Not just a weight on my mind

The girls rabbiting on about love handles didn’t hurt my pride �" what’s left to hurt when you’ve been prodded and poked in a hospital �" but made me take a proper look at myself. Now I’m less hooked on the idea of Acomplia, I can look in the mirror and not flinch. I’ve got spectacular scars on my chest with all the stitches out. But I’ve really gone to seed. I’m quite tall and big boned. Now, I’m looking like a half-melted candle with my head sticking up as the wick.

Molly came round, so I asked her how soon I could do something about it. I was thinking I’d have to wait weeks, but she said my asking was all she needed. I’d had my head so far up Acomplia’s ass, it never occurred to me I should be doing something. She’d arrange for hydrotherapy and more.

I’d this picture of a spa bath. Like I’d lie in this tub with lots of water jets pummelling my muscles. Molly has this look. It’s kind of like contempt only you get the idea she thinks even that’s too good for you �" it’s the look she used when telling me to stop thinking about Acomplia. Ten minutes later, she’s managed to rustle up a swimming costume and a towel from another inmate, I’m loaded into her old car and we’re off to the local swimming pool. She introduces me to the staff. Says I’m waiting for Acomplia to save me so I’ll likely drown. They’re to send the body down the Co-op for a quick burial at sea.

They’re obviously all used to her and not a bit surprised by all the scars �" one or two of the housewives in the water go a bit pale when they see me and move to the other end to carry on their gossiping. I wonder whether I should tell them about Acomplia for their weight loss problems.

When I get in the water, I’m like Frankenstein’s Monster waiting to see if the scars open up and I drop to pieces. Like the chlorine in the water’s going to be like an acid and dissolve all the gut holding me together (and no Acomplia to keep me safe). But when nothing happens, I decide to see if I can still float.

This is actually the first time I’ve been down the swimming pool since I used to swim for the school. When I turned sixteen, it wasn’t like a whole chapter of my life was finished. It was like I closed the book altogether so nothing more could be written about the old life. Perhaps this new diary writing gig’s going to be like opening a new Acomplia chapter in my life.

I managed to float �" with no help from Acomplia! All the fat must be buoyant (or they’d suddenly turned the pool into the Dead Sea so heart attack patients won’t sink when still alive). The lifeguards were watching the housewives’ floating breasts at the far end of the pool, so I thought I’d try moving around a bit. With the pain across my chest, the breast stroke was a non-starter (sorry, must stop thinking about sex), but I kicked my legs a bit and slowly paddled until I got close enough to scare the housewives some more. One length was enough. I waved to one of the staff who dived in and, with a struggle on everyone’s part, got me sitting on the side of the pool. He said something about getting a crane installed in time for my next visit.

Not bad for the first attempt. I was just thinking I might try this again when I realised Molly had gone off and left me without any money so I was looking at a walk back to the nursing home. Who needs Acomplia when I have friends like Molly. Hydrotherapy and more, she’d said!

John Scott is a professional contributor to sites like and covers a wide range of topics, specifically acomplia. To learn more, visit

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