Not that I want to be.
Or need to be.
OK, I may be a tad* over my fighting weight but I’m fairly comfortable with it.
No, the reason I am on a diet, is because Mrs Masher is on a diet. And, for some reason, when she is cooking herself a nice yummy plateful of boiled rice and celery, she refuses to do me sausage, egg and chips.
With fried bread.
And some more chips, please.
No, while she’s stuffing Ryvita sandwiches down her gullet, in a desperate attempt to get into last year’s jeans, I too am having to suffer tasteless meals that have fewer calories than a Weight Watchers pencil.
Of course, it won’t do me any harm to lose a couple of pounds. When I last checked myself against one of them BMI charts, it suggested that I was a bit short for my weight. I should actually be 7’9″.
* 1 tad = two stone