There is a foot square lump of plastic and metal which sits in the bathroom and doesn't move, but seems to be with me wherever I go.
Every time I sniff pain chocolat, or eye up a Subway meatball sandwich, I can hear its Smeagle-like, tinny little whine in my head. "Go on, just tries it, see what happens. You wants it, you knows you loves a chocolate."
The voice in my head is coming from that all-powerful supernatural force known as the bathroom scales.
I am obsessed with them. I worry I spend more time with them than with my girlfriend. Not as worried as she is mind.
But before during and after every meal I wonder what the scales will say. I leap out of bed every morning fizzing with excitement and how I may have shed a few pounds in the night and can't wait to see what they say.
And when, as they often do, they don't give me the answer I want, I try a myriad different positions around the bathroom to place them. Perhaps the floor isn't even here, I'll try them over there and see what happens. Can I get any more naked when I'm standing on them? Does it make a difference if I breathe in?
It doesn't help that in common with most purchases I make they were the cheapest option, so you can get quite a wide range of readings, with as much as four pounds difference sometimes. So I like to give it a few goes before I settle on the average.
Except I nearly threw them out the bathroom window today, which wouldn't have been good as it was closed at the time.
I have spent all week avoiding bread products (does tortilla wraps count?) and even went on a run on Tuesday, and it doesn't seem to have made a difference. As usual I'm being far too impatient but it does seem to take about a day to put on five pounds and three weeks to lose it again.
And of course there is only one true set of scales, one set of scales to rule them all, the set at the Weight Watchers meeting every Monday. Now they really do scare me.
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