Nine months ago – six months before the wedding – I’m standing in the bathroom at my father’s house, looking at myself in the mirror. I’m trying on his spare kilt, in the family tartan, over the top of the jeans and t-shirt I had been wearing already. Frankly, I look fucking ridiculous – and not just because I’m adorned in the fetching pleated skirt of an ancient highland warrior. Rather it’s because I look so fat and uncomfortable that I can barely breathe.

It’s early February, and after a fun Christmas and a harsh winter spent sheltering in some of North London’s cosiest football pubs, taking on several pints and a regular takeaway pizza, I’ve tipped the scales at 18 stone. I’ve thought “something must be done” on several occasions before, as every bloated, wheezing mid-20s walking obesity crisis has surely done in the cold, sweaty light of day; but when my assembled family, including my fiancée, suppress embarrassed gasps at the utter state of me in my straining highland dress, well, something must be done.