Carol’s Column

Every fried egg will have its day

I NEVER thought I'd live to see myself wired-up, plugged in and whittled away.

It started two weeks ago when I bought a gay lemon-with-orange-piping designer-reject at a sale. That night, I floated down to dinner — and twirled in front of my husband.

"Like it?"

"You look like a fried egg," he replied. "An undercooked one."

And this is the man I promised to cherish, love, honour and feed for the rest of my life.

Every fried egg will have its day, I thought to myself as I made my way upstairs — tripping over the tie-belt on the way and making contact with the sixth step.

My oldest son, on his way down, picked me up and deposited me gently on the washbasket.

"Take it easy, Ma," he muttered. "Don't overdo things at your age."

Sitting stiffly among the even stiffer washing — we're the only family whose washbasket died of rigor mortis at the age of three years — I decided the winds of change would have to do a little blowing.

This was reiterated when my second son deposited his well-abused rugby socks on my head.

The sad thing was, he hadn't even noticed I was there.

When your entire family regards you as a piece of discarded washing — it's time for change.

Fate intervened. I was peeling the potatoes on newspaper when an advertisement jumped out and hit me full-frontal in the eyeballs.

"Body Language" it said "Low prices, luxury attention, the latest treatment" and then in huge letters "WE CARE!"

"Can I help you," said a charming voice when I phoned.

"I'm a disaster," I wailed.

"Madam, we take everything," she said.

I had second thoughts when I got there.

It looked so plush this emporium of beauty.

Mirrors, pink shaggy-bear carpeting, draped ceiling-flowers and soft music.

Not to mention the stunning redhead sitting behind the desk.

I needn't have worried, she didn't flicker an eyelash.

"I have a problem," I remarked.

"Tell me," she replied sympathetically.

"My husband thinks I'm a fried egg, to my children I'm a discarded piece of washing, even my dogs don't talk to me anymore."

"Don't worry," she said smiling. "After a few sessions, you won't recognise yourself — no-one has to look like discarded washing.

"Have a little chat to Olwyn, and she'll sort out your problems."

In another room sat another charming young lady. I was thrilled to observe she too had a figure problem.

In fact, her stomach was almost the size of mine.

"I see you also have a mass problem," I remarked a little smugly.

"Yes, but only for another four weeks," she said.

"Oh, you're reshaping yourself too?"

"No, that's when my baby's due."

You win some, you lose some.

Sex, age, health, size — we went through it all and then came the critical question.

"What would you like to be? How do you see yourself?"

Middle-aged mothers of four cannot afford to be ridiculous so I phrased my answer with care.

"I'd like to look like a ravishing version of Raquel Welch with a little of the Jane Fonda intellect thrown in. And if you could manage to lengthen my legs too, I won't say no."

I could see Olwyn was taken aback.

"Look, we can't do the impossible — but what I am going to do is make you feel and look sensational in your own skin."

On reflection — it wasn't a bad deal. I mean, what else did I have?

Stripped to my bargain basement three-for-the-price-of-one stretch underwear and covered by a glamorous black gown I danced into a cubicle.

"Hi," I murmured to the rather slender figure in the corner.

The strong, silent type, she didn't say a word.

I looked closely. Good heavens, it was a machine.

Another fresh young thing popped in.

"Meet G5," she said and proceeded to massage, pummel and rub my body away.

Visibly slimmer, I slipped into the next cubicle to have my excess wastes drained away.

Dressed like an abominable snowman in a space-like outfit — I was blown up like a balloon. Before I could float away, they'd reduced the pressure.

Up and down, like a bicycle tyre I was pumped.

From chamber to chamber I was led. Massage, treatments . . . I had it all.

A pleasurable hour later, I sauntered out of Body Language, a new revitalised me.

In the pink of new-found health, I jogged home, getting a ticket for speeding in Jan Smuts Avenue which made me catch a bus in Dunkeld.

I didn't mind that there was only standing room in the bus. I felt so good, I could have stood all the way to Hong Kong — oh I should be so lucky.

I smiled at the two teenagers sitting on the seat below me.

"Get up for the little granny," said the one pimply youth to the other.

Little granny?

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