Baby body

I well remember the day my self-image fell apart. As I walked on to the beach for a swim, one of my friends called out, a little shocked and, I reckon, a little too triumphantly, 'Look out, here comes baby body'.

The group laughter was loud, lusty and, frankly, went on a bit long. I immediately turned crimson, rearranged a towel over my paunch and walked into the ocean to swim to Tonga.

Despite energetically embracing the pleasures of young adult life, I believed I was blessed with the physique of the sportsman I possibly had been.

Obnoxiously pleased with myself, I had failed to notice the ample contrary physical evidence.

After several days deep reflection on the changes inflicted upon my body by my embrace of a sedentary and sybaritic lifestyle, I decided what I was going to do about it.

Absolutely nothing.

Thirty years later, though I make occasional concessions to common sense, I remain committed to a life of consumption.

Perhaps I consume to fill a moral vacuum, to distract myself from personal failure or to assuage my bitter guilt at the cruelties I’ve inflicted upon others.

Then again, perhaps I consume because I adore cheese, Tokay, grass fed steak, scallops, wood fired Peking duck, mushrooms, snapper, eggs, cream, brioche, Riesling, any sausage, the wines of Burgundy and Alsace, smoked haddock, sauerkraut, sashimi, dumplings from gyoza to Shanghai, cassoulet, onion tart, beer, oysters, salt beef, pickles, biryani, labna, holy basil, mango, tomato and soft shell crab.

Never have I had to struggle with my weight - I’ve simply refused to step into the ring with it. After all, have you seen the size of that bloke?

I’ve got a big head (figuratively and literally), so a big stomach doesn’t bother me. (Repeat x 10 each night before bed)

What does bother me is that my shirt keeps coming untucked.

What bothers me is that once my waistband overcomes the friction at my belly’s apex, it slips to the floor as swiftly and silkily as an oyster down a throat.

What really bothers me is that when I bend to do up the Velcro straps of my comfortable shoes I emit a silly involuntary whistle and turn puce.

I’ve had some positive feedback.

A woman I know seems to quite like my tummy.

As they say it’s as big as a whole other person, some children of my acquaintance have assigned it a name and personality. When they see me, they give Angus a pat and ask him how he is. They profess affection for him.

As I see those vital people flogging around the park or punching their trainer’s hands, I realise I’ll never be like them.

They’ve buns of steel and abs of iron. I’ve the body of a reader.

Though John Cheever wrote of a man who can’t decide at what arbitrary point to locate his belt line and, in Quintets for Robert Morley, Les Murray (not a small chap) has written with his usual grace and wit about the fat, it’s not literature but journalism that’s given me most heart.

The apparently brilliant, astute and talented Tobsha Learner (she of exceptional taste) claims in the Times that not only are fattypuffs funnier, more modest, cleverer and better company than thinifers, we are better in the clinch as well!

I knew I was gifted in all those departments but had never attributed it to my gut.

OK, the article is really a love letter to her boyfriend, but it makes a compelling and serious point which I will be happy to confirm with any single and attractive young women* who care to volunteer.

* No porkers, thanks all the same.