I will be 50 in a few months and like many middle-aged men I have started to worry about the declining state of my body. For most of my adult life, I have been in pretty good shape, looking trim in a suit and able to comfortably jog a few miles around the local park.
Despite being greedy, I have always managed to just about burn off all the ice cream and glasses of rosé. But over the last couple of years, the jogs have got a bit shorter — with me blaming a persistently bad back — and the calories have not reduced.
A few months ago, I stepped on to the scales and discovered I had gone over 12 st (76 kg). Then my 16-year-old daughter, Celia, called me ‘chubby’. This was at the dinner table as she tried to shame me as I picked off her plate. My wife did not demur.
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