I had a horrible wardrobe moment yesterday when all my clothes ganged up against me and refused to fit. It wouldn't have mattered a jot if we hadn't been going out. The result was a mountain of discarded dresses and a very fat lady about to burst into tears with nothing to wear. I don't quite know why I have swollen up and feel like a whale. I blame that pizza. I really look pregnant. I crammed myself into a pair of Trinny & Suzanna pants (they didn't really work) then found, in the furthest depths of my wardrobe somewhere beyond Narnia, a big velvet tent dress that I squeezed into. I think I need to visit Evans outsize shop; somewhere I vowed I would shoot myself before entering except to gawp at the fat people and ensure I never become like them. Mr Smith suggesting pricking me to see if I deflated. Any excuse, honestly.
We went for dinner in the West End with Mr Smith's family and jolly nice it was too. My brother-in-law forgot to vote. Well, he had just flown from Spain and didn't really have time. It all looks like a draw anyway.
After my lovely dinner with a rather weird banana mousse for pudding, I feel even fatter. Perhaps I will explode - stand well back, further than that.
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