As a kid I didn’t have a spare ounce of fat on me. That was probably true through my teens and into my early twenties too, but now at 42 I find myself keeping company with the two in five adults who are officially “overweight”.

Where did it all go wrong I ask myself as I prod the spare tyres around my waist. The product of two decades worth of crisps, biscuits, McDonald’s, white bread and the odd pint or two perhaps?

It was during a regular check-up at the doctor’s surgery in September that I was officially diagnosed as “overweight” by the practice nurse.

On being asked if I had any health concerns, I had chuckled that I could do with losing a stone, expecting her to join in with the laughter.

“Well, yes, you are overweight,” she said without even a trace of a smile. “81kg, 5 foot 7″ and age 41, that classifies you as overweight.”

I had to see her chart for myself, but there it was in black and white. 81kg (12 stone ten), 5 foot 7″ (that’s 1.7m in new money), over 35 years of age, and yes, that apparently makes me a certified fat bastard.

True, I’m not yet one of the 20% of adults in the UK who are “obese”, but if I’m honest there but for the Grace of God go I if I don’t get my act together pretty damn quick. In fact another 8kg and that’ll be me. Obese.

Time for action methinks.

I have made half-hearted attempts to fight the flab in the past, the most recent of which saw a rather embarrassing gain of 2kg. I had managed to give up snacking of an evening - only to rediscover the joys of Marks & Spencer’s apple turnovers during the day. But I thought that my throwing in the odd bit of exercise would be enough to shift at least a pound or two of unwanted flesh.

Obviously not.

The good news is that if I can lose 10kg (22lbs) I will go from being overweight to rejoining the ranks of the beautiful people classified as “healthy”. Hopefully I will look and feel a lot better too.

This then, dear reader, is the story of one man’s battle of the bulge. Belly Blog.

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