Plastic Fantastic!

Me, the Missus and the Boy are sat eating tea (supper for southern readers). Ten Years Younger with style Nazi presenter Nicky Hambleton-Jones is on the TV.

In this show a very pleasant HGV of a woman is being magically transformed into something slightly less behemoth-like thanks to the magic of telly (and several thousand pounds worth of style makeover, wardrobe changes and plastic surgery).

Such shows usually prompt a volley of abuse in From Beer To Paternity Towers. But myself and the Boy are distracted discussing the relative merits of being fancied by gay men after the Missus has just told the Boy he is not slim enough to attract the attentions of any chap-loving Adonises.

Our musings, however, are interrupted by the Missus…

‘That’s what I’m going to spend money on when I get older…’
‘What? A fat woman from Nottingham?’ asks the Boy pointing to the telly?
‘No. Plastic surgery…’

I interject as the woman on the TV has her nose sliced open.

‘But you don’t need plastic surgery. You have a fabulous face.’
‘Oh I wouldn’t touch my face.’
‘So you don’t need it then…’
‘I could get my stomach done…’
‘Your stomach’s fine…’
‘And my legs…’
‘Your legs are fine…’
‘And have liposuction…’
‘You don’t need liposuction. That’s ridiculous!’

There is a pause. Myself and the Boy think the moment has passed. But it hasn’t.

‘I wouldn’t get my breasts done though.’
‘Oh. That's the bit I'd have chipped in for...’

The Boy sniggers. The Missus turns and smiles. She gets the gag but there will be pain later. Lots of pain...