Here comes the fat, little darling

I can feel it happening. I knew it would happen, and it is. After five days not exercising, three of them under doctor's orders and two of them out of inherent laziness, I can feel the lipids clinging with new strength onto my thighs and other womanly curves. Sure, my trousers still fit, and I'm sure to the untrained eye I look identical - in fact, even to the trained eye I probably haven't altered in any way. But from the inside, I know it's occurring - softly, softly for now, but eventually it will explode onto the surface and suddenly I'll be rotund.

The whole Paul McKenna concept only works if you don't feel like any food is forbidden - but suddenly, food is forbidden because I can't exercise. This has had a dramatic effect on my consumption and I'm already squirreling away chocolate eclairs like a guilty hoarder on a televised dieting programme and then wolfing them down when I think no one is watching. It's a therapy session waiting to happen, I tell you. The sooner this month is over and I can start running again, the better.

Still: no real complaints from me. My feet are cold and I didn't pack any socks but that's about as drastic as it gets right now. I'm in a pleasant hotel in Amsterdam, lying on a comfortable bed, listening to Bach partitas, waiting for a chicken salad and a glass of white wine to arrive. (This may sound relatively healthy but you haven't been told about what I have already eaten this evening). (Plus I have the rest of my eclairs to have for pudding). (And the Pringles in the minibar are screaming my name). I have a packed schedule for the next two days, lots of meeting and greeting and learning, all of which is good. Plus the nice girl at reception told me about a fantastic and massive vintage clothes market near here so I am palpitating with excitement about that and will probably be unable to sleep.

To be fair, however, sleep holds little appeal for me at present as my dreams have been so bizarre of late that, frankly, staying awake seems sensible. In the past few nights, I have had sex with my friend Ed, Simon Cowell and an unknown black woman whose hair became greyer the longer we kissed. After I'd finished having sex with Simon Cowell, he climbed into this weird rubber tyre structure and rolled away. I kid you not. I also had to go onstage at Wembley Arena with Beyoncé and Kelly from Destiny's Child wearing a skimpy pair of Union Jack knickers and a white T-shirt. My buttocks wouldn't fit into the pants and my friend Olivia laughed at me. Honestly, it's a wonder I'm allowed to fall asleep unsupervised.