I’m annoyed that I’ve put on weight
recently; not a lot, but enough to be aware of it.
Before I know it, I’ll be doing my best Eamonn
Holmes: dressing in deceptively large suit jackets, with my fingers barely
able to clasp in front of my stomach. I’ll only wear black, or something dark with a
smaller body drawn on the front, so I look like one of those outsized-headed
football cartoons. I’ll be like Homer Simpson, when he purposely gets big enough to be eligible for disability allowance; when Lisa looks for me, I’ll be in the cellar, washing my fat
guy hat: this is my future.
Until now, I’ve never knowingly become more
stout. Maybe this is what happens when you reach thirty-five: you’re once-fast
metabolism goes kaput. I better take up squash or jogging; that or squeeze myself into some jogging bottoms; that’s the path of
least resistance, I expect.
I’ve got things in hand. My
wife and I have decided to go for regular long walks for extra exercise, though to be fair,
I go on foot to most places as it is. I also pledge to keep my diet in
check. I generally eat healthily, though when it comes to biscuits, I
have no off-switch (except for when the barrel is empty, that is). The
thing is, they’re so bloody nice - but I don’t want to wind up the sort of
person who only shops for clothes at Sports Direct. Unless they pay me to front
an advertising campaign; I'm fickle like that.