"THESE scales are jiggered," said the Other Half. "It's time to chuck them on the skip."

Needless to say, they show he weighs half a stone more than he believes he does.

Mind you, I agree with what he says. I've moved those scales into three different rooms in my efforts to get the correct reading, but no - they always say I weigh a good 7lb more than I expect. (Naturally, if they said we weighed 7lb less than we thought we did, they would be functioning perfectly) I could always get myself weighed when I'm out and about, but you know what it's like. All those outdoor clothes put pounds on, you get another false reading and you end up feeling depressed.

Anyway, it's obvious to me that the Other Half has lost weight, not gained it. He's been on a sack-cloth and ashes regime for more than a fortnight since coming back from a lads' snowboarding trip.

The fact that he was probably burning calories by the bucket-load doesn't count, apparently, because he was also eating pasta and pizza and he might even have had the odd beer.

So he feels he has to atone, and it's rice cakes and sit-ups for at least the next month.

He looks just fine to me (in fact, a man half his age would be delighted to be half as fit) but to tell him that is to discourage him. He feels he has to do these things from time to time, so can't I just let him get on with it? And why aren't I cheering from the rafters because it seems to be working for him?

Could it be that I need to be getting on the bandwagon myself?

Another birthday has just gone by and for yet another year my dress size has remained stubbornly a size larger than I would like it to be.

Half a stone comes off, half a stone goes back on and the progress is so disheartening that only a large bar of Green & Blacks can take away the pain.

What is more, we are planning a summer trip to Switzerland this year, which means a spell of proper tough walking is a matter of weeks away. I won't be a very happy wanderer unless I get myself into shape.

I mentally gee myself up to join him in his fitness regime, but no sooner have I dusted down the cross-trainers than he spoils it all by suggesting I accompany him to the gym - the very thing I was about to do of my own free will.

And then, of course, I won't do it. It's not that I am contrary and cantankerous; far from it. It's more that he might be suggesting I could do to lose some weight, and it's my job to tell myself that, not his.

There seemed no way out of this dilemma, until yesterday when I saw that it was Shrove Tuesday.

By the time you read this, Lent will have got under way and I will have the perfect reason to get going without having been told to do so.

Darling, if you read this, I'll see you by the recumbent bikes.