Her face distorts into that of an inflamed, rotund witch. She wriggles out of her chair and staggers towards me, her huge legs rubbing together with every step she takes. She sits down on me with her full weight, clutching for my phone with her sausage-like arms. The huge mass on my body forces the air out of my lungs. I'm just about able to stretch my arm out far enough so her gripping hands can't reach it. But I have no idea how to get out from under her or how long I can keep this up. Growling sounds coming from deep within her indicate that only one thing matters to her now: to take my mobile phone and make the recording stop. Until now, obesity was a meaningless number to me, a BMI of over 30. Now, for the first time, I feel what that actually means. My lungs have already been squeezed dry and I don't know how much longer my muscles and bones can take it. Besides, is the chair I'm sitting on designed for such a heavy load?
