Spinning Around....
....with my arse cheeks catching up thirty seconds later....

A few mornings ago, I realised that 'Book Fat' had really, truly taken hold. Let's face it, if you're in a little room at home for three months working 12+ hours per day on a book, it's not going to be done on stomach crunches and carrot sticks.

Instead, my old faithful friend-to-the-end, non-judgmental, undemanding, reliable and affordable soul mate, CHOCOLATE, kept me busy, motivated and productive. You see, I'm not made of stone. Starting the working day on time and alert, taking regular breaks and keeping the brain active requires serious cocoa solids and strict adherence to the Family Block Rule.

You do know what the Family Block Rule is, don't you? It is sacred law in MillyMoo Land. Flouting this law results in immediate Death-By-Sugarless-Carob or severe shaming*. If you reach to break off a row of, say, Nestle Cappuccino dark or Cadbury anything and three rows come off instead, you must never, ever put the additional rows back in the foil and eat only the first row. No, instead you must eat whatever amount is snapped off with that delightful 'thok' sound that only snapped-off chocolate makes.

Fast forward three months and a couple of days ago I decided it was a definite 'Book Fat Day' and therefore OK to dig out out and wear my 1999 maternity undies with the forgiving elastic, generous butt covering and tummy-flattening panel. As I did so, feeling rather uncomfortable at how comfortable they felt, Kylie Minogue's song 'Spinning Around' had just finished on 'Fogey FM' or whatever Sapphire's clock radio had devilishly set itself to.

"That was our very own Kylie Minogue from a few years ago - remember her gold hotpants? She's turned 39 this year and is rumoured to be about to launch her new album and is back with Olivier Martinez......"

Jeepers - 39? Well slap my face with Pamela Anderson's lip-liner ration and throttle me with a G-string - That's the same age as me: we're both babies of 1968! (Pammie's a year older - 1967).

You can imagine just how completely and utterly frumpy I felt standing there, dear Reader, thinking about Kyles in her Shag Me Shorts whilst at the same time, I was either heavily pregnant or recovering from the 29 hour ordeal by gingerly walking about the streets like a confused cowboy with a beer gut..... And now, seven years later, I was still choosing to wear nanna pants and she was STILL raking in the dough, STILL a skinny little kewpie doll with dinghy lips and STILL 'up' there on the pop culture radar.

The comparison was rather depressing, so I tried to ease it by googling what other females were born in 1968. It didn't help much. Halle Berry - she couldn't look ugly if she tried - oh, except for the stupid Cat Woman costume she had to wear. Lucy Liu - hmmm, still gorgeous even though they're trying to fug-ify her for 'Cashmere Mafia' (the least compelling TV show title since 'The Scarecrow and Mrs King'). What about Naomi Watts - Poo-bum-bugger-shit-fart - no luck there either. She's still dewy and adorable, glowing and frighteningly svelte after backing out a baby just days ago......

Who else was there - Debra Messing? Perhaps the only one to seriously challenge me for the whitest legs competition. Gillian Anderson? Certainly not exactly setting the celluloid world alight since giving X-files the elbow, but hardly hard on the eye as far as I could see.

Realising that it was time to stop wondering about how my celebrity 68-er sisters were pulling up and start thinking about putting on a load of whites and feeding Dogadoo Sapphire's leftover Weetbix, I struck gold:

Perhaps grey marle trakkie daks, turquoise Crocs and K-Mart polar fleece wasn't so bad after all! The labra-doodle perm, the suspiciously pointy face, eyebrows in an expression of perpetual surprise and a dress that made me want to visit Darrel Lea's for their liquorice all-sorts meant that any sort of envy I may have previously harboured for Ms Minogue instantly disappeared.

I am quite convinced that she stole the gold handbag from the one I bought at the Aberdeen markets in 1981 to match the gold-piping on my rust coloured corduroy knickerbockers and whatever restaurant she was exiting from either has spectacularly inedible food or specialise in air de cuisine.

Not only that, but instead of her own showbiz version of my adored Love Chunks she has, in internet terms, a 'dial up' relationship. That is, an on-again-off-again arrangement with a French bloke who is to monogamy what Paris Hilton is to rocket science.

Comforted, I decided to research what blokes were born in 1968 that I could very easily mock on the most shallow of levels and thus feel even better about myself. Hugh Jackman - humina humina, can't knock that one, plus he's one of us (Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi).

Eric Bana. Jury is still out - he's not classically hunky despite being served up as such in recent years and still has those ears that make me want to shout "Shut the car doors, will ya?".

Will Smith - he's a cutie, but I'm sure I'd want to throttle him after oh, about three minutes and lord help me if I had to listen to any of his erm, 'music'.

Owen Wilson? Pretty sad actually. For a guy known as the 'Butterscotch Stallion' and earning a very, very profitable living from playing very undemanding 'comedic' roles, he seemed to have what the average guy dreams of. Something went wrong, and I wish him well, weird middle-finger nose or not.

Gary Coleman. Pretty sad and tragic. Cute for about half an hour in 1978 and now appears to be the only surviving kid from 'Diff'rent Strokes' (why oh why did they have to mis-spell 'different' - does anybody know?) not yet - yet - in jail. Being an adult who is conveniently small enough to rest your beers on wouldn't help pay the rent in the 21st Century and is unlikely that "Whatchoo talkin' 'bout Willis" will have the ladeez forming a long or orderly queue for his attentions.

Guy Ritchie. I was going to write 'Poor Bastard' but he's never been either. He reminds me of berber carpet - bland, inoffensive and blends into the background. Still he does have to wake up Madonna every day and maybe even listen to whatever 'music' she's been working on.

Perhaps wearing sensible undies, being temporarily unable to see my belly button from an upright position and having the electronic scales grunt out, "Whoah, one at a time buddy" whenever I stand upon it isn't so bad after all.

* Severe Shaming is, as the name suggests, very severe. The reprobate may be forced to streak down Rundle Mall during peak Harris Scarfe knitwear sales; send suggestive emails and pictures to Alexander Downer; be investigated by 'Today/Tonight' or appear on 'Bert's Family Feud.' These are merely examples - MillyMoo Land has capacity for much greater evil (such as providing parenting tips to Britney, holding a conversation with Courtney Love or taking Elton John seriously).