Pig by name, Pig by nature

As all my readers know he is called the “The Pig” because he was one. In more ways than you can imagine. At 21 stone and with the personality of an arsehole, his title is, of course, was well deserved. Alas, since the 1st of January “The Pig” has been on some kind of keep fit campaign, which has included him watching his fat content (not a proper diet) and walking for an hour a day. After a few weeks, the walking became jogging and now almost 3 months and 3 stone lighter , “The Pig” is looking rather svelte with his 6ft 4in frame, as his beer belly has all but disappeared and although he still gets hungry, he has had the will power to resist, although he will sometimes have a treat or a weekend off. I am really pleased for him and proud that for once, he has actually achieved something he set out to do (other than make my life a misery), but it has been made easier for him by the fact that “Fat Cat City Lunches” have fallen by the wayside, along with the few drinks with the boys after work.

To be honest I am pretty sick of him standing in front of the mirror admiring his new found physique and showing me how he can fit into a suit he had 5 years ago and the endless jeans and tops and belts that would never do up, now fit quite nicely, with a previously unworn belt now making its way to the 4th hole! I just sit, nod and say “didn’t he do well” – there is only so much one can say isn’t there? that marginally beats “shut the f@@k up!”. Only problem is I do feel a little bit jealous and wonder what I would weigh if I had started out on this fitness quest with him. Unlike him, I don’t lose weight by cutting down, or cutting out bread and pasta, as some people do, I always have to stick to a proper diet, preferably one that involves attending a club where you are so ashamed of being weighed in front of people, especially when the person weighing you says in a rather loud voice “put on 3” oh bollocks, how did that happen? And when you lose a few pounds, they speak really softly so that no one else has the opportunity to be pleased for you.

He is also driving me nuts about what I eat. On and on and on he goes every bloody time something edible makes its way to my face. I was just hunting for my bar of Green & Blacks Milk Chocolate which the stupid f@@ker had put in the fridge (“the smoothness melts in your mouth” the wrapper says, well not when some twat has made it rock hard by putting it in the bloody fridge, nearly took me crowns off! Well he saw me eating it and came in from the garden and said “why are you eating that, we will be having dinner soon, just can’t stop yourself can you, look at the state of you” so this is where I want to take the meat cleaver to his jugular but instead say “hang on a minute, (doing my Lauren from Catherine Tate voice and body movements) it was only an hour ago you were eating those new Squirrel flavour crisps, so why are you, yet again, criticising my eating habits?” “Ah, those crisps are low fat” he responds with a grin wider than a Cheshire cat’s and an extremely smug look on his face. “Wanker” I mutter under my breath as he leaves the room. Thing is, the more he does it, the more I eat, purely to piss him off.

He comes back from his run, purple in the face, sweating like a pig, collapses on the sofa until he can move again and make his way to the shower and says to me “you really should take some exercise” as he sees me lug the Dyson upstairs, do my back in whilst cleaning the bath and mop the bloody solid wood floors that are all over the house. Can’t the bloody stupid bastard understand that you use up calories just by doing an hours ironing, according to the Weightwatchers handbook, in which case with all the frigging washing created in this house, means I should be somewhere in the region of 7 stone!

So perhaps the key to all of this is to get fatter and fatter until he f@@ks off. Some poor bitch may be fooled by his charm as I was in the early days and take him off my hands. It is quite obvious that as his figure improves and along with it, his self image and self importance, that I am no longer good enough. Funny how when I was carrying his son and in my last trimester, he used to say to me “you look so cute”, so what is the problem now? I am still 5ft 2in and my belly still looks like our eight year old son is living in it, so why am I not so cute now?