"I DIDN'T know you worked out,” my boss said, raising an eyebrow as we returned from reviewing a restaurant and eating the obligatory three courses.

And then he laughed, as if the idea was utterly ridiculous and he’d found my Achilles heel.

I suppose it was a back-handed compliment that he thought I could eat like this several times a week and not have to worry. But sadly, along with the rest of the human race, to eat the amount of calories I consume in a week, you’ve got to get down and dirty in the gym.

Except that I hate gyms, full of sweaty men staring at themselves – and you – in mirrors as they lift weights, as if you’re supposed to be impressed. I know they are a hotbed for meeting people but who wants to be introduced in sweaty lycra, without any make-up on?

It’s not something I’ve ever understood. As for those couples who jog together, don’t go there girlfriend!

So I jog alone. It’s much less sociable, you can set your own pace, and the kids can’t come with you. It’s the ultimate freedom and, winding down the towpath where I live, it’s the best way to lose a few pounds while enjoying the Oxfordshire countryside.

That is until it starts raining. And, lo and behold, my waistband starts expanding at a rate Dawn French would be proud of. Because I’m not about to tramp about in the mud, hail and floods, am I?

However, come a quick burst of sunshine and I’m out there making up for lost time. Except now I can’t, because everything is waterlogged and I’d have to swim home.

Then throw in a weekend in Blackpool where only carbohydrates, sugar and fat are consumed in vast quantities and a vitamin is as rare as the sunshine.

All day, every day, ice cream, candy-floss, sticks of rock, burgers, chips, fizzy drinks, sweets and doughnuts are continually pushed in your face until you eventually weaken and consume all-and-sundry and your insides start arresting.

I now know how Morgan Spurlock felt in the film Supersize Me.

But try as hard as you may, finding healthy food in Blackpool is akin to discovering Posh Spice in Burger King chowing down on a Whopper, and eventually you just have to give in and go native. The natives are unsurprisingly quite large, especially in the swimming pool on Sunday morning, making people watching as much of a spectacle as the Blackpool Tower.

I head back to Oxford, larger all round.

What do I do? Eat less? Lose my job? Get fat? Bah! And don’t start suggesting other forms of exercise. I can’t do chlorine and children’s urine. Don’t say zumba or tennis or anything smart and faddish. I have children and a TV to watch.

So while I grow fat inside, I’m praying to the rain gods to stop their water festival and take pity on us fair weather runners.

In the meantime, all ideas gratefully received...