FATTY ALERT...

Today was my first day in my new job, which meant that last night, I got a grand total of two and a half hours sleep. Luckily I'm at my absolute peak SAS condition on two and a half hours, so I was not yawning today at inapropriate moments and my head did not loll from side to side as thought dancing to some special music only I could hear.

Anyway, my new job is right in the centre of town, which means no more driving to work. Instead, I'm on the bike. Which fits in very nicely with my new fitness regime. I will be attempting to do half an hour of fitness related activities at least five days a week (ok, so this new regime is based on the fact that it takes 15 minutes to cycle to work and 15 minutes to get home, but I reckon I can legitimately make it sound like a new regime I have conconted).

As part of my delight at being in the centre of town, I decided to take a stroll arond the shops today (and squander all monies saved from not paying for petrol) and found myself in Boots. Boots have started this "change one thing" campaign - the idea is they help you keep your New Year's resolutions by encouraging you only to make one. So I picked up one of their pocket sized brochures - entitled "lose weight". I finished my browsing - and approached the till with my three-pack of spring rolls, which I intended to wash down along with my bagel and crisps for lunch.

That's one pound then, please, says lady behind the counter (I know - I was impressed by that bargain too), so I put the leaflet down on the counter and fiddle about with loose change for a moment, when suddenly, ole hawk eyes at the till snatches the "lose weight" leaflet from under my nose and announces she needs to scan that too.

Great, just great, so now every time I go into Boots and give in my Boots card to collect points, it is going to flash up in big letters on the cashier's screen "FATTY ALERT - ask her how her diet is going", while I'm stood there fishing around for change to pay for three full fat spring rolls, nervously trying to convince the person behind the till that "they're not all for me, honest", simultaneously whithering under disaproving eye-rolling and tutting.

Damn Boots the Chemist, and damn its hawk-eyed staff. Hmph.