My reasons for running are purely aesthetic. About a year ago I was horrified when a photo of my fiancée and I revealed an embryonic paunch looming around my midriff. It’s nothing too drastic, it’s not like I look as if I’m smuggling a beach ball under my shirt or anything. But it’s there.
And it’s yet another sign of my youth slowly ebbing away. I used to have a thick crop of ink black hair, but the top of my head is now fallow ground, only a sparse stubble peppering patches of my scalp from forehead to crown. In a few years’ time I’ll look like a backing dancer for Right Said Fred or, worse yet, that terrifying man from the Crystal Maze.