the belly rides out

Coffee with Anissa Ladjemi in the Starbucks on Dawson Street.
She's my advisor on Arab Muslim affaires.
Ahem.
As you join us I am doing the talking.
I am holding forth in a particularly scintillating expostulation about my latest play when I glance at her and notice her attention has wandered.
More precisely her attention has wandered to some point of my body well below the neckline.
She is gazing with Islamic intensity at my midriff.
I catch her eye.
A guilty look caresses her regal features.
"James," she says sweetly. "Have you lost weight?"
I treat this mulligan with the respect it deserves.
"Oh come on," I cry warmly. "There's no way you were staring at my belly because you thought it had gotten smaller."
"No really," she persists. "It's a while since I've seen you. You've definitely lost weight."
"I'm as fat as a fool," I shoot back.
"Not as fat as you were," she parries.
This riposte is less pleasing to me than you might expect.
I fall silent.
The ghost of BBC sports commentator Frank Bough appears at my shoulder.
With great purpose and no little delicatesse, he begins to speak as though reading football results.
"Peace Loving Religion Of Islam: One," he intones. "Fat Irishman: Nil."