Sexy Fatty English Girl

I recently saw a crazy circus/dance show with a tiny Chinese dancer in, who came back halfway through, padded to four times her original width and stuffing her face with popcorn. The scene was a freak show, hosted by a wierd French rock goth in heeled boots who spoke in English but with a thick Frenchy accent. “And now …” he screamed down the microphone “The Sexy, Fatty, Chinese, Mongolian Girl!” and she wiggled her bottom until she fell flat on her popcorn-stuffed face. The other freaks were just as ridiculous in their skin-tight, sequinned costumes; Rubber Lady (“my WIFE!”) and German Muscle-Man with his leopardskin leggings and huge moustache. I laughed until I started to have regular contractions and had to calm down fast, before having my baby 2 months early in the middle of a crowded theatre. On the way home, in the back of a car, my friends started to call me Sexy Fatty English Girl. And it has kind of stuck.

Sexy Fatty – well, I’m 7 months pregnant with lustrous hair, clear skin and rounded bits everywhere, so I suppose that’s kind of sexy for some, although more like just fatty for others. I have noticed lately that I often get eyed up in the street and then the eyes drop to my tummy level and are either averted, crossed or start goggling. From the back you can’t even see I’m pregnant, and then I turn around and it’s HELLO BELLY. A thrill for some, a fascinating turn-off for others. I’m a kind of freak show all on my own.

Baby Bop will be a future hip-hop star. He/she is already practising headspins and robotics while still in utero. Nothing whatsoever is ready for his/her arrival. And seeing as I’m working up until 4 weeks before the birth, I imagine we will be driving home from the hospital with our baby swaddled in an old t-shirt of mine and a woolly sock as birth hat. Other girlfriends of ours who are expecting in the next 2 months have had their baby’s bedroom finished since July, with babygrows cleaned, pressed and organised in labelled drawers. I don’t even know where our cot is. And our baby’s bedroom is still missing a wall, a door, a floor and a ceiling. Oh well, he/she shall get lashing of warm milk from an expert pair of boobies. And I shall be transformed into Not-So-Sexy-Not-So-Fatty English Girl in the space of a few weeks.

(NB: the show is called “Mister Monster” by the company Anomalie)


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