AS a bairn, I was never once in a restaurant. My parents were neither socially confident nor well-off, and above the fireplace was a family plaque with a picture of the globe and, underneath it, the words “Not for the likes of us”.

By and large, I still maintain that philosophy but, aged 20 when I became a student, I found myself going along with my new pals to an impossibly exotic restaurant. Chinese it was and, appalled by the frightening menu, I ordered omelette with chips.

I remember being amazed at the size of the plateful but, later, was even more nonplussed in an Indian restaurant, not just because I could see neither omelettes nor chips on the menu, but because of the even larger plateful.

Arguably, it was these insidious foreign influences that led to the revolution in portion sizes that has afflicted Britain, particularly when humongous American platefuls also came to be emulated.

Today, vendors are accused of encouraging us to overeat, and the vendors reply: “We’re only giving them what they’ve come to expect.”

Scotland expects chips, and the controversial repast has recently been in the news again. Obesity Action Scotland commissioned a report which found the average size of portion had risen by 80 per cent since 2002. Chips in Glasgow takeaways contained three-quarters of the recommended calorie intake and more than half the fat. Talk about value for money.

The Scottish Government has been alerted – chips are one of the few major policy areas not reserved to Westminster – and plans are being considered whereby takeaways must tell customers how many calories are in their food.

It’s a good idea. Calorie reduction is the only way to lose weight. Exercise tones what you have, but doesn’t lose you an ounce. If you’re a blob, you’ll be a toned blob. You have to cut down your food intake.

Calories are scary. Recently, I got the keys to a friend’s house to carry out a small task. Searching through the kitchen cupboards (nothing to do with the task, just something I always do in other people’s houses), I found two large bags of salted and roasted nuts. They’d been opened and a small amount eaten, the packets thence sealed up with plastic clips.

A voice in my head said: “You should eat these, Rab. All of them.” I thought this absurd advice, even if coming from someone I trust, and decided the most ethical thing to do was to eat some of them. So, after they were all eaten, I fretted about what to do with the wee clips (buried them under tea-towels in another drawer) and exited stage left, feeling fat and guilty.

However, I’d enjoyed the nuts enormously and, next day in the supermarket, headed to the specialist aisle. Here, another more saintly voice in my head said: “Check the calories, Robert. Be sensible.” So I did and collapsed headlong into my trolley. The calorie-count was horrendous.

I pooh-poohed these peanuts, and it’s only through such iron self-discipline that pounds can be shed. It is, I will own, much harder with chips. The other evening, after a hard exercise class, a bad voice in my head said: “Eat fish and chips immediately.” So I did.

You’d think it would have undone all the exercise but I was famished, having starved myself beforehand so that my moobs wouldn’t swing about and hit people in the eye. I deserved that fish supper but must confess that, in a world first, I couldn’t finish all the chips. There were just too many. Surely we didn’t used to get portions this huge?

Huge portions brings me to a confession I must make: this column began with a big porkie pie. I was once in a restaurant with my parents during childhood though, strictly speaking, it was really a cafe. To be precise, it was a chippie in Burntisland: one of those posh ones with seating. Even here, my parents appeared ill at ease. My mother ate as if she feared arrest at any moment.

We didn’t just have fish and chips. We had white bread and slimy yellow margarine, tae, but emerged from that Fife diner hardly any fatter than when we’d gone in.

That’s because, before the new exotic restaurants appeared on the scene, portions back then were sensible. At home, indeed, they were meagre. That’s why, in photos of crowds taken back in the glory days when Sir Harold Macmillan was on the throne, you’ll hardly see a paunch.

We need to return to that golden age, eating only a few slices of chopped pork at home and, where forced to dine out at exotic restaurants, insisting on just a small omelette and a specified number of chips. Around 60 should do it.