The Scales of Injustice

For anyone following a fitness and healthy eating programme in their quest for a bit of body maintenance, you will understand my lack of understanding at the injustice of scales.

Scales do not lie.  They share a common trait with the mirror.

Except that I have discovered that they do lie.  They contort the truth.  And they are on to me.

In this household there has been one dodgy pair of scales for years.  They have been dropped several times and they are battle weary.  They also lie.  Not just in the way that scales do when they are moved to different areas of the room but real grown up porky pie lies.  This may well have something to do with the fact that they are broken but nevertheless they have a job to do.

And that job is not too tell me that I weigh more than I think I do.

I’ve given them every opportunity, I move them around until I arrive at my desired weight.  That’s what we all do, right?

But they perform once and then the deceit starts.

Enter, Iron Man with the 5:2 diet and like all Iron Men, he needs a special set of scales.  His scales.  Man scales.

So when I ask to borrow the man scales, he sets them down on the bedroom floor and walks away.

Now you may think I’m a little daft but my next question of ‘what shall I do?’ may not seem quite so silly if you lived here.

The response was ‘stand on them’ followed by hysterical laughing.

Of course, he does think he is really funny.  And he is – generally about twice a year and on holiday.

This however is no laughing matter.


Well because nothing in this house is bloody straight-forward.

Take it from me.

The previous man scales came with a hand gadget.  What bloody nonsense.  But no.  Hand gadget it was and he, his scales, his hand-held and the 5:2 got along just fine.  Weight flew off and life was peachy.

Until they broke.

So how was I to know that such a straight-forward gadget had been welcomed into the home of the future.

I say home of the future because quite simply I can never just do anything in real time.  Like turn on the TV or the radio.

Generally because they have had an ………..


Of the 47 parcels I take in a week.  Generally, half will be ours.  Well not ours – his.

Inside all of these parcels lies another reason for me not to do something.  My little heart drops and I know, I’m in for another lesson.  A lesson on how to use an everyday object that has had an


In fact, I am so over updates that I try to avoid the knocks on the door like I avoid Iron Man when there is a lesson on the agenda.

Now I know that I was supposed to heed the advice of my trusty instructor who categorically stated that I MUST NOT WEIGH MYSELF until the end.

And I have managed it for three weeks BUT it’s a bit like not being able to have a feel of your Christmas presents under the tree.  And that’s just torture.

So I had to weigh myself.  I could stand it no longer.

I weigh myself for one reason only.

To see if I have lost any weight.

Because if I have, then I can treat myself to a damn good scoff.  No other reason.  It’s cheating I know but there is one flaw with this weight loss lark and that it is that I just bloody love food and Prosecco.

So when the scales yell back that I haven’t lost a blinking pound, I’m cross.

I’m so cross that I’m not letting them off lightly and I do what all good dieting students do – I keep weighing myself.  Several times a day, until they get it.

Fair play to the scales here though.

For some bizarre unknown reason, they co-operated.  The more I weighed myself the less I weighed.

And so I treated myself to fish and chips, twice.  And Prosecco – three times.

I danced around in celebratory style feeling as though I had one over on the scales.

And the next day.

They lied again.

I tried all of my usual wooing techniques to no avail.

I asked Iron Men to remove them immediately.

They clearly need an


I, on the other hand – do not.

I am well aware that there are rules to this game.  And I have broken them.  I do not need to conspire with the man scales.

The scales are not for turning.

And I shall comfort myself in the meantime with the knowledge that muscle weighs more than fat.

Because I believe the experts.

I’m not sure if muscle weighs heavier than fish and chips too but it’s all about the muscle from now on.

The scales are no longer welcome.

I can do this without them.

Can you?

Please tell me I’m not the only person that does this for the sake of sneaking in a few extra treats.

Cuddle Fairy