Busy recuperating from a short break on the Yorkshire coast, I hopped on the scales this morning… literally. The ankle is still playing up and all I can do is hop.
I’ve put about five pounds on over the last week. Honestly, you have one pint and that’s what it does to you.
I’ve never been politically correct, so I avoid softly-softly descriptions like ‘rotund’ or ‘portly’ or even ‘circumferentially challenged’. ‘Obese’ is too clinical for my liking, so I stick to the plain and simple.
I am fat.
And I’m fat because by and large, I’m bone idle, and I’m bone idle because I have a great excuse for being bone idle: I suffer from arthritis. I’ve also got a manky ankle. And I suffer COPD, which means I can’t get my breath like the rest of you so running marathons is out.
And basically, it is a lack of exercise. I don’t overeat. The missus is the glutton in our house. Between her and the dog it’s a question of who can move fastest when there’s a meat pie for the taking, and the dog doesn’t always win.
She’s also a diet junkie. She’s tried every diet under the bloody sun, and they work for a time. Then she piles it back on again and she has to try another diet to take it off again, and then she piles it back on…
I do try to exercise. You try carrying a 24-pack of John Smith’s bitter from the car into the house and you’ll see what I mean.
But to be fair to myself, I do make the effort, as the following video will demonstrate.
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