scale lies

So, while traversing across the Eastern bloc in a Czech car, my mother's sweet tooth combined with my compulsion for...well, food, ended in a mighty and colossal consumption of shit.

Which I have henceforth named Goulashgate.

Goulash is a Hungarian stew. The food in the Eastern Bloc is three things: heavy, solid and virtually indigestible. One eats stew, dumplings and beer all meals, if one wishes.


So whenever I spoke to my Brit, he'd end off the conversation on the phone with something like, "Everytime I speak to you you're tucking into dumplings and beer."

(Meanwhile, while I was erstwhile - he stuffed his face with pie. Because he missed me so much and was pining like a motherfucker.*)

So given that my diet consisted of hops and dough for 9 days solid, move aside Michelin Man, Peas and her mother rolled across the dewy dales of Slovakia with WeightWatchers points all but forgotten.

Well, again, something extraordinary has happened.
I have lost a kilo or two.

Chuffed as fuck. But also more suspicious than Julius Malema's lawyer.
Honestly, I get that female inconveniences like water retention can tip the scales, but seriously, I wasn't imaging the cake and doughballs I've stuffed in my piehole.
That really happened.

So where the fuck did it go? I'm definitely not complaining, but I'm asking in the name of scientific research. Did it sublime when it hit my oesophagus and vaporise right out of my mouth?
Did my tapeworm eat it?
Is my scale fucking broken?**

Tonight we are all going out for curry. And more beer. It's my mum's last night. I'm going to miss her when she's gone, it's been nice to show my mum where I live, our new little home, our neighbourhood, the local.


* and he was probably bored.
** actually, that's what it is. It's been fucked for weeks. Someone rotund stood on it at work and it's been throwing out crazy numbers ever since.

Wank.