Feast your eyes on that object. Revolting isn’t it? It’s a running shoe, a trainer, a glorified plimsoll; and it’s depressingly similar to the first pair I’ve bought since legging it from school in 1990.

Back in those days, I was a slender sort of fellow. No doubt, some of the men who taught me would claim the credit for my lissomness, praising themselves for forcing me out on the sports field every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, and into the gym a further two times each week. And whilst I’d agree that I wasn’t exactly made fat by getting my gonads yanked out in the rugby scrum, swimming outdoors in near-freezing temperatures or inventing new ways to skive fencing, I’d argue that what kept me slimmest was smoking a packet of fags each day and not bothering to eat a great deal.

Certainly, I didn’t do a massive amount of exercise after leaving school. Sure, during my time at university, I spent one summer working as a forester, and another as a roadsweeper; but the additional income simply allowed me to buy more beer in the evening to replace the extra calories I burned during the day. Other than that, I spent my life walking at a leisurely pace from my room or flat to the library, tutorials or the pub.

And despite the fact that no-one had made me run round the grounds of an educational establishment since before my GCSEs, I left university slim enough to ponce and pose for the graduation photos - as you can see from this pic of me tarting about with a cigarette only minutes after some fat bloke had hit me over the head with John Knox’s cap and I’d given my gown and hood back to the cheerless people who had hired it to me.

A year and half later I was married, and whilst I put on a few pounds to better insulate myself from the world, I was hardly fat. Indeed, I remained fairly slim until two-and-a-half years ago when, after an impulsive and hungover decision, I stopped smoking.

It was a good decision. My lungs cleared and I coughed up some interesting exhibits, some fossilized. All would have been well had I not spent the fiver I saved on fags on chilli bhajias, lamb curries and pilau rice, plus a few extra quids on Murree Beer.

I like curries, but they do kickstart my appetite and inspire me to cook equally tasty and calorie laden food. That’s why, by last summer, my six foot frame was supporting a round 16 stones of flesh, up from a streamlined ten-and-a-quarter in 1998.

I’m now about 15-and-a-half, and I have decided that I’d rather not head in the direction which insists that your trousers are stitched together by sailmakers. So, with a heavy heart (no doubt made heavier by a good layer of fat), I last week ordered a pair of the revoltingly inelegant running shoes pictured above, a pair of shorts and - horror - some running socks.

So now, every couple of days or so, you can find me at the top of the hill in my local park, preparing to throw myself down it like a boulder. I have a little bottle of watered-down juice in one hand and an mp3-player-cum-phone-cum-stopwatch in the other (on which I listen to Shane MacGowan’s drinking songs to help egg me on). Then I run for a minute, walk for ninety seconds and repeat the whole operation eight times. Next week I’ll be running for two minutes and then walking for a minute, repeating that seven times over.

It’s not enormous fun, but I’m forced to admit I’m feeling better already. I’m even, sneakily, beginning to look forward to it. And the funny thing is, whilst my appetite is keener, it’s far less constant.

If I keep it up, I may even be able to once more fit into that suit in the photo above. It’s just a shame some greedy moth has since eaten a hole through the jacket.

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