Kishore Singh: Battling the bulge

You can eat little, and then less, but eventually that isn't enough to keep the fat from clinging to the pelvic bones and birthing a belly that thinks and acts independently. It refuses to be sucked in when you hold your breath, and when your stylist tells the master-cutter to allow for an extra inch at the waist, it's time to acknowledge that you're really, actually every bit as obese as the weighing scale has been mocking you for. And perhaps all that subterfuge about long walks and cardio exercises needs to be translated into action if you're not to float away like a balloon, though there's enough weight to ensure that gravity, not hot air, will keep you grounded.

So, it was that I found myself among the sweating worthies who heave flesh early morning. If you live in an area where households empty out briefly at dawn in designer tracks and shoes, then the only thing to do to avoid being caught panting after lap one on the trail is to go jogging in the evening - when you're likely to shame discreet lovers who seem to populate the neighbourhood parks at this hour - or rise even earlier, which is how I found myself shushing the alarm at five in the morning. My daughter and I had a pact that we would together work out before the altar of svelte, but she was refusing to get up. Threats, appeals, appeasements, nothing seemed to work, she needed "five minutes more", so the sun was skimming the horizon when we set out of the gate.

This is what I did. Walked a bit, rested, strolled some more, sat down, walked again, panted out of breath... you get the picture. Here is what my daughter did. "I'm going to jog," she said, and did. She also did squats, skipped, stretched, picked up weights, and finished up with yoga. She was so tired, she ended up sleeping on the way to work, and when the aches and pains began, I had to send the driver to take her home, and she has refused to be my fitness companion ever since.

My son tried to lure me to his gym, but I'm through with malodorous places that smell of footwear and entitle illiterate instructors to boss you around. In the first few days, acquaintances tried to join me in my peregrinations but I'm not at my most sociable in the morning, and therefore lost any hope of friendship by snapping at them. I walked even when it rained -that's what umbrellas are for - and security watchmen were soon setting their watches by my arrival. It has been joyless, but I've abjured all morning sins - cuddling up with a thriller in bed, snatching a piece of leftover cheesecake from the fridge, sitting amidst plants in the balcony.

There's nothing noble about sweat, it's gross, and in this humid weather it's uncomfortable. It streams down my spectacles, causing me to bump into light poles and trees that mysteriously appear in the path. My calves no longer ache, they're just numb. There's a place in my side where I used to get a stitch that is a sea of pain. My doctor has convinced me that long distance walking won't dislocate my knees. My new walking companions are the street dogs, who solicitously pass me on from one feral gang to the next. A visit to the tailor is due; I hope he'll commend the effort it's taken to knock that offending inch off the waist.