Oh to be thin now that summer is near. Determined not to have the possibility of an all-over tan reduced by having to lie in the shadow of a beached whale, my dearly beloved decided to place me on a strict diet. And I can tell you that it was hell, trying to sustain any interest in grapefruits, pulses and raw carrots . . . stretching my unnaturally voracious appetite to cope with such low calorie spurious pleasures.

It soon transpired that the grapefruits, pulses and raw carrots were intended to replace rather than supplement my normal intake. This explains why the diet did not really get off to a particularly positive start. I gained five pounds in the first week alone.

By the third week of this ghastly regime, I was no longer to be allowed such life-essentials as chocolate, marmalade, scones, cakes, biscuits, puddings or (worst of all) red wine. My beloved continually assured me that all this deprivation would seem worthwhile once I was able to tug a skin-tight Lycra-mix T-shirt over my taut six-pack and, without fear of asphyxiation, fasten a pair of 32-inch waist jeans around

my middle.

The truth, however, is that rather than forego the chocolate, the marmalade, the puddings and (most of all) the red wine . . . I'd happily accept the dire consequences. Be all you can be - that's what I believe. This means that plans were already underway to widen all the door apertures at Stoater Hollow, and I was praying that kaftans might make a dramatic comeback this summer.

But, in more contemplative moments, I had been wondering whether you could have your cake and eat it too. I mean, could you still be a gutsy, greedy pig of a food

and drink drain - and yet avoid swelling to Cyril

Smith proportions.

Help, I'm pleased to report, soon came to hand. Forget diets and conventional exercise. All you need to achieve the perfect six-pack abdomen in three weeks is a truly remarkable kit of wires and electrodes which I had the good fortune to see advertised in the glossy supplement to a well known Sunday newspaper.

All you have to do is strap the apparatus around your midriff and switch the bloody thing on. Your stomach retreats in shock. Muscles which you probably didn't even know you possessed come out to play. And before you have completed your 21-day no-obligation free home trial - hell, you can see the difference.

Marvellously, this body reconfigurator is discreet enough (according to the manufacturer's engaging advertisement) to wear undetected below casual clothing. Well, I guess the wires and electrodes would show through a chiffon evening gown. But how intriguing that you could join your mates for a swift libation down the local, maybe a curry afterwards, and all the while this unique device would be pummelling away all the ill-effects of your beer and biryani night out.

What I don't quite understand, however, is how exactly your mates would not notice the ''variable vibration'' below your casual clothing. Unless you habitually relax in a suit of medieval armour, it would be my guess that the

goings-on below your casual clothing would be pretty bloody obvious.

I pointed this out to my beloved, who was less than impressed at what seemed to be yet another get-thin-quick scheme, devoid of the torture factor which makes the dietary method so deliciously pleasurable to the sadistic dietician. Then, I pointed out the many endorsements. Mr E R of Bromley had noticed a difference after just a few days' use. Mr D L of Bournemouth got the washboard stomach he'd always wanted. And Miss A R of Stoke Newington had been frankly amazed at the results.

Similarly, my beloved was frankly amazed that I could believe this load of nonsense could do me more good than a brisk walk around the block and small reduction in my biscuit intake. But I filled in the coupon, demanding a 21-day no-obligation home trial of this remarkable product. In just a few days, I could electrocute myself thin.

Disaster, however, struck. My beloved destocked our red wine cellar, happened upon my secret stash of emergency calory-intensive comfort foods, and gave all my chocolate biscuits to the fat brats who live next door.

My food intake was monitored with the precision of a Third Reich sociological experiment. Snacks were unilaterally verboten. Tasty treats were constantly vetoed, and all menu proposals carefully censored. Bread came sans butter. Salads, naked and undressed.

Whenever I whimpered through starvation, I was issued with a grape, one slice of kiwi fruit or a tiny stick of celery. A slap-up meal consisted of four artfully arranged lentils, a shred of lettuce, three tiny pieces of grilled Meditteranean vegetables, and as much pepper as I cared to grind - all washed down with lashings of fennel twig tea.

If I threatened to slope off down the shops, my wallet was stripped bare. If I mentioned any of the officially proscribed foods, I was made to watch old videos of ER. If I was caught with a chocolate wrapper on my personage, I was fined 50p.

Surprise, surprise, in absolutely no time I'd lost that five pounds which I'd gained during my first disastrous week of dieting - together with a further #50 or so of my precious life savings. Soon I'll be too poor to eat. Who needs an electronic reconfigurator to achieve that dream physique? Just move in with my beloved, Commandant Anti-Fat.