This Friday I shall be in my prime. Hmmm. The Prime of Mr Cromercrox Of Cromer. That is to say, I shall be 47, which is a prime number. QED. But far from espousing hopless fascist causes – or, at any rate, any more hopeless fascist causes than those to which I already subscribe, which consists of a devotion to the writings of Mr Boris Johnson, whom history will show to have been the greatest statesman of this or any other age – I have decided that from my mighty frame a smaller man is struggling to be released.
So, about two weeks ago, I weighed myself on Mrs Cromercrox’s special Weight-Watcher’s Scales and found I weighed 19st 12lbs, or 126 kilos in old money.
I then instituted a diet which consist of avoiding snacks in between meals, and adding lots more fruit and vegetables to my diet. Given that exercise regimes any more formal than walking Canis cromercroxorum are, in my opinion, for the smug, the deluded or the certifiably insane, I don’t plan to gad around in a yellow lycra mankini gym suit with matching sweatband and a weight in each hand. Diet is the way it’s gonna be.
I’ve now stuck to this regime for two weeks, and have actually lost weight. I appear be down to 19s 7lbs, or 124 kilos. But there’s a catch – the day after I recorded this measurement on Mrs Cromercrox’s scales, the same device optimistically and repeatedly said I was 18st 3lbs. Despite the fact that the marked increase in fibre intake has resulted in a net contribution to the greenhouse effect, I didn’t think I could have had lost that much weight in 24 hours.
That’s when drastic mensuration was called for.
Yesterday I took the junior Cromercroxae to a local swimming pool, where I had the chance to weigh myself on a good old-fashioned weighing machine. You know, the sort with a footplate and a huge dial at eye level.
I stood on the footplate and put my 20p in the slot. Through the glass I could see reassuringly robust steel counterweights (none of yer digital malarkey here) slide smoothly into action, taking up the sudden load. The dial swung round, clockwise from zero, in a dreadful and incriminating arc of doom, almost a full circle – pointing soundly and surely at 19st 7lbs. At least it didn’t go all the way round, or speak to me in starchy tones, saying things like
No coach parties
One at a time, please
or (because I was dripping wet and in my trunks)
So now I know where I stand. No, not dripping wet in my trunks, but at least I have a decent baseline. My target is to lose 20 kg by Christmas – the weight of a standard sack of chicken feed. I know how heavy these are to heft, so it’s no surprise that I feel tired and my knees are knackered, if I am carting that extra tonnage around with me all the time. So by the time Santa hoves into view I should be down to a svelte 104 kilos or about 16 st 5lbs.
Help! Help! Call the Sea Mammal Research Unit!
There. I’ve said it. Your task, dear reader, is to hold me to this, and stop sending me bacon sandwiches in the mail. The postman hates this, anyway, especially when the grease starts dribbling out through the corners.