Memoirs of a Fat Girl

I've just woken up from the most disturbing dream.

I was walking a very crowded street, while eating and clutching onto a chocolate cream egg for dear life when, horror of horrors, I bumped into Zinedine Zidane.

Shocked, I tightened my grip on the half-eaten egg so hard that it broke, and the cream starting running down my arm. I smiled in embarassment, he recoiled with a "yuck," and when I looked into a mirror near the end of the dream, there was chocolate smeared all over my face.

If you know anything at all about soccer, Zizou is the undisputed god of the sport and currently man of the hour, after bringing the French Les Bleus to the final World Cup match against Italy.

If you know anything about me, you'll know that if I was to be given free sexual range among the players of Fifa, he is at the top of my personal list for footballers I would choose to bed.

I will never have this man and I can accept that, but why, oh why, could I not get one imaginative REM night of ecstasy, as opposed to passing by one of my favourite players with chocolate all over my face?

And I hate chocolate cream eggs!