Guess the weight of the Lord

I was woken by Box with my tray of coffee, toast, and assorted toast adornments.

 

"Thank you Box," I said, expecting him to go away, it being a Saturday I had no parliamentary commitments, but he lingered as only a Box can linger.

 

"I've sorted out the owls," he said, "Along with the donkeys, dinosaurs, Micky Mouse and Peppa Pig, cake stand, pie stall, Iguana Andy, coconut shy, face painting, tombola and fish finger sandwich emporium."

 

"What on Earth are you talking about?" I said. "Alligator Andy, dinosaurs, owls, donkeys, are you starting a zoo Box?"

 

"It's the annual fete, my lord, the one you so kindly throw every year for the benefit of the local community. I've organised all of the tradespeople, and made sure it's a nice sunny day."

 

Typical Box, taking credit for the weather. "Is it really a year since the last one? Oh well, I suppose I have to suffer for the good name of the estate. What am I doing this year, do I have to cut that confounded ribbon again. It gets me every time, there simply aren't scissors sharp enough."

 

"I've delegated ribbon-cutting duties to the Mayor," Box said.

 

"Good idea. He loves cutting ribbons. It's the main skill you need in a mayor."

 

"In return," Box said, "The Mayor has asked for your help with his stall raising funds for his 'Teach Brummies to Speak English' charity."

 

This was bad news, Box had struck a deal, which meant that whatever I was doing it would be a thousand times more work than simply cutting a ribbon.

 

"Lord Lord," the Mayor greeted me, after he had cut the ribbon and declared the fete open.

 

"Mayor Mayor," I said, enjoying the joke that the Mayor's name really is Mayor (you couldn't make it up).  "I'm at your disposal, what do you need me to do?"

 

"Just stand there and let people look at you."

 

"You make me feel like a supermodel."

 

"It's the 'Guess The Weight of The Peer' stall. "It's a pound per guess, all money to charity, and the end of the day we'll way you and the closest guess wins a prize."

 

The idea proved as ghastly as you'd expect, no end of commoners came up to prod my stomach, describe my figure in non-flattering terms and generally insult me. At the end of the day I had to stand on scales in front of the whole village, who had gathered round for the weigh-in.

 

"Sixteen stone, three ounces," The Mayor announced to all and sundry. "Do we have a winner Box?"

 

"Yes Mr Mayor, it's Natasha Stormsmith."

 

"That can't be right," I said to Box after he'd handed out the prizes and I'd posed for photos with Natasha for the local media, "I was only thirteen stone last time I weighed myself."

 

"When was that my lord?"

 

"Oh, years ago, but I can't be much different now."

 

"The scales don't lie my lord."

 

"I dread to think what the local paper will say, fifteen stone is acceptable, after all I am a peer of the realm, a public asset, fifteen stone just means value for public money, but sixteen - that does begin to sound a bit overweight doesn't it Box. Perhaps I should replace my morning toast with yogurt, fruit juice and a mango."

 

"The combination of yogurt, fruit juice and mango is actually more calories than toast my lord, perhaps simply cutting down on adornments would be a better option."

 

The next morning Box woke me with coffee, toast and a total absence of toast adornments, just a tiny slither of margarine, sufficient to wake the taste buds but not to satisfy them.

 

I called into my office to do some essential work before heading to the Chamber. Baroness Bluster was there of course, she rarely leaves our shared space, which I why I try to avoid it.

 

"I hope you liked my tweet this morning," she said to me in greeting.

 

I looked at her blankly. I understood each of the individual words, but the sentence made no sense, it's birds that are meant to tweet not Baronesses. Luckily my research assistant, Troy Box, was with me and he is fluent in the online tongue.

 

"Lord Lord isn't on Twitter," he explained.

 

"Not on Twitter! But how on earth do you campaign if you're not on Twitter?"

 

"I don't," I explained.

 

"Well you'll sign the petition won't you, it's calling for better food in hospitals - thousands of people are leaving hospitals malnourished because they simply don't get enough to eat."

 

"Oh I can't sign that, that's against Party policy. If hospitals fed people better you'll just encourage more people to get sick."

 

"I'm campaigning to make the food edible, not to get five star restaurants in every hospital."

 

"I'm sorry Lady Bluster, but it's more than my life's worth to defy the whip."

 

After a busy session in the Chamber (I had to move seats at one point to accommodate a late arrival) I retired to Lords Bar.

 

"Lordy Lordy," said Lord Toberone in greeting. Can I get you a large one?"

 

"Better make it a small one," I said. "I'm watching my weight."

 

"You should join me in the gym, a much better way to keep fit than dieting."

 

Against my better judgment I joined Toberone at the Lords' gym after we'd finished parliamentary business.

 

"Start with the press, get you limbered up." Toberone suggested.

 

As instructed I started lifting the weights, but alas, in spite of my own weight I was no match, and leapt off the bench in agony.

 

"Oh Lordy Lordy, you appear to have hurt your back. Let me fetch a doctor."

 

Luckily there is a hospital just a few hundred yards from parliament, and in no time at all I was propped up in bed being attended to by the NHS's finest.

 

"What's the prognosis doctor?" I asked the first white-coated person I saw, many hours later.

 

"Your backs been in spasm, I'm afraid. You need complete bed rest. We're going to keep you here for a week to check on you."

 

"A week! But I have important work. I might be needed for a vote."

 

"Don't worry, we have an arrangement with the whip, your bed will be taken by ambulance to parliament, your presence outside will be counted as a vote."

 

"Couldn't I just stay here, if I'm not actually needed in the chamber."

 

"I'm explaining parliamentary procedure, my Lord, for your vote to count you need to be in the car park."

 

"Oh well, far be it for me to challenge the protocols," if Lord Nelson was wheeled to the Lords car park for a vote after he'd been injured in battle, what right had I to challenge due process a few centuries later.

 

Alas the promised week in hospital was a vast underestimate, it was a full three weeks before I was let out.  The first thing I did was rush to my parliamentary office.

 

"Your petition, Lady Bluster, can I still sign it. And your tweet, I'll get Box to share it."

 

"Of course Lord Lord, sign away. What's brought on this change of heart?"

 

"Three weeks of hospital food. I barely ate a thing, it was disgusting."

 

"You're certainly looking a lot slimmer," she said.

 

"I am aren't I. Box, fetch me some scales."  Miraculously Box appeared minutes later with a set of scales. "Thirteen stone 7 ounces, my Lord," he announced.

 

"That's amazing, I'm back to what I weighed in my youth."

 

"My petition Lord Lord," Baroness Bluster said.

 

"You're not signing that are you my Lord?" Box said.

 

"I thought I would. After all, my experience in hospital..."

 

Box interrupted me. "Your experience in hospital has helped you achieve a healthy weight. It'll please the whip, help the government counter all this bad press about hospital food, and you can do a story for the local paper, it'll combat the stories about Lord Fatty they've been printing recently."

 

"Brilliant Box, And now I'm slim again I can have my toast adornments back. Life isn't the same without toast adornments to start the day."

 

"If it pleases my lord," Box said.