The start of apathetic middle-aged spread...

As I'm sat at my desk, eating fried rice for lunch, suddenly I catch the irony of the image as I'm flipping through a Men's Health magazine. Ever since I hit 30, I've been resolute in getting back into shape. The only thing is that my willpower has yet to catch up with me.

After a 3 month gym binge earlier this year before attending my parents wedding, I was struck with the realisation that my metabolism is slowing down, and my 23 year old assistant sitting next to me does nothing to help my effort in portion control, as he wolfs down his body weight in pasta, sausages and anything that if I glanced at, would immediately pile itself onto my hips.

However, now, I have a new resolve to go: This morning while bending over to put on my shoes, I actually wheezed a little. This has been alarming, and the secret hypochondriac in me has suddenly popped up, with silent-film images of myself dying in fairly graphic detail in a myriad of ways related to gluttony while on my way into work on the tram: Death by foie gras. The anxiety must have shown on my face because my secretary kindly offered me some Xanax that she was taking for her pre-flight nerves.

Also, an added incentive to going to the gym from today onwards, is the thought of the upcoming trip to Jordan and the Dead Sea. I'm hoping that I won't be mistaken for a dugong with the paunch, and be harpooned.