Yes, I’m pleased to say that the scales have fallen from my eyes. Earlier on today I would have liked another type of scales to have fallen… out through our bathroom window! Those nasty new scales have been making me feel bad about myself for about three weeks now; why today I felt so ugly that I didn’t even bother to put on any makeup until I went to Zumba class this evening, and then it was only a little eyeliner and lipstick (just in case I ran into Brian at the Leisure Centre, which I didn’t).

Outwardly, I have been protesting that the new scales are wrong – about six pounds, the wrong way – but inside my normal-sized and attractive body the ugly fat girl trying to get out has been gaining ground (and possibly weight). She has been nagging me with questions like, “What if those scales really are right?” and “Has my bottom got bigger?” She keeps urging me to buy big clothes and she’s even tried to induce me to wear comfy stretchy jogging pants out shopping – “Who will notice under your coat?” she asked rather convincingly. Luckily, I had read in the paper recently that French women (reputedly the most stylish women in the world) “never wear sweat-pants” (I guess sweat-pants are the same as jogger pants). You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve taken off jogger pants and forced myself into tight jeans, only for the shopping excursions, of course, (Chris isn’t as critical as the shopping public, or at least, the French public).

Even dressing for Zumba was something of a trial: should I wear figure-hugging lycra and, if so, should I wear long legged pants or ones that end at the knee? Those scales on my eyes affected my vision in the full-length mirror on the bedroom wall and, after many try-ons, I decided upon some thin stretchy black sports trousers and a black top (to make me look slimmer). It all took time, I was going to be late for Zumba – perhaps I shouldn’t go – the class would notice my weight gain; I would look better next time, after seven days of starvation. But I love Zumba…

I wasn’t that late.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I apologised.

“No problem, we’re still warming up,” the pretty blonde welcomed me with a lovely smile.

It was a rainy dark night, which usually means a poor attendance. It was a small class – my appearance brought it up to nine – and each and every lady greeted me at some point with a welcoming smile. The session was great: we danced Bollywood style, we did the salsa, we mamboed, we belly danced – we even did “River Dance”. I loved it. And after the class I went to the gym and ran well over one and a half kilometres in ten minutes on the cross-country machine.

With a little trepidation I stepped on the scales in the gym … Well, I’m not going to tell you what they said but I can tell you that I was exactly the same weight as I was a month ago, before we bought our horrible new scales. Perhaps I won’t starve myself after all – suddenly I feel so much better about myself.

  “Surely I must be smarter than a donkey…” I reasoned with myself. (In case you’re wondering, I am filling in for Mary as Rosie’s farm-sitter while she is away.)

  Apparently not. I was stood there in the stables looking at a donkey who would not budge; I had tried the carrot and now I was considering the stick, not to hit with (if it could be avoided) but to use as a shepherd’s crook.

  If only I hadn’t decided to be nice and get the donkeys a bucket of fresh water (would the old water, with ten ton of hay in it, really have killed them?)… If only I hadn’t left the gate ever so slightly ajar while I fetched the water… Those two clever donkeys must have eyesight like hawks; they had seen their opportunity from quite a way off and bolted across the field to the side door that opens into their quarters in the stables. I dropped the gorilla bucket when I heard them running on the concrete floor and I stepped out in front of them to head them off… They squeezed by me and continued running into the farmyard.

  “Better not run after them,” I thought, “otherwise they’ll have me chasing them all over the farm!”

  That’s when I used the carrots to entice them back into the stables. They seemed to know that it was a ploy but they were tempted, all the same, and they met me at the threshold. I noticed a horse’s tether hanging on a hook and with one hand I took it from the wall surreptitiously as, with the other I held out a big carrot. As the smaller donkey put her head forward to take the carrot I slipped the tether over her head and ears, and I pulled. Nothing doing. A donkey is rather a heavy animal to drag along.

  “Perhaps she’d prefer some nice fresh hay,” I considered.

  But how to keep her there whilst I ran for the hay? I tied Alfreda (I think that’s her name) to another hook on the wall and ran for the hay. The larger donkey had stopped in her tracks and looked on at our antics. I had the feeling that if I could get one donkey back in the other would soon follow.

  Back with some hay and the end of the rope once again in my control, I led her forward – by one step. Then I turned around and pulled her three steps further before she realised I was gaining ground. At this point she stopped, we looked each other in the eyes, and I deliberated over whether or not I could outsmart her. To be honest, it looked as though we were going to be there all day!

   I tied Alfreda to another wall hook (thank goodness there are so many in stables!) and I had to push past her in order to get into the food store where I remembered seeing some old curtain rails. I found the best way to hold it was not pointing forwards,as a jousting lance, but across, as a fence rail; I held it out in front of me in both hands and pushed. Remarkably, Alfreda, who had changed position to face me, now took two steps back… in the direction of her stable. Feeling more confident, I lurched my head forward, almost touching the donkey’s and I pushed with the white plastic curtain rail. Amazingly, Alfreda turned on her heels and went back to her quarters, from where I removed the tether and gave her a nice big carrot.

  The larger donkey, already missing her best friend, resisted only halfheartedly when I tried the same technique on her, and before long the two were once more together.

  The whole episode probably took almost an hour, which wasn’t too bad considering I might have been there indefinitely. I’m proud to be able to say that I feel like a proper farmer. I believe I earned the admiration of the two black Labradors, Inka and Malachi, who had witnessed the event. I can imagine what those lovely, intelligent dogs were thinking:

  “She may be a novice at farming but at least she’s smarter than a donkey!”

   Mary, my beautiful sister, is away in Australia at the moment and, knowing how much her family must be missing her, especially at the weekend, I invited Geoff (her husband), my niece, Katie, and her son, James, to join us for Sunday dinner. Also on the guest list was my dear old mum, who would have sorely missed not going to the car boot sale as usual this morning. Oddly enough, Geoff had just taken a half-shoulder of lamb out from his freezer when I telephoned with the invitation to share ours. It is quite a while since I last cooked a roast dinner, mainly because it hardly seems worth all the effort for just Chris and me, and also because of our constant dieting (not that you’d notice particularly).

  The roast dinner was a great success: the roasted potatoes and parsnips were crisp and brown on the outside and fluffy on the inside; the Yorkshire puddings rose to perfection and the leek sauce was a creamy triumph; some of the onions had burnt a tad but nobody noticed because I put the least charred ones in with the gravy. In anticipation of the xenophobic antipathy many (including Chris) hold towards Brussels sprouts, I had cooked some frozen petit pois as an option and placed them in a dish with the buttery Devon pumpkin, carrots and swede mash; as expected, most of the Brussels sprouts remained (although, in a sense, they had been sent to Coventry).

  After dinner, Mum came into the kitchen while I was washing up the dishes.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Mum asked very sweetly.

  “Oh no, Mum, I’m doing a little of the washing up now but I shall leave some for Chris – he likes to do it later,” I replied.

  “Well, alright then. If there’s nothing I can do I think I’ll make my way home,” my mother said and began to make her way to the back door.

  “Let Chris take you home,” I urged.

  “Yes,” said Chris, coming into the studio, “I’ll take you.”

  “Or I can take you,” offered Geoff, who had likewise walked into the studio.

  “No, thank you, I’d like to walk,” insisted Mum, and she turned and beamed at us all, “I might get off with someone!”

  “But it’s raining outside,” implored Katie.

  “I’ll be fine,” Mum would not be cajoled and she practically sprinted up the back steps to the roadside three flights up.

  Back in the kitchen again I returned to the washing up (fourth fresh bowl of hot water) and Katie once again took up a tea towel. My niece seemed not to believe me when I told her how much Chris enjoyed the task and that she was depriving him of a pleasure. A few minutes later Chris, beaming all over his face, entered the kitchen – I have to admit that he looked exceedingly pleased to see us nearly at an end with our endeavours at the sink.

  The telephone rang and Chris, the only person with free hands, answered the phone. He burst out laughing and held out the phone on loud speaker for all to hear.

  “How did you get home so quickly?” I asked amazed.

  “Well, it was raining when I reached the top of the steps and, just at that moment I saw a young man about to get into his car – he had his wife and a four month old baby with him – so I asked him if he would mind dropping me home.”

  “No,” I interjected. “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know but he was very nice. He said, ‘Certainly, jump in and I’ll have you home in a jiffy.’ And that’s exactly what happened. I was home in no time. I told you I might get off with someone – didn’t I?”

  Bless her! My mum is ninety-one years of age and still has a twinkle in her eye.