Suri Lightfoot thudded down the steps of the community centre and away from the Why Weight? slimmers’ club. She wouldn’t be returning. Just like all her other attempts at dieting, this, too, had ended in failure. Far from losing weight, this morning’s weigh-in had shown an increase of three pounds. Her jaw clenched as she remembered the stunned silence that had greeted the announcement, the surreptitious nudges from the other members as she’d trailed dismally back to her seat. Anyone would think she’d just committed some embarrassing faux pas in a public place, rather than enjoyed a fish and chip supper and a glass of wine the night before. So what if it was her second weight gain in a month, she was looking for long-term improvement, not this gone today, get it all back tomorrow nonsense. ‘Nature versus Nurture’; that had been the subject of this morning’s session. Did their weight problems lie in their genes, or was it their upbringing that was at fault? Naturally Joely Wheelan, their stick-thin diet and exercise guru, had focused first on Suri, asking her to think back to early photos of her parents. Were they always large? she wanted to know. In the wedding day picture on the sideboard her Indian mother, Sita, had been ‘solid’ rather than obese, Suri had told them. But by the time Mum had reached her thirties and had her first - and only – child, the pounds were piling on and destined to remain there. As for Lionel, her English-born father, the photo showed a tall, good looking man with a muscular physique. It was only when they’d taken the policeman off the beat and stuck him behind a desk that the muscle had turned to fat and the number of his chins trebled. So, nature or nurture? A bit of both probably. Not that it made any difference, to Suri the battle was just as difficult either way. Behind her, three willowy teenage girls were running down the steps, twittering their goodbyes to each other and urging one another on to even greater heights of anorexia next week. Morons, Suri thought; if they got any thinner they’d disappear down the cracks in the pavement. She rolled her eyes heavenwards. Ominous grey clouds were gathering over the town hall. It looked like there was a storm brewing. Even the Almighty didn’t seem to be on her side today. Not content with seeing her embarrassed in front of a roomful of people, now He was going to have the heavens open on her too. Even as she stood pondering whether to go straight home or nip to the shops, she saw lightning flicker behind the clouds, turning the edges translucent orange. She counted the seconds, listening for the roll of thunder. Seven. Not that far away then. She shivered inside her candy pink puffa jacket, bought in a moment of madness during a department store’s closing down sale and regretted ever since. Opening her gold leather handbag, another impulse buy, she rummaged for her umbrella. She found it wedged beneath an empty carton of blackcurrant juice and a half-eaten slab of dark chocolate. How had that slipped her notice? Defiantly she bit off a wedge, puffing shreds of silver paper from between her lips as she yanked the umbrella free. She was just peeling back the blue nylon sleeve when she felt the first fat drops of water splat against her cheek. Ugh! She loathed being wet, hated the cold, clammy feel of her clothing sticking to her body, turning her skin to gooseflesh and exposing her excesses to the world. She might be prepared to overlook the mountainous results of her own shocking lack of willpower but others tended to be less forgiving. Hastily, she pressed the button on the umbrella’s telescopic handle. Nothing. Again she pressed, jabbing at it furiously with her thumb. Still nothing. She peered at it closely and saw telltale flecks of rust on the metalwork, doubtless the result of the dregs of juice seeping from the carton. Blast. Now what? Briefly, she considered returning to the sports centre until the squall had passed but just as quickly dismissed the idea. When it came to sarcasm Jumping Joely could make the waspish Anne Robinson look like Mother Teresa. The sweet shop, now that was a much better option. Grab a few tasty nibbles then head home for an afternoon of weepy movies on the box. Pulling up the collar of her puffa, she set off towards the shops. She was just passing a charity shop, a typically dreary place full of unwanted bric-a-brac, religious relics and tacky holiday souvenirs, when something caught her eye. In the middle of the window, bizarrely grouped with a pair of silver, peep-toed dance shoes and a fruit-laden straw hat, sat an umbrella. It was a sturdy looking black job with a bone handle and a silver tip, a snip at a pound. Unearthing two fifty pence coins from her pocket, Suri pushed open the door. Immediately, a smell reminiscent of damp towels left too long in the laundry basket wafted out to her. Wrinkling her nose, she grabbed the brolly from the stand and headed for the cash desk. The assistant had her head bowed low over a display of carved wooden animals. She seemed to be having particular trouble with a baby giraffe, which kept keeling over into the path of a lion every time she stood it up. Sighing, she propped it against its mother and looked up at Suri, smiling a welcome. ‘Good morning, Ma...’ Her exquisitely made-up face paled as she took in the full, eye-popping proportions of her customer. ‘Oh, er, the umbrella, was it?’ she asked, her gaze falling to the brolly in Suri’s hand. ‘That will be a pound, please.’ Suri dropped the coins into her open palm. ‘Looks like you’re just in time,’ the woman went on, glancing out at the rain-slicked street. ‘Yes,’ Suri said, ‘a minute more and I’d have been soaked.’ There was a clatter as the giraffe fell over once again. ‘Mmm,’ the woman agreed, re-righting it for a fourth time, ‘although I suppose we really shouldn’t moan. Here we are complaining about a drop of rain while in Africa they’re dying right now for the lack of it.’ Suri nodded. ‘Makes you feel sort of helpless, doesn’t it? You just wish there was something you could do.’ It was a general enough comment, not really intended be taken seriously, but the woman’s eye took on a zealot’s gleam. ‘Well, actually, you know, there is,’ she said softly. ‘You could join our Angels Campaign. “Funned Raising” we call it. A silly little play on words but it does rather sum up what we’re about. Look, here’s one of our sponsorship forms.’ Below the title ‘Angel’s Angels’ was a picture of a little girl, achingly beautiful but heart-rendingly thin, with huge, dark eyes staring out on an unforgiving world. Behind her lay a barren landscape dotted with a few emaciated cows and the odd leafless tree. ‘Why Angel’s Angels?’ Suri asked, turning the sheet over and scanning the text. ‘That’s the child’s name,’ the woman answered, ‘Angel Odobe. She lost her father to Aids when she was three and her mother to the same disease less than a year later. She’s six now and lives with an aunt and her four children in a one room hut in a village near Eritrea.’ ‘Poor little thing,’ Suri murmured, feeling unexpectedly moved. The woman nodded. ‘We’d like to make her future better than her past. It’s why we prefer to raise funds for specific people. At Christmas it was Ahmed, a ten-year-old boy whose right leg was blown off by a landmine. He was hobbling around on crutches made from tree branches when our aid worker found him, but with the money we raised he was able to be fitted with a state-of-the-art prosthetic limb. He’s doing wonderfully well now.’ As she finished speaking, her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. ‘So what would I have to do?’ Suri asked. ‘Whatever you choose,’ the woman answered. ‘That’s the beauty of this campaign, you do whatever appeals to you, whether it’s bungee jumping, hang gliding, running the Marath...’ Her voice tailed off as she realised the absurdity of what she was saying. ‘Or you could just think of something that suits you. Like, umm, knitting,’ she finished lamely. Suri caught her lip between her teeth. ‘Or slimming?’ she murmured. The woman’s face lit up. ‘Oh, yes, that would be super. If people were to sponsor you at, say, ten pence a pound, that would be amazing.’ She gulped at the sheer scale of the potential fortune standing before her. ‘With my track record they’d probably make it a pound a pound,’ Suri laughed. ‘Now wouldn’t that be something!’ ‘It would indeed,’ the woman said eagerly. ‘So, may I put your name down?’ Suri nodded. ‘Why not?’ With the rain drumming hard against her new umbrella, Suri hurried on up the high street. She felt better already, happier in herself, secure in the knowledge that this time around she would succeed. Because now, every pound that she lost was a pound gained by her saviour, little Angel, far away in Africa. She glanced across at the sweet shop window. Of course, she hadn’t got any sponsors yet... Pushing open the door, Suri headed for the pick and mix. Eat, drink and be merry, girl, she told herself, for tomorrow you DIET!                                     *** The End ***