A few people have asked lately whether I happen to be jealous – of Elle. Oh, haha. Not. These queries have no doubt been prompted by a few things I’ve written which were apparently not very nice. And gave the impression, furthermore, I might perhaps be a tad bitter. Well, no. FYI, I’m not. I’m happy as a clam looking like this, as you would be. I’ve developed it into an art form.
There are multitudinous advantages to having very short legs. It’s likely to be terrifically handy one day when Osama or someone decides to come over and start attacking. Yessiree – I’ll be closer to the ground. Providing my reflexes are in order, I’ll hit the floor a damn sight faster than Elle will. After the holocaust, there’ll be plenty of wombats left, but alas – not too many giraffes.
In the event of famine falling on the pillaged land, those of us more generously padded will be able to live on our stored energy for quite some time, thank you very much. Supermodels, on the other hand, will not last much past morning tea. Look at how convenient this arrangement has always been for camels. Oh yes indeed, the gazelles had a fine old time sneering at them back at the corral … but who managed to cross the desert, hmm? And with their thighs still intact – go, you good dromedaries, go!
In times of difficulty, people of my ilk won’t care if we can’t get chartreuse nail varnish. We’ve never varnished our nails in our lives. We won’t have to worry about getting ladders in our non-existent stockings or give a rat’s whether anybody can lend us a Silky Mitt. We won’t give a stuff if the hair under our armpits is dragging on the ground, because it usually does anyway and nobody died.
In times of hardship, beauty will become trivial. Nobody will be looking at Elle with their tongues hanging out, I can assure you. They’ll be asking me if they can please shelter under my stomach. Begging, even. They’ll be borrowing items of my clothing to set up a tent city. Elle’s clothing might possibly be useful for tying tomato plants to stakes – but she probably won’t part with it without a struggle – particularly the designer label jobbies. You’ll have to kill her first.
‘But,’ Elle will cry, wringing her hands. ‘You boombahs will eat all the supplies!’ Well, yes – we probably will. We’ll need it – we’ve got more space to fill. If there are any celery sticks, she can have those. If things get really desperate and the community has to revert to cannibalism – who would be more popular then, hmmm? Elle … or moi?
What Elle and her cohorts do comes under the banner of ‘decorative’. In an emergency, it’s not terribly useful. When you’re having your home bombed and can’t find your children, who are you going to long for most? A thin woman in gold latex hotpants or a Dominos delivery lad? Will you want to know what to wear this autumn, or how much tinned crap we’ll need to get us through until Christmas? Indeed, will the smell of Chanel No.5 manage to permeate the stench of rotting bodies and charnel houses?
Sure, it would be okay to look reasonable, I suppose. I don’t deny it. But we’re still all going to end up with maggots crawling through our eye sockets – and after all, the whole lot of us will ultimately attain thinness when we’re reduced to bones.
It’s astounding how supermodels and sportspeople earn more money than leaders of the country and great scientific minds, who struggle for handouts to cure disease and benefit mankind. What does that say about us? How intelligent is a country which showers accolades on drunken yob footballers who can’t string two words together coherently, and stick-insect clotheshorses who earn more per hour than it would take to feed a Somalian village for a year? The world has gone crazy, and it’s not a good look.
So don’t just sit there and feel bad about the extra pounds you’ve stacked on – have that slice of torte! Take a second slice, even! Go on … sooner or later, when it comes to the crunch, your country will need YOU.
One hump or two?