It's not possible - I can't have put on a pound! I haven't eaten a pound all week. Half a pound of broccoli perhaps, four spoons of marmite and six tomatoes, but that was over seven days. Perhaps there's a secret fat button under the table?

'Oh look, here comes blob thirty-one. She's lost weight every week so far. Let's switch on the fat button that should crush her confidence and guarantee her return to the masochist marquee.'

'Try the scales again', even our leader is perplexed. 'You haven’t been cheating on the portions have you?

Portions! What portions? I haven't even been eating half portions. Teaspoons are my measures. A tablespoon of tuna is a Saturday night blow out. I do not cheat!

She smiles conspiratorially. 'Perhaps it's that time of the month?'

No you skinny cow that was last week. And I lost three pounds! How can I lose three pounds when my pre menstrual barrage balloon breasts are capable of raising the Titanic, yet gain a pound when they shrivel back to popped after the party size?

'Maybe you're not eating enough?'

Oh right. That'll be it. Silly me, of course! Let me just run that past my solitary brain cell one more time... Not eating enough? That'll be why all those starving babies in the Sudan had roly-poly thighs, and the POW's on the Burma railroad came back looking like Mr Universe... they weren't eating enough! She obviously attends the George Bush academy of intellect.

'Shall we stay for the meeting?'

Angela is desperately trying not to gloat. She has lost another two pounds, making fourteen in total and is now the proud possessor of her second smugger-than-thou-super-silver-seven-star.

'Perhaps not then.' She reads my murderous mood well.

The silence of the drive home is broken only by the crescendo of Angela's grin, so wide it is in danger of hitting the on-coming traffic.

'You can drop me here, I'll cut through the Alley.'

'No you might get mugged.'

'Do I look like a muggee? If any one attacks me I'll just whack them with my spare pound.'

'I'll call you later then. Is everything ready for tomorrow?'

Oh no... I'd forgotten all about that... The day of civil disobedience, the 'Save our Sheltered Housing' sortie. Sadam Sally our redoubtable campaign leader has rounded up the troops and a pincer movement is planned on the town hall. Our aim is to close the Portsmouth road on race day... tomorrow... Saturday... the busiest day of the working week.

Three buses donated by the local coach hire company, led by Sally and filled with the banner waving chattering classes, will drive down the hill from the top of the high street and stop outside the entrance to the race track. Thus bringing all northbound traffic to a halt. Dennis the owner of the coach company, was a little concerned at first as he 'does a little business' with the council, but when Sally pointed out that he would lose the carnival and school run contracts if he didn't support us, he caved in. Dennis fully understands that whilst council members may change at each election, the carnival is set in stone and it is highly unlikely with the borough's soaring birth rate that any of the schools will be closing. Besides Sadam Sally is truly terrifying.

I have to pick up Fred the elected leader of the Sheltered Housing residents (elected by Sally on the grounds that he was the only resident who still had most of his wits about him and wasn't likely to wee in public), and anyone else who is willing and able to come from the home. We have to drive up the hill, in convoy with the rest of the 'Save our sheltered housing' campaigners and block off the road at the entrance to the town hall (opposite the racetrack). Hopefully this will seal off the town hall and prevent anything moving south.

Simple? I doubt it. We all have a campaign plan but as most of us can't even read the Sun let alone a map, failure is assured.
In addition, fifty bikers from the local Hells Angel's coven (I believe it is officially called a chapter but our lot would be far more at home in a coven) will act as an escort and insurgents. Sally is none too thrilled with this, but any attempt at dissuasion was futile, three of their mums are residents of the sheltered housing scheme.

They have promised not to have group sex on the pedestrian crossing but, as they reneged on a similar promise involving the beer tent at last year's carnival, I hold out little hope. Toby, the local hack, shares my foreboding and is installing his photographer at the traffic lights, citing the need for a decent page three picture in the Borough gazette, as just cause.

Perhaps I could have a headache? A migraine? No it's Saturday. We have a wedding and besides I have to prepare the banners.

'Don't worry, you'll lose more weight next week.'

I had almost forgotten that! Thank you friend!

'Goodnight.'

Saturday morning... Countdown to Catastrophe

The shop is full. How can the shop be full? They raped it last week; they can't need more flowers. The wedding bouquet that was supposed to be delivered at nine has wilted, the bride has been on the phone three times already, two of the Tweedles (Saturday girls) are off playing netball and I have to leave in half an hour!

'Diddleum' A message from Fred. When did octogenarians learn how to do text messaging?

'Have you collected the incontinence pads for Mavis?'

Angela was supposed to be collecting the incontinence pads. Where is she?

'Brrrrrr Brrrrrrrr'... 'Hello?'

'Angela, have you got the incontinence pads?'

'Of course I have. We're on our way. Will you put a bet on Chives for me?'

What is she on about? This is supposed to be a day of civil disobedience and she wants me to go and put a bet on a horse? I don't even know how to bet.

'What are you talking about?'

'It's the Grand National. I'm stuck in traffic. Can you put a bet on for me?'

Why not? I haven't got anything else to do? 'OK don't be late though.'

'I won't. I've been up since six. See you.'

What has being up since six got anything to do with anything?
No time to wonder; Clarissa, (the not playing netball Tweedle in charge of the Blue Peter detail) has stapled the banners on upside down. I was up until midnight making them! Does she have no talents? Does it matter? We'll all be arrested before anyone has a chance to read them.

'Diddleum.' In-coming text message. It's my old florist, the giant leprechaun... well she's tall and now living in Dublin... What does she want? God I hate Saturdays!

'Put a pound on Montys Pass, good tip, speak to you later.'

A pound. What does that remind me of? Oh yes my mugger's lethal weapon. Good G*d for a moment I forgot.

'Clarissa go to the bookmakers and put a pound on a horse called Chives and a pound on a horse called Montys Pass... each way! (I'm sure I heard that term on television once). I don't care if you're too young and you don't know how to place a bet! Stand on tiptoe and ask. Suck in your stomach and throw your chest out, no one will believe you're under eighteen; they'll be too busy leering over your assets. Don't blush I haven’t got time for blushes and if you don't know where the bookmakers is, just ask an old codger with a dog. It doesn't matter which old codger, any one will do! They'll all know! Now go! Oh and thank you for the banners... nice try.'

Where did I put the prozac?

Saturday afternoon... Armageddon

I knew it... I just knew it. Utter chaos. Dennis' coaches are all stuck on the central reservation, squashed daffodils everywhere. Councillor Hammer is threatening never to use him again, two of the coaches have punctures, and the AA can't get through. The chattering classes are having a picnic, passing round the champagne and canapés whilst placing off track bets with their mobile phones. They just don't understand the real world. The Angels (much to Toby's delight) are doing unspeakable things on the pedestrian crossing and Fred is playing his accordion. Who told Fred to bring an accordion? Who told Fred he could play an accordion? Mavis has wet her knickers three times; no sign of Angela or the pads and the coach smells like a well-frequented cottaging urinal. Half the bus has legged it to the racetrack and the rest are embarked on a rousing rendition of 'De Campdown races' with about as much loyalty to the tune as Fred's accompaniment has.

Saddam Sally is in her element, breasts and banner bouncing in unison, a veritable Hanoi Jane of Hinchley Wood. Race stewards and council officials are doing headless chicken impersonations and the camera towers, having realised that the off-track entertainment is racier than the on track events, are steady-camming us with glee.
I feel sick... Oh my god here come the police. Where is Angela?

'Arrest me officer. Please arrest me! Take me away from this. I never should have been here in the first place... this is all a terrible... Oh hello Peter.'

It's Peter, my friend's son... I am about to be arrested by my friend's son. Of all the demonstrations in all the world, he had to come into mine... this is like a bad remake of Casablanca... fade to black... just fade to black!

'Brrrrrr Brrrrrr'

'Hello'

'Where are you?' It's Angela.

'What do you mean where am I? I'm at home. My friend's son has arrested me, I've been charged with disturbing the peace. I've spent all afternoon mopping up incontinent Mavis and watching Hells Angels doing things I didn't think were sexually possible... don't ask you wouldn't even understand... More to the point where are you?'

'At the races... but I can't see anyone else... no demonstration... what's happened?'

I feel a penny landing on my head.

'Angela, which race meeting are you at?'

'Aintree of course, the Grand National.'

Angela feels a sack of well-aimed long distance pennies landing on her head.

'Oh dear that's not where I'm supposed to be is it? I thought it was quite a long way to drive. Chives didn't win by the way, I owe you a pound.'

If anyone mentions a pound again I will kill.

'Who won?'

'You're cross with me.'

'Who won?'

'An Irish horse... Montys Pass.'

There is a God. Thank you Leprechaun I owe you a Guinness.

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