I was prepared for the triumphant arrival of Ronnie and Maggie, but foolishly forgot they would be accompanied by the talking scales.
After eight years, I should have known better from the man I suspect wants to wage a futile one-man war against the obesity epidemic, starting with monitoring me.
He has lovingly placed Margaret Thatcher's The Path to Power and The Downing Street Years on the extreme top right of his bookshelf , next to The Alan Clark Diaries: Thatcher's Fall.
Working left along the shelf, there is The Truth about Hillary (and we're not talking mountaineers here, folks) followed by a two-volume biography of Ronald Reagan.
Books on Tony Blair, former Labour PM , have been relegated to the bottom left of the bookshelf.
What does it all mean? Probably nothing much. I am not so sure about the talking scales.
It's like having a cross between Stephen Hawking and that ghastly overdue books "woman" from the library living under the bed.
(Somehow she can say that tongue-twister Elspeth but pronounces my surname as Maclayun. Initially mildly amusing, but after 600 overdue books the novelty has worn off.) What they might have got up to among the dust balls doesn't bear thinking about, but hopefully it's more easily understood than anything to do with black holes or women.
In order to ensure no unnecessary grams are counted, I only weigh myself - warning, too much information coming - in the cold grey dawn, unclothed and bladder emptied.
If all is well, the rather posh sounding wee man in the scales emits a beep and then bossily pierces the still morning air and the promise of the day by saying "Please step off". I do as I am told so he can then say "Your weight is ... kilograms".
His accuracy thankfully only extends to the half kilogram.
Once, the posh man, for no apparent reason, got a little temperamental. He started telling us everything in pounds which, without them being divided into stones, we struggled to comprehend. He also became very fussy about where he was prepared to do the business.
"Error, error", he said urgently whether placed on cosy carpet or cold lino.
At that point I was willing to give the scales a fitting send-off (hurling them from a great height into a rubbish bin), but the bariatric battler inserted a new battery. Posh man's tantrums ceased.
My old scales are still lurking. What a pretty sight they are, too. Their white vinyl covering has lifted and curled back on every corner where years of grime has attached itself to the once-sticky backing. There is just enough room to put your feet if you stand carefully.
The dial, offering readings in kilograms (red and unreadable) and stones and pounds, now has such a faded centre line showing the reading, you are left to imagine where it is.
Fortunately, I have a fertile imagination. I always reckon it is at least half a stone lower than the laws of nature would deem possible. It is most affirming and allows me to believe the tightness of my clothes is indeed due to what I recall former fellow columnist Elspeth Ludemann dubbing wardrobe shrinkage - that strange phenomenon where your clothes, happily hanging in your wardrobe from one season to the next, turn out to be two sizes too small when you next threaten to give them an outing.
The other beauty of my scales is if you make a real attempt to read them, which then provokes a horrified gasp, you can convince yourself the line is not properly on zero, adjust it (in your favour of course) and then get back on to admire the result. Magic. (Since their recent arrival, however, the talking scales insist I have gained a kilogram, lost half of it and then gained it again).
Magic is a wonderful thing.
Apparently, the Government cutting the number of state schools and increasing class sizes and putting money into an ill-defined test of charter schools will magically transform the lives of some deprived children.
At the time of writing, the appointment of the Act Party's Catherine Isaac to oversee the trial of the magical schools had yet to be finalised.
Is the Government too arrogant to see that someone who is on record as saying she knows these schools work in disadvantaged communities does not help any perception the trial will be fair?
Isn't there a risk she may be seen as a little like me on the old scales - tempted to tweak the results to fit a preconception?
It would be better to appoint someone who couldn't care less either way. I'm suggesting the bariatric battler. Who knows, the scales might fall from his eyes. He needs a new hobby.
- Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
