The scales must be faulty, I'm sure of it, but if they're not then I've just had a hefty reminder that all is not well with my body and I need to do something about it before it's too late.
I fight a constant battle with my weight these days and I'm increasingly on the losing side.
It's like a tug-o-war with my self control and determination on one end of the rope, and the other end being clutched tightly by beer, biscuits, cheesecake, chocolate, and anything else I have clasped in my arms as I emerge from Tesco in readiness for the standard Friday night slob-out.
It really isn't fair. Twenty years ago my stomach was completely flat and no amount of Jaffa Cake binging made the slightest difference. Fast forward to present day and the dreaded middle age spread is taking hold.
No longer can I indulge in regular pig-outs on stuff that I know I really shouldn't be eating but can't help myself.
No longer is an entire Chicago Town stuffed crust pepperoni pizza with chips, followed by a family size bar of Galaxy chocolate and a bag of Doritos a viable alternative to a plate of chicken and roast vegetables.
The time has gone when I can indulge in an unhealthy blow-out with no fear of reprisal from my body. Although I'm very keen on alcohol, these days I have to give very careful consideration to whether or not a second pint is a good idea, and I recognise when my body is telling me to forget the steak and have a good serving of root vegetables instead.
Yet still I try to rebel against everything I know about healthy eating by munching through yet another packet of Custard Creams washed down with an extra-large vodka and orange juice whilst slouched on the sofa watching a film. I know it's wrong, and stepping on the scales last night proved the point as at 11stone 9lb I'm currently the heaviest I've ever been. I've always been careful to keep myself around the middle of the recommended BMI scale and until now I've been reasonably successful. My current situation puts me right at the top end of the recommended BMI, which in rough numbers means that I'm 128 Jaffa Cakes away from officially being a fat bastard, and that is unacceptable to me.
Granted, the BMI scale is a flawed measure as the average rugby player or body builder would testify, but for an ordinary bloke such as myself it's not too far wide of the mark and I feel like I'm on the cusp of being heavier than I'm comfortable with. Indeed, the warning signs have been there for a while, like finding the waist band of my underpants being folded over by the increasing pressure from the belly, and the last pair of jeans I bought having to be a 34 inch waist rather than the 32 inch I've been used to for so many years.
I know what has to be done. Portion control, and no lapses into the junk-food zone including snacks between meals. In the past I've been able to shed a surplus few pounds within a week by pretty much starving myself which isn't a healthy way to approach the problem but it did get the job done. I'm now banned from this approach as being hungry makes me extraordinarily grumpy and generally unpleasant to be around. So a longer term plan is now required which means an end to the biscuit orgies and not having a beer every night when I get home from work. It's gonna be difficult, especially as there's a new tub of Carte D'Or caramel ice cream in the freezer with my name on it....