It started in 1990.
I thought it had something to do with my manful move from lager to bitter. But it might have been because I hadn’t done any serious exercise for five years. Or any other kind of exercise either.
The move from 30 to 32 was natural. Maybe even inevitable. At size 34, I thought I had achieved a comfortable maximum – an impression left behind, along with most of my wardrobe, by the maniacally depressing jump to 36. Years more of commuting, desk flying and very good food had me, even more unhappily, holding a pair of 38s.
More than once have I run into someone I used to know who said: “Blimey. You’ve let yourself go a bit.” It looked like the rest of my life would be one of managing my stomach’s suburban sprawl.
After a few short months of working “on the land”, I am happy to report that my jeans are hanging off me and I desperately need a new belt. Today, I’m even wearing a shirt and T-Shirt combination my mother-in-law gave me a few years ago that I just couldn’t throw out.
This physical devolution (which also seems to be appreciated by her outdoors) could be the result of all that post bashing, pig-ark lifting and shit shovelling I’ve been doing recently. But I haven’t had a pint of beer since August.