At my request, Saturday’s ceremony was a low-key private affair with just me and the local shoe repair man, though I doubt he felt the same rollercoaster emotions as he punched a new hole in my leather belt and shrugged away payment.
For me though it was a moment of spiritual joy, brought about by the two-pronged catalyst of an insensitive guest, (see diary entry of August 23rd), and Alex’s gentle advice that I couldn’t do the book tour looking like a muffined slob. So on March 15th. I gave up alcohol, wheat, dairy and caffeine and started eating a lot of everything else, coupled with three days a week at the gym.
The result is five inches off the waist, which may not sound much on paper but to me reflects a daily triumph of the will. (You work out the weight loss as I never weigh).
The problem of growing sideways has lived with me since my mother told school bullies that I wasn’t fat but big-boned, with the subsequent fuller figure blamed on genetics, cheap mirrors or bad tailors.
It’s not resolved of course, it never will be – ‘my name is Clive and I’m addicted to buttered crumpets’ – but when friends ask if this will be a lifetime’s regime I tell them six months without the aforementioned is a lifetime.