Scales of Injustice

There are a set of scales in my bathroom. They're not there to weigh anything that is coming out or going in to my body, more to assuage just how much I weigh at any particular time.

I like to avoid the bastard as much as possible.

Today, for some reason clearly known only to my subconscious but which I suspect may include wanting to continue my bad mood from my team losing yesterday, I jumped on them for a recce. Then shrieked in horror, and jumped back off again.

Were I The Lidster, you would have found me still rolling around on the bathroom floor shouting "Scales are naughty! Scales are naughty to Mummy! Poor Mummy! Naughty scales, naughty." Sadly, I am not and therefore, cannot.

However, I think we all know what has happened here. Someone with an evil purpose is injecting some sort of weight gain serum into my bottom and belly at night. It obviously has nothing to do with my eating two packets of Monster Munch the size of my head on Saturday, nor anything to do with the entire ciabatta I coated in garlic and cheese yesterday, nor the excess cakes and sweets that have been shovelled down my throat during the past week.

Clearly, there is a conspiracy here, and I shan't rest until I find the bastard presumably responsible. Or until I've had a coffee and some bourbons, either or.