I’ve put on a terrible amount of weight over the Christmas.
God knows how it happened, but the pounds have certainly piled on. In all the wrong places, I might add.
While out with a pal the other night, over a few pints, I pointed out that the old waist line was no longer the envy of the parish.
“But you were never what you might call scrawny in the first place,” says he, leading me to almost choke on my drink, with shock at his brazenness.
How dare he say such a thing, and we only after polishing off a large double cheese and mushroom pizza together, to lay the foundation for the pints.
But insolence aside, there’s no denying the circumference has increased dramatically.
I now stand (or sit, for ’tis the same thing at the end of the day) at a staggering 15 stone. And there is no getting round it.
The following day, while digging into the last of the Christmas pudding, my weighty concerns were firmly on my mind. As I spooned in the pudding, I discussed my mystery weight gain with my missus.
“What’s caused the increase?” I asked, before scooping in more fresh cream to polish off the bowl.
“It’s a mystery to me alright,” says she, “you’ve ballooned like an old baboon. But you have been sitting there like an old sow gorging non-stop since Christmas appeared on the horizon, that could have something to do with it.”
“It’s a mystery alright,” says I, as soon as my mouth was empty.
“And what exercise have you been doing lately?” she then asked, pondering the matter further.
Sitting there by the fire watching them old Stallone movies will have you as fat as a fool in no time
She was right. For I had been sitting around watching my Stallone movies ’til the cows come home.
The reason that there is too much of me around at the moment, is because I haven’t been making myself scarce.
This time last year, I was up to my armpits in calf scour, milk replacer and hardship. The spring of 2018, and dealing with a herdeen of calves, while certainly adding a few grey hairs to my head, had knocked pounds off my person.
It was better than any gymnasium or fitness instructor.
Show me a fat man who rears calves, and I’ll show you a fat man who doesn’t. Calf rearing would make my pants fit once again.
But alas, the losses suffered in 2018 were not confined to my belly. Once the calves, the co-op, the vet, the mart, the chemist, the miller, and the gas dehorner were paid for, I quickly discovered that there was precious little left for poor Denny.
And so I vowed, after last year, to avoid the four-legged creatures, the way Meghan Markle avoids her father
But now, because I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, I may have to rethink my abandonment of the calf.
I may have to return to the ring, having sworn I’d retire.
Like Rocky in them old movies, and he overweight, overage, bedraggled and bamboozled, I may once again have to don the gear, talk gibberish, and smack myself in the face, before getting back to doing what I do best.
The calf, while he might be a loss maker, could well provide me with the kind of loss I so badly need.
Calves here I come.
Once more into the fray.