“Pop onto the scales”, said the nurse. And that’s when it happened. The pointer didn’t stop where should have, where it has remained rigid for the past eight years of my life – it carried on going. It carried on past the number that I’ve been comfortable with for all of my adult life.

“Looks like you’ve put on weight.” No shit Sherlock. Half a stone to be precise. This left me confuded – I’m exercising more than I ever have in my life, and more than most people I know. I’ve spent the past year telling people that I’m upping my Kitkat quota so that I don’t lose weight – after all, that’s what exercise does to you right? Makes you lose weight.

The second thing that puzzled me was that all my clothes still fit – notably my skinny jeans still accomodate my allegedly expanding ass. I’m not sure what half a stone looks like, but I’m sure I would have noticed this.

I put it to the nurse – are you sure your scales are correct? Her suggestion: “It might be muscle”. That would make sense – I probably need more muscles in order to run a marathon but half a stone worth? I don’t need to look like the Hulk (of either Hogan or Incredible variety).

I’ve just about got over the shock but am now left living in fear – the slightest flex of my leg or tensing of my buttock and I could burst through the seams of my skinny jeans and find myself in the midst of the 2009 Miss Universe competition.