Since I packed in smoking 2 years ago I’ve been notching up the pounds, 20 of them and rising according to the machine at Boots.  I don’t own a set of scales. I’d go mad if I did. Aside from the fact that my backside will soon require its own postcode, my major problem now is my uniform.

I love my chauffeur suit I really do. It’s the perfect shade of grey, it’s just the right cut, the right style and it took me a long time to find.  When I bought it, I made sure it was roomy enough for comfort. I have to do a lot of crouching and bending you know and general jiving about.

Unfortunately over the last year I’ve taken up the slack and the buttons on my jacket are entering Bob Fossil territory and I’m finding it hard to breathe.

Any day now I might bend over to tend to a brides dress and split my trousers from seam to seam. I’m good with a needle and thread but I don’t think the wedding party would be too impressed with me sitting there stitching my keks back together.

Imagine the review… ‘Great service, shame we all got mooned’

I’m doing my best to stave it off and although my will power is pretty good when I do a diet, after a 3 hour wedding,  I’m sometimes faced with leftover chocolates, pick and mix, cupcakes or whatever treats the bride and groom asked for. So here’s an appeal to my newlyweds…Make sure that you finish off the chocolates, the champagne, the liquorice allsorts or the parma violets, especially the parma violets. Please…Don’t Feed the Chauffeur.