I always want to be at least half a stone thinner than I am. I know, it’s an outrage, I’m a disgrace to the sisterhood, mindlessly, hopelessly conditioned to impossible oppressive patriarchal standards. Do please feel free to tell me how shameful you find me: an indifferent smirk slims the face a treat. My mother was a ballerina; worrying about our weight is the main way we bond.
To tackle that ever present excess half stone I make regular use of carb blockers, fat blockers, laser lipo, cool-sculpting, vibro-plates, oh yes, and I’m also constantly hungry, despite knowing full well I only ever really lose weight when I stop drinking, but jeez, you know, there are limits.
The skinny coffee club have been sending me daily emails for months. Eventually i succumbed, lured by the promise of extra energy, glowing skin and effortless weight loss, plus footage of Katie Price sipping the stuff on Instagram and claiming it was delicious. (Oh Katie, how shamelessly you lied. But more on that later).
You know how, when you order something embarrassing from the underbelly of the internet, it always turns up in nice plain discreet packaging? No, me neither. Skinny coffee club don’t bother with that. Inside a week the whole street will know you hate yourself and have no willpower.
You drink these potions three times a day, each with their own Harry Potter style epithets (“Suppresso!”) Stir well and drink quickly, the packaging insists, which should have been a clue. This, combined with two hours of exercise daily, no dairy, alcohol or processed carbs, will guarantee weight loss. Good gracious! However can it possibly work? Who can say? It’s not for us to question the arcane wonder and wisdom of Suppresso!
Empty the magic powder into a tiny cup: add 20 ml cold water, followed by 80 ml hot, then stir it into sludge. The first sip, in fairness to Katie, is OK. A bit odd, not quite like coffee, but drinkable. When you get to the bottom, however, you find your drink has mutated into silicone slurry. Giant lumps of plastic lurk under the dark brown stew, clearly designed to swell in your stomach, or perhaps render you so nauseous the thought of eating becomes unendurable. This, then, is why you must down it like a tequila shot. I added more water, I stirred like a demon, but still the plastic beads sat stubborn, gently murmuring – you absolute idiot. You spent £30 on some plastic and then attempted to force it down your gullet. You know how people eat tissues to fill themselves up and help them lose weight? No, me neither. Well, that’s how this works. Only it costs £30.
Even writing about this stuff is putting me off my lunch. See? Magic.