YESTERDAY was my birthday.

I turned 36, 4lb lighter than when I was 35. I am, however, about four stone heavier than when I was 26, but there’s 14lb less of me than 18 months ago.

Numbers, don’t you just hate them?

I did, however, rejoice at losing said 4lb when I went back to Fat Club last week.

God knows how I did it, but back to the usual round of not mixing up carbs and proteins I went, kicking and screaming into a routine which is, let’s face it, one big exercise in denying myself stuff.

Creamy stuff. Tomato-based stuff. Stuff with burned crusts on the edges and cheesy fillings. Stuff that’s easy to make or grab on the go. Stuff that I love but which in turn hates my figure.

I was spurred on for the 765th time in my dieting life by the amazing news that Mam Jones is only 2lb away from shedding a whopping/amazing/jealousy-inducing five stones.

It’s taken her 16 months and it’s been difficult sometimes and hunger-inducing all the time.

She doesn’t like me spilling the fat-free beans on her though, so I won’t go into details about what she does (two pieces of Thin-See-Ya bread a month and good carb-busting things like that) or doesn’t do (eat much).

All I can say is she’s winning the numbers game and has started doing that thing all biggies who turn into slimmies do – and that’s start to really take pride in herself.

She does her hair every morning, is never without make-up now and, crucially, loves to shop FOR HERSELF (not just mammoth smalls for me and wide-fitting slippers for my father).

She’s always been lovely looking – and I am saying that without the aid of bias or clever cameras and muted lighting – but for years she’s been big.

But now she’s the incredible – in more ways than one – shrinking woman, and she’s putting me to shame.

As such, I’ve gone back to Fat Club to supplement my gym membership, which is going rusty.

Well, it’s cold at night, isn’t it? Then again, I’m sure I’d convince myself in a heatwave that it was too hot to go.

So it’s “back on it”, as the biggest loser of them all at Fat Club calls resuming calorie counting and what I deem hell.

What’s even more hellish, however, is that the HQ of Deluded Porkers FC is in the smell line of a Chinese takeaway up the road.

So, like some fatter Bisto kid, you float in on an aura of denial mixed with hope, buoyed by an ocean of chicken chow mein THAT YOU CAN’T HAVE.

The weight loss made up for it until I got home and realised all I could have to eat was an omelette with 42g of mozzarella (precisely) cheese and three thin slices of corned beef, while the skinny blokes in the house had chicken pie and cauliflower cheese.

Then, to add insult to my injurious cellulite, as I was nibbling Trinny & Susannah came on the telly to discuss body shapes. The style experts, who are both a size 10 – bitches – maintain that whatever your size, you always fit into one of 12 body shapes, and they aim to show women how to dress to flatter.

The golden dozen are broken down into four main groups – apple, hourglass, triangle and pear.

So there I was, watching a masterclass on shapes with Hiya Love and Significant (thin, but getting a bit of belly) Other when we set about finding out which shape yours truly was.

“You’re a cello,” piped up Hiya Love, who was once a fashion expert (well, he worked in Principles and Wallis on the shoes).

“Nah, she’s a papple,” argued S(t)O. “It’s not an apple and not quite a pear, but a mixture of the two – belly, bum, boobs, a waist, nice and tall with big hair.”

To say I was gutted was an understatement, cello-looking papple that I am. But at least I wasn’t a full-on pear, brick, peach or skittle. And thank God I’m not a cornet or lollipop.

The way I’m feeling today, I fear I might be arrested for licking myself.

I’ve joined a gym ...

... anyone fainted?

It’s a proper gym too, not just a FisherPrice one – full of big hunks and weights, iron-clad machinery, women with pert boobs who manage to stay firm-bottomed and perfect while sweating, loud music and the smell of exhausting under every bouncy black mat.

And then there’s me in the midst of it all, not so much a fish out of water but the token fattie in a room full of pecked perfection.

I’ve only been signed up for a week, but I’ve been thinking about going for ages.

I do lots of thinking, me; housemate Hiya Love says I could think for Wales, think for Britain, think myself out of doing anything constructive while lying supine on the settee with the cat on my lap.

I’ve also given up the fags, my mentholated peacemakers in rows of 20.

But that wasn’t much of a hardship as I’ve always been an “associated” smoker rather than a social one or someone who craved a hit.

When I’m relaxed I have a cup of tea, so I’d always add two cigarettes with my three sugars.

Lunchtimes it’s coffee time, sat on the roof of the coffee shop during my lunch hour, kicking back with a short skinny latte and maybe three breaths of death.

So I’ve stopped drinking tea and coffee and going over the coffee shop at lunch time.

I’ve amended my behaviour in order to kick the habit.

Proud of me? I’m slightly pleased with myself, but although I don’t have any cravings – told you I wasn’t addicted – I know I’m only one crisis away from smoky treat, a good mood away from a celebratory puff.

But as off today, I’m off the fags and I’m going to the gym.

It took some doing, getting me to sign up for the latter. As I said, the idea had been ruminating in my noodle for some time – I’d even gone so far as to look around it before handing over my credit card.

I walked away with the joining form and mulled it over while in Pizza Hut. Yes, Pizza Hut.

While there, eating three slices of the Chicken Supreme (that tight sod otherwise known as my Significant (thin) Other ordered and we had a medium BETWEEN THE TWO OF US) I scoured the small print to see if I could find something which could make me wiggle my way out of it.

And there it was – I was obliged to stay for the year, despite some ditsy bugger with a washboard belly telling me otherwise when I went in for the scout around.

“No you can leave any time,” she said. “But would you want to? Don’t you really want to commit? Because as the song says, if you’re wise you’ll exercise all the fat off.”

I don’t know what song she was referring to, but I don’t think that line was in the chorus of Food, Glorious Food.

Since then, you’ll be pleased to know, I’ve managed to convince myself that doing a bit of exercise, whatever the level, will do me good.

Smart, eh?

That said, my first trip into muscle beach was fraught with problems, ranging from what trousers I should wear to my lack of footwear and get-up-and-go mindset.

But walk in I did, purposively taking off my glasses so I couldn’t see either myself (sweating like a bullock) or anyone else watching me.

Nobody batted an eyelid, I’m happy to report. Thankfully, their vanity was my salvation because, let’s face it, the majority of gym trims are there because they either want to look good or they’re busily on their way to topping up their allure.

A big bird dying after two minutes on the treadmill and three seconds on the cross trainer doesn’t enter their orbit.

And for this week at least, concern about what other people may say/think/feel about me doesn’t enter my round world either.