Look at the slim and trim 'i'. You just know it works out regularly. It has the long, lean lines of a yoga fanatic; poised, balanced, perfect posture. The dot? Round but not round — like a shining halo of clean living. At the weekend it wears loose, wide-legged, draw-string trousers and pads around in bare feet, eschewing cake in favour of super-foods and double-filtered water. If i's had a job other than being a filling in consonantal sandwiches, they would be life coaches or social workers trying to make a difference under difficult circumstances. They would be nuns.
Compare and contrast if you will with 'a'. A is for:
And 'a' is most definitely an apple not a pear, predestined to a future of rising cholesterol, fat rash and gout. See how it hunches forward, crouching protectively over any food that comes its way, belly bloated from too many Iceland party packs and bottles of Lambrini. It is a sloven, a slut of a letter, shuffling from word to word in flip-flops and leggings, getting its five-a-day from a packet of Starburst. If a's had a job, it would involve bored, loveless quickies behind the chip shop before it opened.
And today, sitting in jeans that are definitely too tight and knowing that I am teetering literally on the thin end of the chubby wedge, I have to make the decision — do I want to be an i or an a? Fit or fat?
Oh, look. I'm not a person of extremes.
How does fittish and fattish sound?
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