There comes a time in every man's life when he has to take a long hard look in the mirror and ask himself the question: where did that belly come from? I was hoping to have to deal with this around the same time as another question: a yacht or a holiday home in Spain? - what will I do with all this money the company gave me for my early retirement? But that was before I turned into a metaphor for the Irish economy.
I first noticed this trend last year, when I experienced a record 7.5 per cent growth rate. Following another buoyant set of returns recently, however, it looks like the growth rate could reach a staggering 9 per cent for 1998*; and when you include the 5.5 per cent achieved in 1996, this amounts to a period of sustained expansion matched only by the Irish economy's.
The inflationary tendency has been most noticeable in the key economic indicator of "shirt size". As any economist can tell you, figures can be massaged by a well-cut suit, but shirt size doesn't lie. Under this heading, I broke through the psychological 16-inch barrier in mid-1997; and according to the latest figures, I'm about four pints of Guinness away from breaking the even more psychological 17-inch barrier.
When they talk about the Irish economy "overheating," I know exactly what they mean: If I walk to work I have to loosen my tie after the first half mile, even in sub-zero temperatures. Steam rises after a mile.
And the worst thing is that all indicators suggest this growth could continue well into the next century, with equilibrium setting in only when I reach the size of Helmut Kohl (whose own expansion started when he became a metaphor for the German economy in 1951).
There are some obvious causes of this weight gain, the nature of journalism being the most obvious. In journalism, for technical reasons which a layperson could not be expected to understand, lunch can last for up to four hours, and is often followed immediately by dinner. It's no coincidence that the last year I experienced negative growth was 1995 when I was a "freelance" (which is to say, a person who can't afford regular meals).
Clearly, drastic economic measures are called for. But the problem, familiar to finance ministers everywhere, is how to slash spending on food and beer without precipitating a state of deflationary depression?
The only other option is increased exercise, but what kind? Ten years ago when the economy and I were both very underdeveloped, I would go for a run regularly (like the Irish pound) and I had about as much body fat as the State had budget surpluses. But then you get to a certain age when the idea of having working knees past the age of 40 becomes important, so that was the end of the running.
Cycling seems a good bet - I used to do a lot of that too. But you go for a cycle in Dublin traffic these days and you soon find yourself thinking about safer forms of exercise, like climbing ESB poles.
Which leaves only football. And as regular readers will know, I'm already a regular football player (of the type known in the sport as "crap"). The problem with football is that the older you get, the less actual physical exercise you derive from a game.
Against which, when younger players skip past you as though you're not there, you tend to lose weight from sheer embarrassment. Even here, though, there are diminishing returns. A sense of shame is one of the first casualties of playing football into your mid-30s and after a while, you can let younger players beat you without a thought. This is called "denial".
And now I've learned that one of my co-footballers broke several bones in his foot in a harmless-looking fall on AstroTurf recently. His doctor showed no sympathy, telling him he sees the same thing every week with players who are too old and unsupple to play on a surface which (like the doctor) is notoriously unforgiving. I wouldn't be so worried about this except that the guy in question was one of those who used to skip past me as if I wasn't there.
One thing I've never tried is fencing, for which suggestion I have to thank a concerned reader, Shirley Duffy. Shirley runs a fencing school and on foot of a recent column suggesting we bring back duelling to ease pressure on the courts, she wrote to me agreeing, but suggesting swords rather than pistols.
She also pointed out - and I think this risks taking the fun out of it - that there are excellent rules nowadays for avoiding fatalities (I don't like to say it, but this sounds like naked self-interest on Shirley's part: no business likes to lose customers).
Nevertheless, sword-fighting does look like a fail-safe idea. As a swordsman, you have two options: (1) move very fast on your feet, or (2) have lumps cut out of you. Either way you lose weight. On the other hand, the same seal-like mobility which has dogged my football career would probably be a big drawback in fencing too.
But I need to do something. A drastic cut in calorie intake or a new form of vigorous exercise that doesn't endanger any vital body parts? It's a tough choice: I'll have to think about it over a pint.
* Figures for December not yet in.