Well, I’ve finally taken the plunge and joined a slimming group. I just wish I’d taken a pen and paper along as every joyous moment was worth recording. Even my own ghastly weight wasn’t quite as bad as I’d anticipated. Mind you, I did strip down as comprehensively as decent. ‘You don’t need to take your socks off’, says the weigh-in woman, observing a heap of me struggling to reach my flipper feet. ‘I’m not, the sock came off with my boot’. She looks unimpressed.

I don’t want to identify the group or its whereabouts as I’ve just parted with my email address. Also, I don’t want to be cruel as I’m not here because I’m a super-model. However, I couldn’t help but remark to my new friend, Max, that the group leader wasn’t exactly inspiring in appearance: stomach bursting through lower buttons and apparently with some breathing difficulties. Max has been before. Actually, Max has been on every known diet. Several times. This means he can instruct me on how to proceed with my new regime because he’s the font of all dietary knowledge. ‘How come you fell off the wagon, then?’ I ask. ‘I got married’, he replies as if this will explain all.

I’m the only genuine newbie – the others are re-joiners and that doesn’t bode well either. The leader fairly rattles through the literature, of which there’s so much I’ll be six pounds heavier when I leave. After this, we line up to pay our dues and be weighed. Max is ahead of me and stocks up on a selection of chocolate goodies. Perhaps they’re a gift for his new, fat-inducing wife.

Then we get to my favourite bit where we all sit in a circle and applaud the stalwarts for no good reason. Louise has gained half a pound. Louise winces on public announcement of this disaster and there’s a collective sigh of sorrow. ‘So Louise, why do you think this has happened?’ There’s a palpable hush in the room as we wait for her explanation. ‘Well’, she answers sadly, ‘it’s just taken me so long to get rid of all the Christmas stuff’. The older ladies nod knowingly. ‘How much do you think you’ll have lost next week Louise?’ ‘Oh, definitely three pounds’, she replies ambitiously. The leader, obviously still munching their way through a surfeit of mince pies, slaps their thigh and this is a sign that we must all applaud Louise’s resilience.

‘Lisa, you have maintained’. I don’t understand why ‘maintaining’ is bad news. I mean, she hasn’t increased, but her ordeal continues: ‘what do you put this ‘maintenance’ down to?’ continues the agent of the Spanish Inquisition as she was laid out on the rack. ‘Well’, she explains, ‘last week I had to work in London which meant I had to do an unexpected walk’. Lisa is redeemed: by virtue of the fact that she had to leave Dorset and venture to the city, she deserves a well-justified round of applause. Poor Lisa.

As she’s sitting next to me, I lean over and ask why a decent walk is detrimental. Apparently, walking is unacceptable because your body stores water, thereby weight. ‘I’ve never heard that before’, I tell her. ‘I walk a lot’. ‘Oh yes’, the unhappy lady replies, ‘walking isn’t good for you’. Hmm. Things aren’t looking too good for yours truly.

As I leave, having asked more questions than anyone else has before, the leader comes over and says, in a manner that makes me disbelieve them, ‘it was really good to meet you, Alison’. Mmm. Doesn’t know I write everything down. Anyway, I made a Tartiflette earlier which looks exactly like this picture. Going to have a couple of glasses of the red stuff beforehand. I’ll start the hard work tomorrow.