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Feed Me.

I’m seldom happier than when I’m stuffing my face.

I’m a fat man hidden in a thin man’s body; the polar opposite to Eddie Murphy in The Nutty Professor, or that bloke in Big Momma’s House*. My appetite knows no bounds; left to my own devices, I’d devour at least ten times my own body-weight in biscuits every day.

(Even more, if I could afford to fund the habit.)

Luckily, I have a metabolism that doesn’t mess about. I’ve somehow managed to remain at a weight that belies my massive intake. Until recently, that is, when I’ve started to career towards the mid-thirties, both in years on the planet and the inches around my waist.

For the first time in my life, I need to cut back. It’s not that I eat unhealthily, it’s just that I eat too much. I want to knock this on the head.  I’d like to keep my size in check, before the time comes when they have to lift me out of bed with a winch.   

(Admittedly, this is a fair way off.)




*only funnier.

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