Since New Year I have been trying to eat healthier. The stress of planning an International move and wedding has resulted in expediential ass widening and it was already giving J-Lo a run for her money.

Been thinking about going to Borough Market (where Bridget Jones buys her groceries for her blue soup dinner party). I’ve never shopped there, just wandered through a few times when I’ve walked along the South Bank.

I did a quick bit of research and I discovered a few London Farmer Markets where everything is local within 100 miles of the M25. Borough Market while really nifty is not strictly a farmers market.

“Hey, There’s a farmers market, the largest one in London around the corner from where they had my flat in the spring in Mary. . . Mary. . . Marybone?”

S didn’t look up. “Marylebone”. (Pronounced Marlbone)

“Marylebone. There’s a Farmers Market. I was thinking. . .”

S looked up.

I continued, “I was thinking, I want to try to start buying things more in season and it would be nice to support local farmers.”

S blinked. “Local farmers? We live in London..”

“Very funny. They are within 100 miles of the M25.”

“I moved away from those people for a reason.”

“Wanna go Saturday?”

“To a Farmers Market in Marylebone?”

“Yes.”

S giggles. “You want to go to a Farmers Market in the most expensive neighborhood in London. This is just too much.”

“It’s not going to be—“

“Little girl from Reno—“

“I’m NOT from Reno!”

“Little girl from Cleveland—“

“I’m NOT from—“

“Wants to spend five quid on a tomato.” (Pronounced toe-moat-toe)

“I’m not going to spend five quid on a tomato! (Pronounced toe-may-toe) Besides. They aren’t even in season.”

S laughs harder. “You don’t have a job. And you want to go to a Farmers Market. In Marylebone??? Why don’t you just go to Harrods? It will be cheaper.”

By this point I was laughing.

It was silly of me to mention it to him. S believes fruits and vegetables to be toxic substances and does not consider it a full meal without extra helpings of partially hydrated oil and Monosodium Glutamate.

S was still smirking. “How has your diet been going?”

“Okay. I don’t like the scale. It gives you different numbers each time.”

“You broke the—“

“I didn’t BREAK the scale.”

“There’s a place over in Battersea that weighs trucks. We can go there.”

I blink. I know he is kidding. He’s kidding. He doesn’t really think I am such a big fat thing that I need to be weighed by a truck scale. I know he doesn’t think that. I’m not a big fat thing that needs to be weighed by a truck scale. I know he doesn’t think that but I start to cry.

“Oh, come on. You don’t need to get upset.”

I keep crying.

“Come on. Stop crying. You know I think you have a beautiful body.”

He hugs me. I wipe my nose on his shirt.

“I’m sorry. Tell you what. You can blog about it and then I’ll get flamed in the comments by your readers.”

I sniffle. Deep down I know he was just teasing, but you don’t get opprotunities like this every day to lay on the guilt. Plus it did hit one of my buttons. The only time I haven’t been 20 to 80 pounds overweight was for nine minutes in 1986.

“And we can go to the market Saturday and spend twenty quid on turnips.”

“I would never spend twenty quid on turnips.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t like turnips.”

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