Watch out rabbits - he's after yer dinner

For a while now, to save personal embarrassment of my bulk, when showering, I lather up with my eyes shut. It's a kind of head in the sand approach - if you can't see it, it's not there. Ridiculous I know, but it has worked fine for me until the other day when I slipped in the lather and instinctively opened my eyes. The nearest graspable thing to prevent gravity creating a lard and ceramic catastrophe, was the shower curtain. It held out for the first 15 ounces, and then along with my other 18 stones, crashed to the tiles. Luckily, I wasn't injured physically, but the mental scars will stay with me for the rest of my life. For the first time in months, I saw a horrific reflection in the mirror. My torso. ARRRRGH! Man boobs.

My wife appeared at the door in her 500-tog bathrobe and a week's production from a Lancashire cotton mill wrapped around her head.

"What's wrong? I heard a scream."

"Look," I said, cupping my man breasts and unable to suppress an urge to give them a quick jiggle.

"You've just noticed? Have you been showering with your eyes shut for the past six months? I almost bought you a girdle and a bra, but they don't make them that big. Anyway, you'd better get on a diet soon, have you forgotten your son's getting married? You've got a fitting for a hire suit next month and you'll look like a penguin unless you get some weight off," she said, as she disappeared back through the door.

She was right, of course, and I didn't want to spend the wedding day in fear of being Zapped and Kersplatted by Bat Man and Robin, but she miffed me with her comments, especially as her dress size will soon be entitled to a vote. I smugly mouthed a retort the late Bernard Manning would have been proud of.

"And you'll have to borrow your outfit from Vanessa Feltz."

My smugness lasted two milliseconds. She stormed back in towards the shower like Anthony Perkins... ... the cold steel replaced by a cold stare. My only affinities with Janet Leigh were a fine pair of boobs and blind terror.

"What was that? What did you say?"

"Err...em..." I was desperate for a sentence containing a word that rhymed with Feltz. The best I could manage was, "I'll have to go out to get some bigger belts."

"Oh...I though you were being cheeky. I can't hear very well with my ears covered," she said, and turned and walked out again.

Phew! Saved by a towel that even German elephants would consider too large to claim a sun bed with.

I rinsed off while having a good think. Wives have an annoying habit of putting husbands in their place. I took a long hard look in the mirror. She was right about the diet. From the neck down and apart from the obvious, (although I couldn't see the obvious without the mirror) I looked like a fat lass with extra fat between her fat bits. Looks like I'm living on Popeye's tin scrapings and various other undigested rabbit poo for the next month. Anyone got a fag?