A week ago, by no means for the first time, I received some unsolicited advice about my weight from a man I hardly know. Out of nowhere, amid a discussion about something else entirely, he posited: “Have you tried papaya juice?”
He then proudly told me how he’d lost 12 kilograms (26 pounds) in a month by drinking a glass of papaya juice every day. He even said he’d bring me some to try.
“What are you looking at, you fat c–t?” I was walking down the street and had turned around to see where all the noise was coming from. Of course, it was coming from the bloke who called me a fat c–t because I had turned around to find out where all the noise was coming from.
I admit to being fat. The accuracy of the other descriptor is subjective, I suppose, but it is undoubtedly offensive to many people. So, what right does this bloke have to shout that phrase very loudly in a public place?
I stopped counting how many of my friends and former colleagues had died when I realised that a lot of them were my age or younger at the time.
I’m 57 as I write this; 58 very soon. A quick internet search tells me that the life expectancy for Australian men is 82.45 years. If that’s the case, I should be good for about another 24 years. Except that, according to this calculator, 67 is about my lot. Coincidentally, or not, that’s the age at which I can claim a state pension (if such a thing still exists then).