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At Boo's Christening I thought I looked sensational. Not kidding. I felt like the absolute danglers. Cream lace shift to the knee. No cleavage on show, but a little bit of leg. Nice and fitted, but not painted on. Clung in the right places, but appropriate. Classy. Tanned and a little bit French looking. In essence, fit. 

Sadly, after reviewing the photos of the day, turns out this was not the case. Rather than the sexy, Italian looking (I felt continental, ok?), chic vision of elegance I saw gazing back in the mirror, there, in the photographs, lurked my incredibly unwelcome alter ego, Thunder Thighs. Ten Tonne Tessa.

And unfortunately, I have not imagined it. It's there. In print. Photographic evidence. Can't argue with that.

(I know what you're thinking now, so no, you will not find a single picture of the ample quads of which I speak on this blog. Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to let you have a good gawp and poke and giggle at said rolls? I wasn't born yesterday, you scavengers of human misery.) 

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