A debonair colleague once told me, "Your arse looks like two boiled eggs in a navvy's hanky." A stone later, an Australian colleague elaborated. "When you walk, it's like two helium balloons in the last throes of making love." As I grew, it grew with me. Were I six shades darker I could, for much of my life, have been a Nigerian. With middle age, the stuffing resettled on my midriff. The jackfruit is now a pancake. Which is why I'm in serious discomfort. After bouncing down the stairs this morning. Boing boing boing. No padding! And such a large surface:-( Ouch! It was my own fault. For days I've nursed a blocked tearduct. Random tears slalom down my nose. And onto my chin. It happened mid-interview on CNN. "Maybe one day you'll weep blood like the villain in the new Bond film?" my youngest said hopefully. Anyway, because of the weeping eye, I missed the step. So you find me on the edge of my seat. Earlier tonight, my Godson came round. And deposited three tyres in my garden. "Those bastards at BMW charged me £600 to replace them," he growled. "I'll get them checked this weekend. If they're all right, I'm going to sue." "And if they're not?" I ventured, foreseeing years of rotting rubber in the yard. No answer:-o That said, after a bad birth, don't women sit on inflatable rings? I wonder if a low profile Michelin can do the trick for my sore down-there?