Years ago when I was a student at university – 1992/93 to be precise – I was a superfit, athletic type who sped around on my bike at thirty miles per hour, swam lengths every morning, sweated it out in the gym every afternoon, and lived on nothing but chicken and broccoli. Aeons have passed since that time, and nowadays I sit around on my lardy arse, too lazy even to change the channel on the TV, yet I still haven’t quite left that image of myself behind. I like to think that hidden below my numerous belly tyres is a six-pack of muscle; that buns of steel are working away beneath my blancmange buttocks; that I could run a marathon at the drop of a hat if I so desired... but I can fool myself no longer, unfortunately. I decided to walk into town at lunchtime in order to jolt a few calories out of my body, a round trip of approximately an hour. Phroo, I was totally knackered! When I arrived back at work I slumped into my chair and opened my packed lunch, and I could barely, tremblingly, lift my fork to eat my incredibly delicious edamame beans with coriander dressing...