I love Mrs. Moneypenny. Okay, I love two Mrs. Moneypennies (I am sorry, but it just looks wrong to me to see the plural written as Moneypennys), one being the dearest nurse in Phoenix, as well as the saintly and lovely wife of one blogger.
But the other Mrs. Moneypenny is the weekend columnist of the Financial Times of London and I had not had the opportunity in past weeks to settle down with the "Life & Arts" section, so I caught up with her on-line and was dismayed to see that diplomacy is at a deficit . . . and how horrifying when it comes to a woman's weight.
Now, for the benefit of any male readers, let me explain something. When you are out on a breakfast date with a lady who expresses depression about her weight, you are supposed to say something like: “There, there, Mrs M, don’t worry, you look gorgeous as you are,” or, “I’m honoured to be seen in a prominent place having breakfast with you,” or even, “Those eggs and bacon are very low calorie really,” for example. What he actually said was: “Why don’t you go on a diet?” and then, before I could recover from the shock and respond, he added: “My secretary has, and she’s lost three stone.”
At that point, being an ugly American, I would have seen that male executive wearing his morning coffee.
My most recent encounter with a diplomat, however, was when I took a potential client out to dinner. I was at my charming best, the restaurant was lovely and he was fascinating. We discussed his recent deer-stalking successes in Scotland, and I told him that, until recently, I had stayed away from stalking as I thought it sounded too much like hard work – all that walking, mostly into the wind and uphill, carrying a rifle. But I have finally been persuaded to give it a try, and will be stalking fallow deer in Ireland next month.
As I said goodbye to this prospective client after an excellent Thai meal, I could see him looking at me and could tell he was wondering whether to say what was going through his head. “Enjoy the stalking,” was his farewell remark. “But if I were you, I’d get on the treadmill.”
There is no denying it with me. I am . . . zaftig. Rounded. Squishy. BUT - that's not up for discussion.
And good Lord, the man who would suggest a diet had better be my OB-GYN. Anyone else might. Not. Make. It.