Without trying to be overly irreverent, I’m currently aiming not to die within the next decade.

This is a topic of discussion that tends to occur more frequently as we get older, and a series of recent events have propelled it into sharper focus.

The mental and physical health of farming families is a now familiar subject, but how much real importance we attach to it very much depends on your age profile.

In my 20s, my father would have regularly discussed the health and wellbeing of his relatives, friends and neighbours. I considered his opinions to be intensely dull; while wondering why on earth the older generation was obsessed with how great aunt Sally was faring after getting her internal organs inspected.

But here’s the funny thing – we were out for dinner last week with some neighbours and friends, and the first hour of our conversation centred on various aches, knee replacements, hormone levels (women) and sleep patterns.

Isn’t it a strange old world that no matter how much we resist, we still turn into our parents?

Inheritance

The recent bombshell on inheritance tax coincided with me submitting myself for a general MOT and service.

The two events were in no way linked, except that suddenly everything became very much linked, especially that vital wee clause about living for seven years after handing over part of your estate.

I haven’t started the ball rolling in any direction just yet, but, like most farming families, I’ll be talking to my accountant and solicitor in the months ahead and trying to work out a suitable strategy.

My own instinct would suggest that while protective mechanisms will need to be implemented, this farm will not be devastated to the same extent as many less fortunate farming families.

Waistline

For the last 20 years, I have laughed off my expanding waistline by tapping the pregnant bulge below my shirt and bragging that it was the very best of local produce that put it there.

I preferred to deny any weight gain; instead calling it ‘weight redistribution’. Like a lot of middle-aged men, I have developed sparrows’ legs, emaciated buttocks, and carry plenty of insulation all over my middle.

My diet includes enormous helpings of fruit and vegetables, but a propensity for eating industrial quantities of Cadbury’s chocolate has proven to be my downfall.

The writing was on the wall when our daughter, Jenny (who happens to be a dietician) casually asked: “Dad, are you trying to become diabetic?” Those words have turned out to be slightly prophetic.

Blood tests have confirmed what I already knew – I need to wise up and lose a bit of weight. My blood sugar levels are slightly raised, cholesterol has been up for years now, and I suspect losing a stone or more would alleviate symptoms.

Habits

Before anything more sinister occurs, I have decided to change my eating habits: in truth this simply means cutting out the rubbish and eating sensibly. To say this is easier said than done would be the understatement of the century. When you’re in the middle of, say, a TB test with lots of ramifications depending on the outcome, eating an apple just doesn’t de-stress in the same way as two Mars bars.

I jumped on to the cattle weighbridge before starting this change in eating habits (Jenny tells me not to crash diet – it’s not sustainable), and recorded my weight on a wall, using a permanent marker.

The plan is not to reweigh for at least six or eight weeks, and hope that things are at least moving in the right direction. I refuse to divulge my current poundage – all I’m saying is there’s room for nearly two stone to come off. Some chance.