Imagine this, you are standing at a work morning tea, gazing lustily at the sausage rolls and chocolate biscuits.
A giant stringbean of a man next to you is complaining that if he eats any of it, he will put on weight.
You look at him. His legs are like twigs and, though he is in his forties, he is wearing the same size pants as he wore when he was a teenager.
You think of all the diets you have been on over the decades, the three sizes of clothing that clog up your wardrobe (most of which you will never fit again) and the knees that ache after a pathetic amount of stairs.
You look at the man and your eyes show your murderous thoughts.
That bloke is my husband. I have suggested he keep his mouth shut at such times but he has trouble working out how other people may feel about what he says so he dices with death.
If someone does stab him with the cake knife, my victim impact statement will be sympathetic to the perpetrator.
ERRATUM: Apparently the husband's waist has increased one inch in the 25 years since he was 18. Whew, he has really let himself go.
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