Muffin Tops

Right. Just a quick word on fat girls...

Being one of the brazillion million antipodeans living there in LondonEngland, doing the whole working holiday vibe, I came across a strange little thing. It's called the Heathrow Injection.

Generally speaking, most Aussie, Kiwi and Saffa broads that come from abroad to old Mother Englund are pretty much, er, fit. ish. It's a pretty outdoor lifestyle south of the Equator, so with a few exceptions, most people play some sort of sport at school or at least have an interest in the world outside their living room. Most of them. There are a few fatasses that have always been anti-sweat and will remain staunchly staunch the whole time. But I'm not talking about them.

I'm talking about the many friends and acquaintances of mine that, fresh of the banana boat pulling into Blighty, have their normal average figures when they arrive and somehow, all of a sardine and a couple weeks into their stay, start to grow. And I'm not talking about as a person.

The guys, God knows why but it probably has something to do with the fact that we're always broke, generally start to lose a couple pounds. Sleeping on the floor at a friends house for a couple weeks while you learn that your currency is more than a bit slack tends to force a lot of weight off your belly. The guys seem to get smaller.

The girls? They seem to get bigger. They arrive, eat normally, and spread out like a fluffy duvet in a winter's morning. I don't get it. Maybe it's just me, but I'm pretty certain that 99% of all the girls I know or are friends with, that have come across to the UK, have managed to pick up quite a few pounds, spread the love, and wind up looking like Moonface from The Magic Faraway Tree. Not hectically, not orca fat, but a definite loading up on the heavies. It's weird.

Take them back home where they party up a storm, eat like kings because ten quid can buy an entire Spur Steak Ranch back home, and the weight they've picked up just buggers off home, never to be seen again. Until they go back to England, arrive at the airport and get another Heathrow Injection of scattering midriff.

Unlucky for them. And us. There's nothing worse for a guy to see someone from back home he KNOWS is cute and toight like a toddler, and then to go up to them only to see that puffy little top of a freshly cooked muffin peeking out over the side of their jeans.

Well, at least until we look down, and realise there's bits of our boep dribbling over the front of our chinos...