The Thin Man

Well, Pilates didn't last that long. One class.

The thing was I realised that I just couldn't manage being the only man surrounded by nubile young women. It just wasn't fair on them. Also, I was completely knackered after the class. No, I'll join an over 60's cage fighting class: much less painful.

Continuing with the "me" theme. I forgot to mention that before I saw the consultant  at the hospital the other week (see previous post) I was weighed by a delightful young man from the Far East. I couldn't quite place his country of origin but I guessed it was somewhere near the Java Sea: hugely exotic - in a Richard Branson sort of way.

Anyway, I weighed over 13 stone. I'm not tall, or heavy boned so basically my shape was that of a cube: a fatty cube at that. I was shocked: I mean as a young man my mother would worry because she could see my ribs.

It didn't help when I complained to my consultant, a lovely young man from, I think, the Indian sub continent: I could be wrong he might have been born in Golders Green. Anyway, I complained that I got breathless climbing lots of stairs. The thing is the medication I'm on can affect the lungs: not sure exactly what, but something nasty nevertheless. I thought he'd say something reassuring like " Oh don't worry, the drugs you're on do that, it's either dying of breathlessness or your joints seizing up when you're on a zebra crossing and being run over by a juggernaut". But he didn't. He said "Well fatso what do you expect carry the equivalent of 20 sperm whales' blubber round your arse." - or words to that effect.

I was shattered, so shattered was I that after driving myself home I immediately hopped on a train to Gospel Oak - Michael Palin lives there - and went for an hour long walk on Hampstead Heath.

It's good to go for long walks - gives you time to think. All the literary giants did that.Wordsworth, Keats, Byron and Shelley: no he went for a long swim and drowned. Anyway, a long walk is good for the soul and importantly, if you're lucky there's no feeding station in easy reach.

You see I realised, as I avoided large, sprightly dogs dragging rather light weight owners across the Heath, I'm a ungulate. I use that word in its broadest sense. I spend my whole day - grazing and binge feeding. I may not eat all day and then like a cow let into a field of fresh, sweet grass I gorge until I burst. A packet or two of shortbread will be in the cupboard. Not for long. A packet of peanuts,  a new loaf: devoured, finished off, topped with Sandwich Spread and a large lump of cheese. The excessive intake of alcohol is but a mere minor addition to my calorific excess.

There and then, as I breasted Parliament Hill and gazed on our beloved metropolis, I determined to do something. I would only eat at meal times and not at any other time.

I've been constantly hungry ever since as a result of this self imposed torture. I haven't had a biscuit for a week. not one tinsy winsy peanut has passed my lips. It's a boiled egg for breakfast with a slice of bread and marge. Lunch is  tuna and beans. Evening meal a vegetable bake and roasted rhubarb and yogurt.

I hope it works. It bloody well better.