It's not the taste. Nor is it the fact that I can simply dispose of them the minute I finish, although that is a definite bonus. No, I simply like plastic cutlery for the same reason as I favour drinking from plastic cups.
They are non-reflective. I cannot see my image in them - muhahah! Take that shiny/metal cutlery/surface/appliance!
And what an image it is! I almost went into labour walking past a puddle on the way to church. I look like an exaggerated fertility statue, carved after one too many shots of ogogoro local gin.
There's my nose, my nose, my nose. I'd put a before and after set of pictures up but I'm afraid that Blogger would just break down. It's fat, fleshy and flat (I'd say bulbous but it doesn't begin with an 'f'). I can't relate to this new image at all.
Pregnancy is a powerful thing and it should be feared. For what else - short of chemotherapy - can provide such genetic manipulation? I look like nobody in my family right now.
I have rings of flesh round my neck, my back is a hump of fat (honestly what am I going to use it for?) and I can fan myself with my bingo wings when I get hot. Ah! Bliss.
Finally, I am so much darker. I'm talking black, black. I'm so black that in the grey, British winter, it's quite difficult to see me if I step outside. Alek Wek would be jealous, except, well, she does get paid millions of dollars for her look.
Eh, at least I get a baby at the end of all this. Although whether that is a payment to or a fee levied from me is a whole other issue.
