mostly david ephgrave

What was the first thing my dad said to me today when I walked up the street toward him as he chatted to one of his neighbours? Was it, “Hi Dave”, “Hello” or “How are you?” No. It was, “ You’ve put on weight”. Who cares if it’s something I'm self-conscious about, that general etiquette dictates you don’t point out? With my dad, you head straight for the nub of the matter: do not pass go and do not collect £200. So it was that I was thrown headfirst into a conversation about the side-effects of the tablets I'm taking; so thrown off-kilter by the inappropriate observation, all I could say was, “Thanks for pointing that out.” When it comes to this stuff, my dad has form. The most legendary example of unfiltered Barry Ephgrave among my friendship group has to be the time we went on holiday with a few of his workmates and my friend Chris, when I was a teenager. We were eating in a chip shop when I accidentally put so much ketchup on my food I wondered out loud if should get...

Today I met my friend Stephen for a general catch-up, having not seen him for a few weeks. The big bit of news on my part was the whole situation with my dad, which was a heck of a lot to fill him in on. At least the upshot is positive at the moment, but I’d still been hesitant and not given Steve the full story via text up to this point, opting for the hastily abridged version instead; it just felt like too much stuff to get across. We’ve been fortunate in the sense we've managed to see each other a fair amount since he moved away from Herts in favour of Northamptonshire. I’m glad about this as he’s long been the friend I see most regularly and share detail of the ins and outs of my life to; he’s very much my sounding board and my unofficial, unpaid advisor, which is probably a bit of a poisoned chalice. One thing that’s getting me down of late is the fact I’ve gained a little weight, something I haven’t done to any extent before until...

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 e...