In a drawer beside my writing desk, I keep an old piece of cardboard. It is about the size of an A4 sheet of paper, and is covered in names and lists, measurements and weights using the imperial scale, written in blue ink. The handwriting belongs to my late father, and the listed names are my older brother and sister and myself. I can tell you that on the 16th of June 1967, at the age of 10, I was four feet four inches tall. Earlier the same year, in June, my waist measured 22 inches and I weighed five stone one ounce. On the same day my older brother could drop kick a football 46 yards, and my sister was four feet seven inches tall.
In addition to my father’s obsession with our physical bodies, measuring the three of us each month – arms, chest, waist, thighs, calves, height and weight – he established a rigorous exercise regime for each of us, from the date we turned five years of age. The program included nightly distance running, as well as a weightlifting and exercise schedule. By the age of eight I could do 50 push-ups and 50 sit-ups with ease and run three miles each night without becoming fatigued. The detailed recording of our lives and bodies came with acute tension. If any of us gained unnecessary weight – fat rather than muscle – or did not meet the monthly goals set for us, we were punished. Painfully.
