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.