It's true that I haven't always had good relationships with bathroom scales; my last set embraced the grunge lifestyle and left home to live in a skip a couple of years ago. I wasn't put off though. I quickly opened my home and heart to a new set of scales; Max Morrison - a pale, slim, efficient type. Rather like the android secretary of a Bond villain. I should have been warned, but I reckon everyone deserves a chance. And Max has done well in the warm and caring environment of my bathroom. He even put up with the dust, with only the occasional reproachful glance in my direction.
Sadly, all
has now changed, and I think poor Max has had an emotional crisis. While
my bathroom was being re-fitted, I moved him into my bedroom and tucked him
cosily away under the bedside table. Now he's refusing to go back. This morning I wiped his face, then stepped
on to weigh myself.
Wow, 8 stone
13! I haven't been 8 stone 13 in years! But I knew that, whatever
Max said, I'm not 8 stone 13 now.
I took him back into the bathroom, set
him down on the new tiles and tried again. Oh good grief, 10 stone 13!
I took him out onto the landing, where he said I was 9 stone 1.
Pleasing, but less probable and I wasn't going to give in to flattery. Besides, it would be most inconvenient to leave him there as I'd be falling over him all the time.
Now I do
know that altitude affects your weight, so I took Max downstairs. {You do actually weigh different at sea
level than you would on top of a mountain; not much different, but I felt it
was worth a try.}
Apparently I'm
only 8 stone 4 in the living room. Time for shock tactics, so I
dragged him into the kitchen, where he looked round in terror and blurted out
the first number that came into his head, which happened to be 11 stone.
