The story of the shirt

There's a shirt hanging in my spare room that I've never worn.  It's a very nice shirt; one that I think is classed a 'going-out' shirt, in that you wouldn't wear it for the day-to-day office grind.

Not that I actually do much grinding at the office, but you get the drift.

It's Italian cloth, blue and gold in colour.  It's a good shirt.  And yet I've never worn it.  The problem?  It's a little too small for me, if I'm honest. There is more than a little gaping around the midriff.  It's not a good look.

It was a present.  So why didn't I just take it back?

I received it on Christmas 2008, from my Mom and Dad.  Those of you who know me will probably be aware that we lost Dad unexpectedly three days later.  It was the last present I ever received that came from both of them.

And so here I am with a shirt that doesn't fit.  But that's not the shirt's problem - it's mine. 

In a roundabout way, this is me announcing that I'm trying to do something positive about my size.  I started this blog, some 450-odd posts ago, to record a weight-loss attempt.  After a few posts I realised that endless blathering about diets and pictures of scales weren't going to win me any Booker Prizes, which is why there's been rather more talking animals and rampant moth attack-related posts since then. 

Fear not, dear reader, I'm not about to assail you with healthy recipes and exercise tips.  There are much better places to go for those.  (Although there's a lovely curried carrot and cumin soup Katie made last week that, oh, never mind).  But I thought it might be worth mentioning.  It'll crop up from time to time.

After all, I'd like to be healthy.  I'd like to be able to move around more comfortably.  I'd like to live long into retirement.  I'd like those people who just see a jolly fat bloke to take me a bit more seriously.

And I'd quite like to wear the last shirt my parents gave me.