Dear Fatty (3 page)

And so we waited and waited for her to come. Finally, just when I was starting to get lockjaw from the rictus of holding my Queen-Mother-welcoming cheesy grin in readiness, she walked up our garden path. I had a quick glance at the stunning outfit with the matching huge hat (hang on, where’s the bloody
crown
?!! She’s forgotten the crown. Someone’s nicked the crown! The crown for Chrissakes! Call the police!!), before taking a very low stoop into my ballet-influenced curtsy, holding my tartan skirt out at the sides for maximum effect so that the QM could view the wondrous calibre of the cloth. Gary did his gentlemanly bow simultaneously, and both of us remained like this for an uncomfortably long time – possibly two days. During our punishing rehearsals, we hadn’t worked out when the correct moment for closure on the bow/curtsy should be. It was best to just stay there till a cough from you brought us both upright, if a bit dizzy. Looking at the photos of the event, the overlong bowing was the last thing you needed since it immediately became apparent that Gary had not washed the back of his neck. Ever. It was truly grimy from a seven-year build-up of gladiator-game mud. He brought shame on the House of French at this critical moment but I don’t entirely blame him, because what happened next would overshadow the whole day for me and haunt my dreams for years to come. As I stood up from my deep curtsy, and the blood rushed away from my head, I blinked in the light and looked directly into the face of the mother of the Queen. She was about my height (I was four years old and three foot), which surprised me. Was she, in fact, a munchkin? Excellent! I smiled my special show-every-tooth-in-your-head smile, carefully avoiding saying hello first and definitely
not
calling her Spam (
don’t
say hello Spam,
don’t
say hello Spam). She then reciprocated with a huge ear-to-ear beaming smile and – horror of horrors – she had a mouthful of BLACK TEETH! What? Eh? No carriage, no crown and now she turns out to be a fully certified evil witch! And she’s coming into
my
house! I was dumbstruck and with my
heart
beating fear in my ears, I hid behind your knees and grabbed on to your legs. I remember you trying to shake me off and you even did that dadfirmpull thing to remove me, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I was holding on to your leg with the grip of a randy terrier, trying to make legpuppies with you. She was in our house, chatting and drinking tea for all the world as if she
wasn’t
evil incarnate …! She looked at Gary’s train set, she asked polite questions and complimented us on our lovely neat house. Had no one else noticed? Perhaps true evil, the soldiers of SATAN, can only be seen through kid-vision? So why was my brother being so suckuppy? Didn’t
he
know? Perhaps it’s only
girl
-kid-vision that works? I knew what to do. Hold on to your leg and refuse to either speak to her or look her in the eye. So that’s what I did. I said one word when she asked me about my school. I said, ‘Nice.’ That was it. That’s all I gave her and that was only to appear civil to the unknowing humans, the fools who knew not who she truly was. She left our house and went off to spread her evil seed elsewhere, after 20 minutes or so. The scariest 20 minutes of my life. Does she get back in the helicopter or simply hop on her broomstick to get home? Does the Queen know what’s in her midst? I’m only four, there’s nothing more I can do. No one believes me. I’m helpless, hopeless, inconsolable.

I was left with this deep hidden fear for years, and then I happened to meet the QM at a reception for the arts many moons later and found her to still be alarmingly short, but much less evil, with lovely teeth.

Thanks, Dad, for the use of your leg that day. It saved my life.

RIGHT FROM THE
moment you were born, on Boxing Day 1993, and when I first looked into your eyes, I knew we were linked in a profound way. If feels a bit like we are twins born 40 years apart. I know you. Because I
was
you. I have watched you grow into your teenagehood, negotiating the assault course of your childhood using exactly the same techniques as I did. I see your thinking, I see your actions, I see your doubt, and I see your method and I know them as my own. Is it the family connection? I guess that must be a huge part of it. Is it some great cosmic joke that I should appear again in my brother’s life as his daughter, just when he thought he was safe, a spooky mini me, to continue the torture? Whatever the reason, I am so glad you’re here, that you’re my niece and I cherish our mysterious sameness.

I can’t apologise enough for the lifetime of comparison to me you have already had to, and will in the future, endure. The endless comments about how you and I are so similar must be agonising. I am quite often the culprit myself, even when I am aware of how tiresome and frankly frightening it must be for you. I remember when I was 14 like you, I thought anyone over the ripe old age of 40 might as well throw in the towel and die to alleviate their unsightly and off-putting decrepitude. Surely, it would be a favour to themselves and to everyone else if they just, like, weren’t there? So I understand how alarming this comparison must seem. For a start, how could anyone be alive and
so
very
fat
?! What is the point of that? Well, all I can say is that I am just as surprised as you. I honestly cannot fathom the dimensions of this curious body I’ve been given. I was aware, from
very
early on, that it wasn’t quite like anyone else’s. None of the laws of physics, nature, chemistry, biology, art
or
universal order seem to apply. I know I am a human life form, but not as we know it, Captain. Why, for instance, am I
so
short? I know the Frenchies are not tall in the genes department, hailing as we do from labouring stock, heavy, beefy men who built the first tar roads in Cornwall and from fishermen who, again, need to be robust and sturdy to haul in their living. Surely, though, their proportions were not quite as startlingly dwarfish as my own? What is my physical category, actually? Plump? Rotund? Squat? Corpulent? Buxom, possibly, in poor light? No, I defy these definitions. I’ve seen folk who fit those descriptions and they are not like me. I am more hobbitish, with a big dollop of Weeble. You know, the ones that wobble but don’t fall down? Except I do, due to alarming lack of foot size which might otherwise offer some stability. You would think that in return for the shocking lack of leg/arm/torso length, God might have been prepared to barter and bless me with elegant long fingers suitable for pianos and rings, or even exquisite toes for sandal and nail-polish use. No no no. Not to be – got the dumpy Wall’s sausage fingers and the cocktail sausage toes. Thanks, God. What about an aesthetically pleasing, well-arched neck? No no no. Got the full, direct-from-chin-to-chest fortification, with impressive turkey-gobble flaps attached. How generous of the Almighty to gift me with not just the one chin, but several reserve chins – lest I lose one? Or perhaps so that I might fashion a sail from my own face if I am stranded at sea on a raft?

Above all, what in the name of all that is holy is the purpose of these massive ocean-going buoy chests? I know bosoms are womanly but these surely belong to
many
women. How did I get the rations for the whole queue from here to the edge of the earth? Every time I see a flat-fronted woman, I want to apologise for my seemingly appalling greed. This is the kind of hoarding that gets you sent to your room with a stinging arse. I would happily share, given half a chance. I’d love to see my chipolata toes again – it’s been so long. I’d love to hold a friend’s baby without seeing that strange slavering glint in their eye when they bounce off what must seem to be enough food to propel them into their teens. I’d love to run and still see ahead on every other stride. I’d love to lie down on my back without gathering underarm beach balls. I’d love to pick up a bra catalogue and find my size in
all
ranges rather than turn each page ever more forlornly till I come across the trusted industrial ‘Doreen’ in white polyester – the only bap-scaffolding that comes in my staggering 42H. I have tried to customise the ‘Doreen’ so many times – I’ve added lace, I’ve hacked away at it with pinking shears to create a sexular-looking shelf-like effect, I’ve covered it in intriguing fabrics in an attempt to make it more comely. On one occasion, fortified by drink, I wore it back to front, which was ill-advised and dangerous to all in my immediate vicinity. I’ve hunted high and low and under and over and beyond and back to find beautiful, supportive equipment for these unfeasibly large norks. Thank God then, and June Kenton, for Rigby & Peller, a place where physical freaks like me can find refuge, get measured properly and finally get heaved into something nearly pretty. I don’t think you’re heading this way in the front upper department, Hannah, but if
you
do, fear not – I will guide you beyond the darkness, through the portal of light that is Rigby & Peller’s door, with the comforting Queen’s royal warrant above it. There shall you find mammiferous fulfilment and happiness.

Any road, I know you will look at me from time to time and dread the onset of this odd body shape. Fortunately, I think your mum’s genes might save you. Evidence thus far points towards early intervention of good strong height genes. You even seem to have an actual neck, which goes in under the jaw and then down, providing you with a place where necklaces apparently go. How lucky you are. But should this fleshy strangeness befall you, I want to allay your fears a tiny bit and tell you that it’s not all bad. I have discovered that big breasts can precede you into a room and announce the arrival of someone to be reckoned with. This can be very useful if you are feeling nervous or shy, because the knockers do the attitude for you; meanwhile, you have enough breathing time to let your courage catch up with them. I’ve also experienced big bosoms as a sort of theme park for boys. They just can’t seem to resist them. Every single boy I have known intimately has been utterly entranced by them and can’t wait to earn access so they can play all day. Of course, not all of them have been well apprenticed in the art of bosom management. A big tip I offer you is to give boys with very small hands a wide berth. It seems cruel to exclude them but, believe me, they can’t seem to get past the turnstiles into the park. They just can’t. You will have to train boys to treat the pleasure domes with all due respect and to cherish them like the magnificent cherishable things they are. You will have to gently discourage any unconfident twiddling or tuning, you will have to insist on their close face-shaving to avoid
chafing
or grazing. You will have to fight off all attempts at actual breastfeeding, which some boys seem to regress to with zealous and baby-like oversucking. I once had a situation where a total nincompoop created a kind of vacuum on one of my pinnacles and had to be jabbed hard in the cheek in order to force a release. Painful for both of us and potentially fatal for him. You will also experience, should you be similarly endowed, a kind of sisterly regard verging on rampant jealousy from other women. They, too, wish to join in the fun or at least behold the actual wonders or at the very least hear tell of saucy chesticle adventures so as they might vicariously enjoy the thrills.

I once went to the theatre with a chum and noticed a woman in her fifties having a pre-show drink in the bar, with the most splendid front I have ever seen (the woman, that is, not the bar). She was very grand and she held herself so proudly. I was in awe. I couldn’t stop looking at her, at them, at it, at the whole fabulous majestic thing. Imagine my delight when, quite by coincidence, she sat down next to me. I was breathless with admiration. She was glancing at the programme. I tried to resist, truly I did, but I couldn’t – I leaned over and said, ‘Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind but I am compelled to tell you that you have the most magnificent bosom I’ve ever seen.’ She looked beatifically at me over her bifocals and said, ‘Yes. I know,’ and smiled. And the lights went down and we watched the play side by side. Me and the lady with the remarkable chest. We didn’t speak again. And it was delicious.

Don’t forget that although you have a deal of ‘French’ blood in you, to a certain extent the shape of your body can be YOUR CHOICE. I’ve heard that exercise and a lean, healthy diet can
make
a big difference … I’ve always known this but I can’t help it – personally, I would rather read a book or watch
Big Brother
than go to a gym and jump about with a flushed face. Whenever I have passed a gym, and I’ve passed many, I look in through the steamed-up windows and see sights I would only ever imagine in the nine circles of hell. Puffing red people grimacing in pain, leaking buckets o’ sweat. My only experience of this behaviour was enforced PE torture at school. During most PE classes, I had only one thought in my head: ‘One day, when I am the one in charge of me, I will never have to do this again.’ And so it was. However, I have to admit that those who put themselves through it often look bonny in the end, so the fact is – you do have a choice. I am a sedentary person, I’ve got the kind of well-spread bum that is perfect for sitting and watching, and that’s what I do best. I’m sorry to boast but I really am good at it.

Some things
are
worth moving for, and for those beloved and special activities I have been known to move with alarming speed and tip-top energy. The ‘worth moving fast for’ list is as follows: 1. doing sex, 2. swimming, 3. tennis, 4. walking by sea with dog, 5. going into town to get a pasty, 6. doing sex, 7. dancing, 8. running away from evil people, 9. running towards delightful people, 10. doing sex.

Talking of dancing, sweet pea, you are
so
good at it. I’ve seen you perform on lots of occasions and when I watch you, I nearly burst with joy. Dancing is
so
great, isn’t it? I see you move and use your lovely body in such a way that I know you are feeding from the pleasure of it. You are supple and expressive and dazzling. I hope your enviable connection to your body and the confidence it gives you will last the rest of your life. That’s the key, you know,
confidence
. I know for a fact that if you can genuinely like your body, so can others. It doesn’t really matter if it’s short, tall, fat or thin, it just matters that you can find some things to like about it. Even if that means having a good laugh at the bits of it that wobble independently, occasionally, that’s all right. It might take you a while to believe me on this one, lots of people don’t because they seem to suffer from a self-hatred that precludes them from imagining that a big woman could ever love herself because
they
don’t. But I
do
. I know what I’ve got is a bit strange and difficult to love but those are the very aspects I love the most! It’s a bit like people. I’ve never been particularly attracted to the uniform of conventional beauty. I’m always a bit suspicious of people who feel compelled to conform. I personally like the adventure of difference. And what’s beauty, anyway?