This Operation Transformation is the bane of my life. I’ll keep at the diet and exercise for the duration of the programme, but I’m not sure about the long term. It’s too much effort, and life is short enough. There’s no doubt but the best things in the world are either illegal or fattening.

This programme operates like an army camp. We gather at the community hall at half six every Monday evening for confession and a weigh-in. Confession is a bit like going to the priest in the old days: you’re mainly confessing sins of the flesh – and all of us “leaders” have plenty of flesh to cause us trouble.

The first confessor is Nurse Moloney, a formidable woman. She’s in charge of everything dietary, takes our blood pressure and weighs us. The woman nearly fainted when she interviewed me at the beginning of the whole thing to establish what I eat.

I was honest, as I consider my diet to be normal for a man of my geographic location and vintage. The breakfast consists of a bowl of porridge or cornflakes, a boiled egg or two, a few slices of toast and a pot of tea. Of course, a full fry is had whenever the Mother is in the humour.

The dinner is eaten in the middle of the day, consisting of soup to start and a main course of spuds, meat and two veg. This is followed by dessert of jelly, custard or ice cream and maybe a combination of all three. The whole lot is washed down by a mug of tay and, on a good day, a slice of tart.

At four o’clock there’s more tay, a sticky bun or maybe a bit of fruitcake. The supper could include a boiled egg, a few cuts of bread, a couple of slices of Manus’s ham, a dollop of cold mash, a tomato or a pair of rashers. After that I might wander out and have a pint.

When Nurse Moloney had it typed up she handed it to me, saying: “This is a diet for a working man.”

“And what do you think I am?” says I.

“Well, whatever you’re at, your intake of energy far exceeds your output. That body of yours has enough fat stored to see you through a nuclear winter.”

“That could come in useful,” says I, “if Trump and the North Korean rocket man have a go at one another.”

She put me on a diet of vegetables, white meat and fish. She insists on foods that grow over the ground. When I asked if that included bullocks and pigs, she gave me a look that nearly shaved me.

“Peppers, cucumbers, lettuce and the like,” says she.

“Rabbit food and goat food,” says I.

“Even auld pucks like you might benefit from it,” says she. “Now it’s confession time for you, Councillor. So, tell me, besides the wonderful nutritious food I’ve prescribed for you, what have you been eating this last week? Give me the truth, I want to hear about everything: biscuits, chocolate bars, pints, even the odd greasy burger. Tell me all.”

I suppose most of what I told her was the truth, I admitted to the odd biscuit and the extra slice of toast, but I didn’t tell her about the apple tart the Mother made on Tuesday. Nell Regan, Lily Mac and herself ate half of it, and as soon as their backs were turned I ate the other half.

And then there was the chocolate I got at Manus’s, ’twas a great offer: three bars for the price of one. Sure, a fella couldn’t pass it up? I intended to eat one bar on the way home and save the other two for later, but the hunger got the better of me. By the time I got to the front gate I had the three of them devoured.

I went to the pub on Saturday night and was sitting there sipping away at a miserable glass of water when a pint appeared before me, compliments of Pa Quirke. Of course I had to buy back, and he bought again. Six pints later I left the hostelry, only to be assaulted by the sight and smell of Sticky Stakelum’s van. My knees went weak at the thought of a double burger and curry chip. I succumbed and washed it all down with a bottle of Coke.

Anyway, back to Nurse Moloney. After my sins of omission ’twas time to get on the scales where, to my great relief, I had lost weight: the sum total of eight ounces.

“That could mean you genuinely lost eight ounces – but it could also mean you have a lighter pair of socks on this week,” said Nurse Moloney.

Guilt got the better of me, “I’d say ’tis the socks,” says I. CL