FAIR STOOD THE WIND FROM FRANCE

"What should I say to the new French CEO - it's a breakfast meeting so nothing too formal, but you know - something that might make an impression," I asked Mr Trefusis, whose proficiency with the french language still gives me the Fish Called Wanda feeling, even after six years of marriage.

"Tu peux les toucher," he offers, somewhat idly.

"Hang on - he's the CEO - I can hardly 'tu toyer' him, can I?"

"Well, it might sound a bit odd if you used 'vous' when inviting him to cop a feel."

"Oh, yes, very bloody helpful. In fact, a brilliant career move, asking one's new boss if he fancies a quick grope. I doubt that's what he means when he says we should get down to business. Try again: I want to make a good impression, not listen to the rungs of the career ladder snapping loudly beneath my feet. "

After some arguing, mostly about Mr Trefusis's lack of confidence in my ability to steer a conversation away from difficult linguistic waters, we agree that he'll coach me to say 'Veuillez excuser mon français exécrable' with a perfectly patrician parisian accent, and then I'll switch back to English, leaving Monsieur le CEO with the idea that I am wonderfully fluent but deeply modest. It'll do. It's not a one-on-one, anyway, so I'm pretty sure I won't have to show off too horribly.

But actually, I'm fairly nervous about the meeting - as one ever is, I guess, when spending time with someone who has your livelihood in their hands. And, of course, in more affluent times, no one tried too hard to impress. These days it's different: staying in one's job isn't just about being good at it - with the spectre of redundancy looming over everyone, working is like a hideous game of musical chairs - you can dance and dance only to return to your place to find the chair is gone. I know very little about Monsieur le CEO, other than his recent career history. I know he must be pretty posh, the 'de' in his name being a dead giveaway. I know he likes cars, though I shan't attempt to add my five pence worth here since the workings of the internal combustion engine are a piece of spectacular magic to me and I can just about tell a BMW from an Audi. Other than discussing the business, I'll have to conjure conversational topics from nowhere and hope he doesn't ask me anything difficult. I'm not aiming for anonymity, however. I need him to know who I am.

I do know he likes pretty girls. It might not be an original manoeuvre, but one may as well attempt to be easy on the eye. I'm no Claudia Schiffer, obviously, or Carla Bruni, but you can't have everything and with an exhausting amount of effort I can scrub up fairly well. Unless you're a super model, good looks are 10% what you were blessed with and 90% good grooming. Look at any of those makeover shows on the television, and it's all about the hair. Get that sorted and you're most of the way. Add decent, subtle makeup and a flattering dress and you can hold your head up with the best of 'em. At the crack of, um can't be dawn, it's still dark, Mr Trefusis finds me in the bathroom wearing beige spanx and a push up bra, blowdrying my hair. To add to the ineffable beauty of the picture, the top half of my hair is in curlers (it's not just my breasts that deserve a boost). It's terribly hard on husbands - seeing one's wife get ready must be like going on set at a film lot, discovering that the beautiful buildings in the movie are just plasterboard façades, held up by scaffolding. But at last I'm ready, as soignée as I'll ever be, with an elegant little black dress so tight it immediately gives me indigestion and a pair of taxi shoes high enough to induce vertigo. I spray on some Mitsouko in an attempt to smell expensively sexy, yet sophisticated. I think I probably just end up smelling like my mum.

I arrive at breakfast - my peers have all had the same idea - every last one of us is LBD'd and blowdried to within an inch of our lives. Monsieur le CEO compliments me on my perfect pronunciation of exécrable and the meeting passes off without incident. And in these dark days, who can ask for more?

THE SACRED AND PROFANE LOVES OF MRS TREFUSIS

I can never resist a gauntlet, well, not when it's thrown down by someone I admire. So when the Illustrious Waffle put out the challenge to write about first love in all its gory detail, I seized the chance to tell the story of how I unwittingly put someone off worldly relationships for life.

To find the tale's beginning, we must return to the time of tory boys, and fire up the Ashes to Ashes soundtrack. Matthew Fitzgerald, as we shall call him - naturallyI have changed the names to protect the guilty - was my first foray into the tory boy type, though he was much more rebellious and less tweedy than later examples. He had the requisite wedge haircut, nice manners and the wherewithall to buy a gin and orange, but with added Bad Boy qualities - a shocking reputation for breaking hearts and being unrepentantly late with his homework. Usually, tory boys were bard boys, given to slipping scrolls of tortured adolescent poetry into your pocket at the bus stop, but with his brooding way of turning up the collar of his Crombie against the rain, and of curling a sneering lip around a Players No. 6, Matthew had swallowed the anti-hero manual. His name was doodled on every exercise book, girls missed several buses home trying to catch the one he was on, most break-times were spent discussing what it might be like to be kissed by him. Truly, he was the Byron of Birkenhead.

I wouldn't say I was immune to his charms, I was just more realistic: I'd seen him loitering in cool record shops with a copy of The Face. He wore peg top trousers like David Bowie in his 'Let's Dance' phase, and winklepicker shoes. Rumour had it that he'd even been to London to hang out at The Wag Club. Not in my league, I thought. I'd content myself with the mild literary flirtation of the bard boys at the local library.

But as chance would have it, and after not very long at all, we ended up on the same dancefloor of some sticky carpeted nightclub in a forgotten corner of Birkenhead, gyrating to New Order's Blue Monday, the longest danceable tune ever to chart in the UK. Prevented from close physical contact by the outrageous pointiness of our respective winklepickers, the synthpop-fuelled tension built between us until, close to the six minute mark, we lurched into a fierce, compulsive embrace, the braces on his teeth bruising my lips with the force of his passion, my long hair catching painfully on the parallel rows of buttons on his shirt. By the time Blue Monday had given way to Duran Duran, we were off the dancefloor and snogging for England. In the argot of the day, we had 'tapped off'.

Reader, I'm sorry to disappoint, but this great lothario kissed like a carwash. So drowned in spittle was I, I kept having to break off to rub my face affectionately on his shirt. Did I let this put me off? I did not. I was filled with all the exultant triumph of a 100 to 1 racehorse romping home against all expectations in the Grand National. He could have had the breath of Baal and the personal hygiene habits of a Gruffalo for all I cared. The prize longed for by my entire class was mine: Love might be a drug, but victory is more potent and addictive. I let him wait for me outside school on Monday and contrived to appear chilly so he'd put his blazer around my shoulders. I let everyone see his self-consciously romantic gestures like lighting two cigarettes and passing one to me. He bought me Joy Division's Love will Tear Us Apart in 12 inch vinyl and I'm ashamed to say I didn't hesitate to bring it to school to parade in front of everyone.

But I'm afraid that Mr Fitzgerald was a better trophy than he was a boyfriend, so quite how he was so prefixed with mystique, I have no idea. His dating M.O mostly involved coming round to mine on the pretext of helping me with my latin prep but I never saw him get Cicero out of his satchel before he pounced. I can't say that I was immune to pouncing, being young and extremely curious, but his brand of pouncing was so horribly inept, featuring more carwash kissing, and vigorous rummaging under my school shirt, all sweaty palms, doggy tongue and orangutang arms. Within days he was pressurising me to 'go all the way', making so many irrepressible assaults on my virtue I knew exactly how Clarissa felt fending off Lovelace. Actually, scratch that -there is no literary analogy worthy of his persistence. I felt like a leg to which an amorous dog had become attached: he was unshakeable. Had the technique been more honed, and the execution more adroit and less enthusiastic, perhaps I would have succumbed, but at last, bored by my rebuffs, he decided to finish with me.

The Conversation took place on the platform of Hamilton Square tube station in Birkenhead after a visit to Probe, an incredibly trendy record shop in Liverpool run by Pete Burns of Dead or Alive, who looked rather different in those days. He'd been silent for the whole journey, and hadn't launched himself at me once, which was welcome, if unusual.

'We need to talk' he said, in that fabulously original way that such conversations always start.

'Ok' I replied, refusing to be drawn and having read enough Cosmopolitan to know what to expect from such an opener.

'I don't think we should see each other anymore. You see, I've got my exams coming up and I really need to get some work done. Oh, and I'm entering a seminary in September: I'm going to train as a priest.'

'Like, as in Catholic priest?' God I was slow on the uptake.

'Um, yes. I've been called.'

'Well, I can see that having a girlfriend might be a little surplice to requirements.' I regained my composure as best I could, taking refuge in silly puns. I left him on the platform, thinly disguising my high dudgeon, and took the bus the rest of the way home.

But really? I must confess [snigger] that I was a little put out. What can one make of it? That I was so fabulous that only God would do next? That my failure to acquiesce to his base desires confirmed his vocation? To this day, I've not really managed to get to grips with it, and would be grateful for any theories offered.

And as for Matthew Fitzgerald, he didn't become a priest, but a monk, tending the apple orchards at Ampleforth, teaching and such like, or so I'm told, but I didn't trouble too much with keeping up with him. I'm hardly likely to make him my friend on Facebook.

First love? Pah. Overrated. Get it over with for practise. Romeo and Juliet is just a story, and I think there was a dodgy monk in that too.

THINGS AIN'T WHAT THEY MEME

I'm not one for memes. I am really quite a tiresome person, so the idea of a questionnaire in which I let you know even more dreary drivel about myself than I already write here fills me with dread.

However, what are rules if there are no exceptions? And so, when one of my all time favourite bloggers, Mothership, tagged me in a meme, it felt only courteous to follow her request.

As if to add insult to injury, I've taken terrible liberties with the original meme. I hope that Motherhood the Final Frontier will forgive me for having bent the rules. It's probably an enormous sin in the blogosphere and I'll have to go to confession. But not this one, I hope.



Anyway, here's the meme. Or, ahem, my version of the meme....

What's your favourite piece of writing?
I'm afraid you'd get a different answer to this question every time it was asked. Writing is a little like clothes, so much depends on your mood. The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford made a great impression on me when I first read it at eighteen, and I must have read it at least every decade since, possibly because it has one of the boldest opening lines of any book - if you start your first chapter 'This is the saddest story I have ever heard', you're setting the bar very high.
But there's a passage within it that struck a chord with me then, and it still resonates, for reasons I'm not prepared to go into, not being a confessional blogger.

We are all so afraid, we are all so alone, we all so need from the outside the assurance of our own worthiness to exist.
So, for a time, if such a passion comes to fruition, the man will get what he wants. He will get the moral support, the encouragement, the relief from the sense of loneliness, the assurance of his own worth. But these things pass away; inevitably they pass away as the shadows across sun-dials. It is sad, but it is so. The pages of the book will have become familiar; the beautiful corner of the road will have been turned to many times. Well, this is the saddest story.

What's the favourite thing you've ever written?

Ha. I can hardly go from Ford Madox Ford into hopelessly amateur Mrs Trefusis, can I? Worryingly,I am still quite pleased by 'THE DUST ON A BOWL OF ROSELEAVES', though it's horribly pretentious. But the four part love story, in which I meet Mr Trefusis is rather better and infinitely more readable. It begins with LOVE IN THE TIME OF INTERWEB, but continues into Espresso Bongo, Love's Labour's Lust, and finally, Love in a Foreign Language.

What blog post do you wish you'd written?

Just about anything by Belgian Waffling, but particularly this gorgeously dark Stella Gibbonsesque post from earlier this week. The Waffle is a genius and can turn 200 words about house dust into something compelling and meaningful.

Choose a favourite quotation

'I like people better than principles, and people without principles best of all'

Oscar Wilde. It always is, isn't it.

Three favourite words

Lambent, idiosyncratic, tenebrous.

Just like the way they sound. But I also like velleity, a word I hadn't heard until yesterday, when Sarah Churchwell mentioned it on twitter. It means 'a mere wish, unaccompanied by an effort to obtain it.' I think I suffer from velleity more often than I'd like.

Do you have a writing mentor, role model, influence or inspiration

Hmm, I'd like to say it's someone very grand, like George Eliot, but it's not. I'm ready to confess that my greatest influences are probably Nancy Mitford and Jilly Cooper. The highbrow stuff is mostly me showing how unbearably affected I am.

What's your writing ambition?

To avoid very obvious spelling mistakes, and to always use the apostrophe in an appropriate manner.

And now I'm supposed to send it onto three people.

I choose Joad Raymond, who writes a very good blog called Miles to Go Before I Sleep , but now he's unable to run, he needs something new to write about, and it may as well be this since he's one of the best read people I know.

And The Age of Uncertainty. This blog, mostly about antiquarian books and the stories they unconsciously tell, gives me such enormous pleasure: I urge you to seek it out so you can discover its delights for yourself.

And last but not least, Helena Halme, an ex-pat Finn whose wonderful story about her English sailor is serialised on her blog. Start at the beginning and I'm sure that like me, you'll be hooked, and desperate to follow it to its conclusion.

THE LONDON BUNBURY

The art of Bunburying, when perfected, can enable a person to follow their whims without fear of backlash from meddlesome friends and precarious family obligations.

My taxi driver sensibly dropped me off on Porchester Gardens, right outside the private entrance to Le Café Anglais. If I'd had my wits about me, I'd have stepped out of the cab, and into Café Anglais’ private lift and found myself cocooned in elegant luxury in a trice. Too intent on looking glamorous in an enormous pair of Prada sunglasses, I tottered straight past the lift, and found myself stranded in the middle of Whiteley's shopping centre.

It's slightly counter-intuitive to put a very smart restaurant at the top of a rather less smart mall, and it's greatly to the credit of Le Café Anglais that it manages to overcome the experience of actually getting there. Having finally stumbled upon a public lift, I found myself alone with a Mohammed Al Fayed lookeylikey, who pressed me lasciviously against the lift's buttons, breathed hotly on me, insisting I was 'beeyootifooll' and that we must go for a drink together immediately. It's at times like these I realise the extraordinary disadvantages of being middle-middle class: DidI hit him with my capacious handbag? Did I cry 'Unhand me sir' in a ringing tone, pressing the alarm? No, I did not. Appalled and disconcerted, yet unwilling to appear impolite, I merely squeaked, 'Sweet of you, but I'm meeting friends' and scuttled out of the lift in heart-pounding relief as the doors opened not a second too soon.

I still couldn't find Le Café Anglais. I asked someone in Yo Sushi! who sent me to Cafe Nero. Had I not still been wearing my dark glasses, I daresay I would have arrived at the restaurant an awful lot sooner. When I finally got there, I had to spend several minutes outside, trying to recompose myself, partly to shake off the sweaty horror of my enthusiastic lift companion, but mostly to try and conquer my embarrassment at my own navigational incompetence.

Only a fool - me - would think Le Café Anglais difficult to get to. The upside of the story is that it's such a bower of bliss, I could have walked barefoot from Acton along the Westway, and it would have been worth the pain.

The interior is astonishingly beautiful - all art-deco detailing, floor to ceiling windows, and double-height ceiling. It has a wonderful understated opulence about it, cleverly excising all trace of the MacDonalds that once occupied the same space.

But it wasn’t to stare admiringly at its design or drool at the enormous menu that I was there: co-founder Charlie McVeigh had invited a cabal of twitterers to a lunch, with nothing more taxing on our agenda than a hedonistic afternoon of delicious food, wine far better than my ignorant palate deserves, and vast amounts of gossip – real life twittering, perhaps.

Proper restaurant critics have reviewed the delights on offer far better than I ever could– you may read them here and here – all I shall say is that the menu is cleverly composed of all the things you most want to eat in the world, and some things that you might hesitate to try but are works of staggering genius – like the parmesan custard with anchovy toast, which I’d rather feared might taste like a pair of superannuated socks, but is such heaven I’m salivating as I write, wondering when I can contrive to go back so I may eat it again.

An afternoon like this is my version of Wilde’s Bunburying – a miniature holiday, carefree and without a to-do list or pressing agenda – the London equivalent of a lazy day on the beach with a not-very-improving novel, and with all the transgressive appeal of stolen time, though I hasten to add, in case anyone from work is reading, I have a properly completed holiday form for anyone who'd like to see it.

And really, despite the fact that the lunch gave onto drinks and then dinner, before ending shortly before midnight, it was a very restorative Bunbury indeed.


Le Café Anglais, 8 Porchester gardens, London W2 4DB tel: 020 7221 1415 info@lecafeanglais.co.uk
http://www.lecafeanglais.co.uk/

NB : there are many beautiful pictures of Cafe Anglais on the website, but I took the one above as we were coming to the end of lunch : a reminder of an affable and convivial afternoon

YESTERDAY, TODAY AND TOMORROW

My favourite cinematic seduction comes from Vittorio di Sica's 1963 comedy, Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow (Ieri, Oggi, Domani), beating by a narrow margin the heartbreakingly lovely scene between Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie in Don't Look Now.

The on-screen chemistry between Sophie Loren and Marcello Mastroianni is undeniable, and it's a terrific moment in a highly watchable film.

In 1994, for the less successful Prêt-à-Porter, Robert Altman brought the two co-stars back together to reprise the famous scene. I was looking for Ieri, Oggi, Domani on You Tube, and was delighted to fall across this rather clever splice of the two films.

Thirty years after Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, Loren, at 60, and Mastroianni, 70, still set the screen smouldering: I particularly like the wry humour of the scene's end.

IN THE SWIM

The ghastliness of summer is full upon us, and unless you've spent the last six months in the gym, or have the kind of self-control that means you never say yes to a Malteser or a second glass of wine, your self-esteem will join mine on the floor at the very thought of having to remove vast amounts of clothes in favour of The Swimming Costume.


Bikini season ought to come complete with a special prescription of Prozac, to anaesthetise one against the pain of putting on show a non-photo-shopped body. And if you've had children, then perhaps a side-order of hemlock might go well with the SRI's, because the words 'bikini' and 'post-baby body' don't appear to belong in the same sentence together. Not for me, anyway.


Unless you're Natalia Vodianova, pregnancy takes its toll, if not physically, then at least on the way one feels about oneself.


But what's the answer? Does one just resolve to try not to care, to get over it? Or does one opt for a punitive diet and a rigorous gym routine - though, frankly, who has the time? Or perhaps a 'Mummy Job' is the answer, taking a surgical route to restore one's body to its ante-partum glory? Tempting, but in truth, if I had several thousand pounds lying around I'd have the bathroom done rather than my boobs, it being on show a lot more often than my embonpoint.


Fortunately, there is a fourth option: decent swimwear. I'd heard friends rave about Heidi Klein, but couldn't quite bring myself to part with the money, until a tempting discount on their Facebook page, and the trauma of a forthcoming holiday, made me wonder if a well cut costume could be the swimwear equivalent of a pair of black opaques. Reader, I can't tell you the joy of the Delfi one-piece (pictured above, in espresso brown, which is very flattering if you're extremely pale like me). All thoughts of hiring a Victorian bathing machine, or of taking up mountain climbing in an attempt to avoid the swimming pool/beach moment, vanished: the fabric is thick enough to smooth one's stomach enviably flat, the clever halter-neck and well-thought out stitching under the bust cheerily re-perks my boobs, and the gold thingywhatsits on the straps can be moved up or down, depending on how deep a cleavage one is willing to show.

Mothers themselves, Penny Klein, and her business partner Heidi Gosman, know exactly what women go through when the holidays are looming. The success of their range is partly to do with the quality of fabrics used, but it's also about the way its designed by women for women, with the express purpose of making real bodies look and feel fabulous, on the beach, in the sea and by the pool.


The website is extremely good, but I love the store experience even more- there's one in Notting Hill, and one in Chelsea, and each offers a complete pre-holiday experience. Not only are the staff utterly expert in finding the perfect bikini for you, but you can also have a spray tan (everything looks better brown, and since I start off pale blue and don't get much darker, a professional fake tan is my number one holiday essential), a fab pedicure, and find gorgeous cover-ups to take you from beach to bar for pool side cocktails, great jewellery to dress up bikinis and casual beachwear, sandals and those ultra cool hats that look so effortlessly chic on a beach-side Elle Macpherson.

I'm not a fashion writer, but even I can see that there are some ultra-clever figure fixers in the Heidi Klein range that would work particularly well for the post-baby body: The bottoms of the Antibes fold up or down, an ideal fix for a mummy-tummy.

If you're small-breasted but in need of a boost, or generous bosomed in search of support, its top has sideboning and can be tied both behind the neck and at the ribcage to raise the bust and lengthen the torso. What's more, the Antibes top - and several others - go up to a G-cup.

Although I've been a life-long devotee of the bikini, I find it's not as practical a solution as it once was now I'm chasing after two infants, one of whom thinks it's hilarious to pull down pants or pull up bikini tops. How we all laughed. I love the Delfi, but had I been in need of a little more support up top, I'd have gone for the Bamboo one piece, which has sexy low back with self-ties, so you can adjust the fit to offer more support around your rib-cage to lift the bust. It's also very chic, and shows just enough skin to be alluring, yet leaves enough to the imagination to maintain the illusion that all is just as it should be, and in aubergine, it's a colour that again works well if your skin tones are a little too celtic for fashion.

At around £140, I'm not going to pretend that it's a particularly frugal solution. But when I think of the money I've spent on buying several less flattering outfits, and how much more attractive I feel when pool-side, it feels like money well spent. And, unusually, so does Mr Trefusis.

IS YOUR STARSIGN MAKING YOU FAT?

A few weeks ago, I wrote that, in a moment of horrified revelation, I'd realised I'd put on nearly a stone. Since then, I have been obediently following the WeightWitches instructions, and if I'm not quite out of the woods, I have at least lost enough to wriggle into the generous end of the Summer wardrobe. Success is in my sights. Or it is as long as Mr Trefusis doesn't walk off in the middle of a - what shall we call it? - free and frank discussion, leaving me mouthing like a goldfish mid sentence and grabbing furiously at some cheering chocolate. 

But is there more to this than simply a lack of willpower?  Once upon a time, I studied astrology and used to write the odd column or two for some well known magazines. After a long absence, I've revived my interest in matters horoscopic, and it got me thinking: could my starsign be making me fat? 

Actually, as a Pisces, I've definitely a reason to blame it on the zodiac: Pisces has the least willpower of anyone, and adores forbidden fruit, particularly the kind that's eleventy three thousand points at Weightwitches.

So I dusted off the text-books and did a little swotting, and I reckon the zodiac might have some helpful advice for those looking to shed a few pounds for summer, whatever their sign. So without further ado, here is the Mrs Trefusis Guide to Astro-dieting....

CANCER: June 22-July 23

Are the stars on your figure's side? Food dictates your emotions - you get moody if not fed regularly, or if denied your favourite comfort foods. But you're fit and strong and can burn off big meals if you want to.

Most likely to make you fat? PMS sends you insane with desire for chocolate and sweets every month. And watch out for emotional crises: for Cancerians nothing comforts better than cake.

Eat right: Stave off cravings: to alleviate your food/emotion thing, make sure you're getting enough B vitamins (deficiency is linked to depression). B for instance, in bananas, avocado and fish can ease PMS symptoms.

Maybe it's because I'm Cancerian? Childhood habits linger with you, so if you always had to clear your plate, or were never allowed sweets, chances are you're still obeying mummy.

LEO: July 24-Aug23

Are the stars on your figure's side? For proud Leos, thinness has nothing to do with health - it's all about looking fabulous and wrigging into designer clothes.

Most likely to make you fat? Your love of good living conflicts with your glamorous side: but you can bet your bottom dollar (or just your bottom) that Leo Jennifer Lopez had to choose between a passion for fine dining and wearing skinny jeans

Eat right: If you've overindulged, try a detoxing juice fast. Three days will have you bright-eyed and busy-tailed. Watch the fat content of your favourite foods: Leo rules the heard, so steer clear of no-carb diets that narrow your arteries as well as your hip measurements.

Maybe it's because I'm a Leo? Leos like individual attention - a personal trainer will give you the encouragement to strive for faster results

VIRGO: Aug 24-Sept23

Are the stars on your figure's side? Virgos are the health freaks of the zodiac: you're body aware and health-conscious. But you can overdo it, leaving you prone to food intolerances.

Most likely to make you fat: Virgos tend to be slim - all that nervous energy. But you can feel fat from bloating if you have food sensitivities.

Eat right: You have energy slumps - try eating little and often to even out the gaps. Food combining is an old fashioned solution which might just help if you suffer from that bloated feeling.

Maybe it's because I'm a Virgo? Your eating goes awry when you're stressed, and since you're the worry monster of the zodiac, this can be often. And of course, for you, the devil's in the detail - if you suspect you might have allergies, keep a food diary.

LIBRA: Sept24-Oct23

Are the star's on your figure's side? Librans like to look beautiful in a shapely, womanly way. Just as well, as you have a sweet tooth and a reputation for laziness.

Most likely to make you fat? Just about everything. But you are the best-looking sign, even if you are bone idle - you'd take liposuction over gym sessions any day. You're also brilliant at persuading yourself that struggling into a pair of Spanx is easily as effective as working out with one of those power bands.

Eating right: You like to look good in clothes, and this may necessitate some sacrifices. be a food puritan: if it's fattening, just don't buy it, because like your fellow Libran, Oscar Wilde, you can resist anything except temptation

Maybe it's because I'm a Libran? Libra is, of course, the sign of the scales - try for a balance. If you overdo it one day, cut back the next.

SCORPIO Oct 24-Nov 23

Are the stars on your figure's side? You have plenty of willpower, though you can keep it hidden. You either treat your body as a temple, or abuse it mercilessly.

Most likely to make you fat? You've got self-control, but you think moderation is for wimps - so you go for a big blowout just because you can. You also love hot, spicy food, and red Thai curries are hardly lo-cal.

Eat right: Flush out toxins: eat cleansing foods like stewed apple and drink lots of water. Try a detox fast once in a while, and colonic irrigation may be useful.

Maybe it's because I'm a Scorpio? Go for challenging exercise, like distance running - as the most intense sign, you'll push it to extremes. An ulterior motive also works for Scorpio motivation: remember that the running club is often full of tasty blokes.

SAGITTARIUS Nov 23-Dec 21

Are the stars on your figure's side? Sagittarius rules the hips and thighs - all you consume may go straight to the bottom line. You do overindulge, but on the plus sign, Sagittarius is the most naturally sporty of all the signs.

Most likely to make you fat? The party lifestyle gets Sagittarians every time - you're the bon vivant of the zodiac. Um, how many units did you drink this evening?

Eat right: Watch portion size. Jupiter, your ruling planet, likes nothing so much as a plate heaped with food, so avoid the 'all you can eat buffet' like the plague.

Maybe it's because I'm a Sagittarian? Your sign rules foreign things and adores the exotic. Swot up on the calories in a Tikka Masala before nipping down the 'Taj Mahal' on a Friday night. 

CAPRICORN Dec 22-Jan 20

Are the stars on your figure's side? You've got serious self-control on the one hand, but the ability to be horribly self-critical on the other. Somehow, slim is never slim enough. Don't let yourself be undermined by your own high standards.

Most likely to make you fat? You're a very traditional eater: meat with potatoes, followed by a proper pudding. And you do love pudding.

Eat right: Be strict. You have appearances to keep up and your ruler, Saturn, give you restraint. If you're a workaholic Capricorn, and many are, plan ahead and make a healthy sandwich to bring from home for lunchtime so you don't ever have to leave your desk.

Is it because I'm a Capricorn? Capricorn rules the skeleton, so don't forget to keep your calcium intake high with low-fat dairy. According to the latest research, dairy products also help keep the weight off too.

Aquarius Jan 21-Feb 19

Are the stars on your figures side? Aquarians have a reputation for being interested in food first and foremost as fuel, and get geeky about nutrition. But even Aquarians find protein shakes with a wheatgrass chaser fail to hit the spot. And then it all goes to pot.

Most likely to make you fat? Yo-yo dieting is the Aquarian curse: you find fad diets irresistible - you name it, you've tried it, from Alli to Atkins. And when the pounds pile on again, you're on Amazon, scoping out the latest bestseller.

Eat right: Use your inquisitiveness to educate yourself about food and nutrition, so you can make more of an informed decision about what the diet books are selling you.

Is it because I'm an Aquarian? Sometimes you just think food is irrelevant: in the Aquarian vision of the future, we'll all be eating pills instead. But in the real world, remember that you have the self-control of a Capricorn and the willpower of a Scorpio: yes, one day you will make it from pig to twig.

Pisces Feb 20-March 20

Are the stars on your figure's side? Poor Pisces - you're the sign for whom the phrase 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions' was invented. You get it both ways - you're ruled by Jupiter, so you share Sagittarians love of giving it large, and by Neptune, so you also quite like to use food and drink in an, ahem, medicinal capacity. Three martinis to the wind and it's your canape hell.

Most likely to make you fat? You hate to hurt people's feelings by saying 'no'. Stop it- people will still like you if you refuse a second helping, or admit you're on a diet.

Eat right: You don't have an inbuilt 'stop' mechanism. If you ate til you felt full, you'd never leave the table. Set yourself limits.

Is it because I'm a Piscean? Most Pisceans use the excuse that trainers are too ugly to avoid getting into gym kit. True, but running in kitten heels is very dangerous.

Aries March 21-April 20

Are the stars on your figure's side? Lucky you. You're energetic, always on the go. Food is fuel to burn off as you rush through the day. What's more, your sign likes exercise, even if you don't. And you also tend to get quick results. Most gratifying.

Most likely to make you fat? You can be tempted by fast food, mainly because you have a temper tantrum if you don't eat the minute you realise you're hungry. Your idea of a well-stocked kitchen is one with a selection of takeaway menus.

Eat right: You need carbs to keep your energy high, and to stop yourself being ambushed by hunger. MacDonalds is not the answer.

Is it because I'm an Aries? Aries likes their exercise action packed, fast, furious and challenging, so if you're feeling bored by pilates and frustrated by yoga, try kick-boxing instead. You're also very goal oriented, so diets work best when you set yourself deadlines like x number of pounds by x date.

Taurus April 21-May 21

Are the stars on your figure's side? You only have to look at spaghetti carbonara on a menu for it to show on the scales. The stars gave you an appreciation of good food, fine wine and nice restaurants and your idea of exercise is walking to the car. Oops.

Most likely to make you fat? Feeling like you deserve a treat. But don't reward progress with food: take yourself shopping for beautiful clothes instead.

Eat right: You do have willpower, and that legendary Taurean stubbornness simply means that you have the kind of tenacity to keep a diet going even when you've plateau'd. You also like routine, so planning your week's menus and shopping accordingly can save you masses of calories.

Is it because I'm a Taurus? Taurus is a sign that loves sensual pleasures, but being the gourmet of the zodiac isn't good for the waistline. Nor does the fact that you like the comfort of feeling full. Soup is your very best friend. Pints of it will work miracles (without cream, silly)

Gemini May 22-June 21

Are the stars on your figure's side? Geminis live on nervous energy and prefer fresh, simple food to gourmet blowouts, which helps to keep a trim waistline. Maybe it's because you're so easily distracted that you often find something more interesting to do than finish a meal.

Most likely to make you fat? If you're portly, could it be that you're a bit too fond of the local Tapas bar? Geminis love meals that comprise of lots of little dishes but you need to be careful with your choices. Go in search of a Bento Box instead.

Eat right: Eat little and often. You need frequent feeding to keep you going. It's not just the boredom factor that puts you off a banquet, it's the way big meals bloat you out. Finger foods and canapes offer the kind of variety you find fascinating, but don't forget that food eaten standing up still counts.

Is it because I'm a Gemini? You get bored of diets and revert to your bad old ways before you can say ennui. And you're an incorrigible snacker. Are crudite's the answer?