AN IRISHMAN'S DIET: It's week two in the battle of the bulge for our overweight Irishman, but can he survive the mid-morning hunger pangs?
The voices in my head start a dialogue. It's official: "two-thirds of men in Ireland are overweight and 44 per cent are in denial", according to the Irish Cancer Society.
So that's it, I'm on a diet, all 18 stone of me.
I am prepared to do what needs to be done to shed the belly, the extra chins and the tightness around the crotch.
Breakfast comes and goes without a problem. But then again, the old get-up-fill-up in the morning has never been a problem.
Not a lover of porridge, years ago I devised a breakfast cereal for oat lovers who hate that horrible grunge that is either too lumpy or too watery.
I prepare three spoonfuls of oats, a sprinkle of pumpkin, sunflower, hemp and linseed seeds, walnuts, prunes and a kiwi or half a pear and a pour-over of yoghurt in a bowl and eat away.
No, the problems tend to kick in mid-morning when the breakfast, although quite filling, starts to ask one or two questions of the senses.
Yes, you know, it's good for you. Yes, you know, it should do you through to lunchtime. And yes, if you're going to lose weight you have to persevere.
But, God damn it, I need something to eat. So what do I do?
The psychology of this conundrum comes down to the weighing scales of conveniency.
Initially, you scour the office, fridge, under the bed, garden or children's sweet box for a magic panacea that doesn't look like it's high in fat or has carbohydrates emblazoned on the wrapper.
Ideally, you're looking for something with a bit of umph, that's been through some rigorous SAS-style boot camp and tastes like heaven and will make you look and feel slimmer.
By the time you realise such items don't exist, your mind is alive with a UN resolution permitting interventionist action with complete plenipotentiary powers that will allow the self one grilled sausage followed by one chocolate biscuit - provided the self goes for a three-mile jog afterwards.
Deal, you shout. I'm on for that. Come on vote. I said I'd do it.
But before all the votes are counted, the grill is on with four sausages and you've already eaten three chocolate biscuits while you're waiting.
Bang - the diet is in freefall.
Afterwards, you're going to go for the mother of all runs. You're going to sweat like you've never sweated before and your body, wife, dog, cat, kids and the whole United Nations are going to be proud of you.
You're going to be so good that no one's going to recognise the muscular toned superman who's just stepped out of his Trojan horse.
Two hours later, you've had lunch: big salad with wicked dressing, chicken wings, extra chips and half a bottle of house wine.
You make your way back to work, full, annoyed with yourself and angry that you couldn't say no.
You refuse to make eye contact with mirrors or reflections in shop windows. You hope you meet no one you know.
You're ashamed that you've eaten like a pig and all you have to show for it is a heavy countenance and even heavier stomach.
A voice in your head mentions the UN resolution. Your broken promises, your diet, your desire to lose weight and the early evening run? You try to ignore them, doesn't everybody?
You rationalise your behaviour - I've done it, I'm ashamed of it and I won't do it again.
Half way through the day, the diet is over.
Later that evening, you've plans to go out. The clothes issue kicks in. What do I wear?
Shaving, your face looks back out from the mirror, podgy with another day's dinner or pig-out. You blame the chips, the chicken wings, the salad.
A wash later, you stand by the mirror and you've nothing that fits you.
The one pair of trousers you wear on social occasions is tight and your belly lurches over the belt like a side-shoot on a herb pot. You have a verbal with your wife. Yes, of course, you want to go out, but you plead you have nothing to wear.
Plans to reduce are once again put in train. Diet to start tomorrow, Wednesday, 8am.
But it doesn't. It's the middle of the week and too close to the weekend to begin anything. By the weekend, you've had more chips, a take-away or two and lots of different bars of chocolate.
By Sunday evening you're back in the cycle of the big planner. It's all been one big mistake. But you're sorry, and you're going to address it.
Next week, I'll go get help and say hello to the professional fat-busters.