My Life on a Plate [antikvár]

What should happen is, I should somehow catch my reflection in a mirror, or a shop window, fifty or so pages in, and describe myself to you that way. Seems a bit contrived to me, that method, besides which if I catch my reflection in shop windows, I tend to scream with horror, rather than tip my head to one side and make measured, composed observations. Alsó, I always want to know what people look like right at the start, don't you? You'd feel pretty peeved if you discovered, much later 011, that I was a psychopathic two-ton Tessie with flat feet and a moustache, or — worse — somé hateful, eating-disordery twig that wafts around in Prada smelling of sick. So let's get things straight. I don't smell of sick. (That's my friend Amber, whom you'll meet later. Her hobbies are bulimia and self-help books. My hobby is being compassionate.) And I don't weigh two tons, although, as a ripe size 16, Fm hardly what you'd call frail and reedy either. What else? Five nine, dark hair, green eyes - oh look, I'm sounding all sexy, which isn't quite right. Let's see. If you asked Kate, my mother, she would shake her head very sadly, as if I were an especially precious kitten that had died in tragic circumstances, and teli you I've 'let myself go disgustingly\ And I suppose she would be right. I mean, I've got the man, the house, the children: why not celebrate by tucking into a doughnut or two of a morning?