Moment of Truth for Bapman

The appointment sat in my diary like a pool of rancid milk in the bottom of the fridge. It had to be dealt with, but the thought made me feel sick. 

I’d cancelled twice already, claiming a busy schedule. Now the insurers were insistent: my policy was up for renewal, and they needed me in London for a medical, presumably to check I wasn’t going to die on them. 

“Bring a towel and loose clothes, and don’t eat for two hours beforehand,” the letter said. 

That meant one thing: the dreaded treadmill. They fix electrodes to your chest, switch the machine to racing mode, and you run till you drop. 

When I found out about it two months ago, I resolved to immediately get slim – which for me is quite ludicrous. A bit like putting a pint of oil in the car just before its annual service. You can’t disguise years of excess with a few bottles of Activia and a jog.