Daft Old Duffer returns. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
I don’t do much in the way of exercise these days. Even my walking regime is petering out somewhat.
After all, at my advanced age I reckon I’ve done my share of swingin’ and haulin’ and totin’.
On the other hand I’m quite militant over my diet. For me, caffs boasting all-day breakfasts are residences of Beelzebub, and I am so lacking in chocolate I actually dreamed a few nights since of me eating a Mars Bar.
That was it. My entire dream consisted of me consuming a Mars Bar.
Sporting a reasonable body shape
As a result, for my years I have what I consider a reasonable body shape. Somewhat better at any rate than many possessed by men twenty years my junior.
Except for my tum.
It’s not a floppy tum. Not a spill over my belt sort of tum.
In fact it’s quite solid and elastic. Quite poke proof and maybe a bit punch proof – though I wouldn’t care to put that to the test.
Yet it worries me deep in my vanity. I don’t expect a six pack. But after all my efforts a double pack shouldn’t be too much to ask.
A rugby hangover?
I’ve tried putting it down to a residue of belly muscles developed during my rugby playing days, plus my time swinging 28lb hammers in ship’s engine rooms.
Yet I remain unconvinced. I wasn’t a grunting forward, more a lean sprint for the line centre back. And neither period lasted all that long anyway, to be honest.
So I was inclined to fret about it. To stand before my full length mirror, pre-dressing, and scowl.
The wonder of Wonderpedia
Until yesterday. When an article in the Wonderpedia magazine (that wonderful, wonderful Wonderpedia Magazine) explained that it was all down to my brilliant intelligence.
It seems, if I may paraphrase somewhat, that my brain, your brain, everybody’s brain needs a constant supply of that carbohydrate and glucose stuff if it’s to perform properly, and that to ensure a reliable supply at all times, it stores an ample stock in our bellies.
And the brainier we are, the larger our tum store. Obviously.
That’s got to be worth a sausage sarny.
