Well that’s not very encouraging. Just as I was setting my bags down, putting my water and MD player in arm’s reach, I decided to remove my jumper. The temperature in these Virgin trains is usually a degree or two above comfortable. I would make comments about this, pointing out that the 'virgin' train is hot because it has a kind of nervous sweat on, because, for the first time, it’s about to penetrate a tunnel.
But no, I won’t. It’s childish.
Anyway, as I was removing my jumper, my t-shirt began to ride up, exposing my midriff and jarring ribs to a delightful miscellaneous bunch of excitable travellers. No one saw like. But just after I’d showed the space behind the chair in front of me, my chest for a couple of minutes, I felt it best to hide my shame. Padding down my t shirt, I found my hand made quite an impression on my stomach area. Normally I can rest safe in the knowledge that most objects and limbs will just bounce off my belly, leaving no dents.
This time, causing me to gasp, my hand felt a little squidge. A squij?
This just isn’t right.
Am I getting podgy? My character is partly founded upon the fact that I’m a skinny waif. I’m not all that confident that I could pull off being a bit of a chobber. It would jar. Besides, I don’t have the penis for it. Surely it would get lost in swarthes of Twix residue and physiologically converted frozen pizza.
At school my friends would joke about my aura. “Dude,” they said, watching me tuck into lunchtime microwaved bacon and egg sandwiches combined with cupboard snacks, “one day your aura will explode.”
I would reply that yes, I’m sure one day it will. I will find myself struggling with banal fat and ordinary podginess. It runs in our family. It runs in most families.
But not now. Please not now. It’s too early. I’m only twenty two, I quite fancy about, say, eight years of total idleness before I resign myself to yoga and tofu.
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