyroid or some hideous tumour which has affected my ability to lose weight. There is even cake in the cupboard from a party the kids went to on Saturday that I STILL haven't eaten. I am keeping it there until Wednesday when I shall eat it if the scales do not sort themselves out. The distinct lack of fat and sugar in my daily food intake is making me a fairly unpleasant person to live with - Bea and George produced a short play on Sunday morning in which 'mummy' was a character. It was fairly hard to watch Bea's expert character assassination although thankfully she had given me some warning by telling me the stage direction for my part was 'moody and grumpy'. Yet again I may have to concede that exercise might possibly be the only option now left to me. It just seems like giving in though, so for now I shall remain on the sofa just looking at the Wii fit board and safe in the knowledge that Zumba is there if I need.

I know this is slightly out of character but the news is on - so Osama Bin Laden is dead? This seems ridiculously shady - firstly, we only have blood on a Persian carpet and America's word for it as proof because they dumped his body in the sea - seriously? And secondly - he was hiding behind one of his wives in a mansion 'down the road' from the US army when they finally found him. It all seems distinctly fishy to me and like something out of a Grisham novel. I shall simply have to get back to Brixton and find out the West Indian woman's verdict on all of this.

Until the next time xxx

1 comment:

  1. Ah funny! I lived in Brixton for 4 years whilst working in London and never even got mugged! And thats despite walking back home alone at 1am from Clapham North tube most nights..