Indulged Youngest said it first. “Daddy’s getting fat,” he exclaimed with unconcealed glee as I shaved one morning, unaware that my burgeoning belly was spilling attractively over my towel – not so much a muffin-top as a full-fat jam roly-poly.
Now the triumvirate of sons – Budding Teenager (aged 12), Challenging Middle (9) and aforementioned Indulged seven-year-old – have ganged up to mock my recently rotund form.
It’s not surprising, because I now pretty much eat for a living. But despite that, it somehow still is to me. I’m 39, but in common with everyone else of my era (and possibly ever) I still think I’m 29, or even 19 on occasion. Back then I really could eat as much as I wanted, which was generally a lot, and still remain reasonably svelte.
As a sometime style journalist, I also used to have access to well-tailored Savile Row suits at generous discounts. Now I’m the editor of Restaurant magazine (I can feel those waves of sympathy flooding my way…), so instead of writing about swanky clothes I burst out of them instead in swanky restaurants. The once-sharp tailoring can only hide a multitude of three-course sins for so long. Once you factor in the compulsory 12-course tasting menus – all for professional purposes, you understand – the suits cut for my figure of five years ago, well, just don’t cut it any more.
In between eating and drinking for a living, I play adoring husband and doting/grumpy/silly/shouty father in the badlands of rural Kent. Food – buying it, cooking it, eating it, not eating it, what to eat, where to eat it, how to eat it – seems to play a central role in our family. This blog will chart some of our food-related family challenges, escapades and issues, as well as my personal efforts to do my job without turning into one of those half-tonne human whales that can never actually leave the house because their skin is welded to the bed sheets. There might even be the odd restaurant recommendation thrown in too.
Daddy’s getting fat, but he’s sure going to have fun doing it. Do come join me.