Last week I was riding the lift (this does not sound good. Delete. It’s a fusion of American and the proper way to speak. Had I said riding the elevator I could have gotten away with it, but elevator is a butcher of the correct term, lift. And riding in proper English has connotations I certainly don’t want to get to in a public glass lift).
Last week I was in the lift and one of my colleagues alighted. Not famed for his tact, perception, or delivery, he looked at my stomach and said “What? Are you pregnant too?”. I told him—No, and it isn’t polite to ask. He said “Actually no, I think it’s a beautiful question to ask.” “Noooooooooo, you are implying I am fat.” He said “I’m not implying anything. You are taking it where you want to go”. Sensing the man was an ape and the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, I left it.
Yesterday somebody else congratulated me. A woman. I told her no, I am not up the duff. This morning she asked me if I was cross with her. Not cross, no. But I was bummed for the rest of the day yesterday. I even told my friend about it 8 hours later and I had only called her to wish her a happy birthday, not to drown my sorrows at the bottom of a beer glass. So I told this woman No, I just put on some weight thats all. Ah, she says, so you’re just fat?
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