Mixed messages

Seriously, there was a message on my fridge that said GET FIT. I don’t know who put it there, but it stood out: a small piece of white paper with black lettering spelling two three-letter words. It was stuck to my huge, shiny silver fridge with a red beret of a magnet. You probably know the type of fridge I have, one that can hoard enough food for a family of twelve, but when you live solo most of the time, you fill up as if you have a family of twelve anyway. The message greeted me in the morning as I entered the kitchen after my shower where I had done six, I kid you not, SIX squats. It was there mid-morning when I thought about going for a walk, but oh, what a shame, the weather closed in. Why put off till tomorrow what you can do today in the rain? That’s quite a complex question but I didn’t want my hair to frizz in the damp. So I didn’t go. The sign eyeballed me late afternoon when I sat and enjoyed a pot of tea and a biscuit, and very annoyingly, it was still there when I sat at the kitchen table much later and couldn’t decide between crisps, salted peanuts or a slab of manchego with my glass of wine. 

One morning, I saw that the sign had been tampered with. I’m not dumb, you know, I can spell. Someone had changed FIT to FAT. It made a lot more sense. I’ve been much happier this past week as I prepare for hunkering down over winter. I’ve got my nuts. And my chillies and olives. GET FAT. Yes, I like the sound of that. Roasties, pillows of buttery mash, seconds of crumble. With cream. Get Fit can wait until spring.