Eat. Pray. Weigh.

What is it about diets?

The first three letters are portentous. They spell doom before you even get to tea. (Cue, potato dripping in butter having been deep fried in peanut butter batter.)

How do we get to the savage village that is Dietville? Is it the saggy scales as we step on in chubby denial? Is it the jeans that we could once pour ourselves into but now overflow with crept on flesh? Is it the embryonic models stretched across fashion pages aimed at middle aged wallets? Or is it the supermarket shelves labouring under fat and salt?

The diet industry thrives on failure to ensure the shareholders, unlike the dieters, are kept content - their pockets bulging instead of their waistlines.

But can the chunkoids blame the fat cats for the stressed denim? No, it is the hand that reaches the mouth, the hand that dips into the bowls of chips, delights in the roasted cashews, the hand that lifts the glass of wine.

Am starting to salivate. Wonder what's in the cupboard.

Ummmm.... Eat... pray... maybe not weigh... not yet anyway.