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  • Writer's pictureJenny Wynter

Rat Poison for the Insecure Soul

Mum: (whispering to my sister) “I thought she’d lost more weight than that.”

Me: “Uh, I can HEAR you! And THANKS!”


Mum: “I don’t like your shirt.”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry…do you like my pants?” (A beat) Me: “Sorry Mum. That was just me turning the other cheek.”


Grandpa of sister’s boyfriend (to whom I’d just been introduced): “Wow, you’re much bigger than Angie, aren’t you?”

(Note: my sister is an absolute waif, the pudding-like proof being that her personal trainer has told her it is impossible for her to get any skinnier. That and she’s tiny, while I am rather tall.)

Angie: (trying to be sublty comforting) “Yeah, we are quite different.”

Others in the room: “Mmmm, mmmmm, you don’t look much alike, no, mmmmm…”

Angie: “And I am sitting on a chair!”

(Note: I was standing up.)

Me: “Yeah…and I am exhaling.”


Honestly, it’s enough to make you want to:

a) stick your fingers down your throat while singing “The Candyman Can”; b) gate-crash an aerobics class, take over the microphone and spend the entire session visibly bingeing on turkish delight; or c) dwell on those beautiful words of rainbow fizziness, uttered this very afternoon by grandma’s downstairs neighbour (complete with a thick German accent): “My dear look at you…you finally got your figure back!”


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