Secrets of guilt free snacking

You might have noticed, if not through sharp observation, your flesh will have been on an eager mission to force its way out from beneath any fibres under which you have placed it.

Your midriff secretly comes out of hibernation and wants to be paraded through town centres.

Suddenly you'll realise you've gone voluntarily sleeveless. Who would have thought it?

Not us, of course, because we're never prepared for sunshine.

Parks up and down the country are filled with startled-looking Brits in weird shorts-anorak-bobble-hat-and-sunglasses combinations, everyone limping because they'd forgotten the agony that is the first week of flipflop blisters.

I'll begin getting panicky as I realise my tights-wearing days are numbered.

Everyone else is getting excited over Pimm's and insect repellent, I'm clinging to my black opaques and shuddering when I walk past the Veet wax strips in Boots.

The most horrifying sign of impending summer came on the front cover of Heat magazine (which, naturally, I had to buy for research).

"The Biggest Celeb Bellies" it cries from the racks, cheerfully emblazoned across Vanessa Feltz, looking sturdy in a swimsuit.

It's the kind of picture that would have weaker women crying into their Ryvita.

No doubt Vanessa will have taken it in her stride, perhaps in the happy knowledge she could snap Nicole Richie like a Twiglet, but it's still a bit horrible because it signifies a larger truth (no pun intended, but quite clever now I've noticed it).

Spring is springing, and our flab is not.

It has been swelling smugly beneath nice layers of jumpers for five months, while we fed it on pie, and felt grateful for its insulation.

Now it's prematurely fighting free with the aim of making us look like something Greenpeace would save, on a beach.

Unfairly, while Vanessa has access to an army of personal trainers and nutritionists, I, on the other hand, am a student.

It is our duty to get fat.

In accordance with the laws of studentdom, we must gain at least 10 pounds by May or be forced to repeat the year again to work on our kebab intake (extra garlic mayo's the answer, you should have learnt that during the condiment module).

Ever the conscientious student, I'm in no danger of failing '“ although I maintain that responsibility is out of my hands, as we have the best kebab shop in the world five minutes down the road (which, naturally, doesn't stop us getting the bus back).

Woody Grill will change your mind about grease-laden meat shavings. They use tortilla instead of pitta, fresh cucumber and lettuce instead of wiggly bag salad, and whole green chillies for the brave.

It must be the mark of a truly great kebab shop if you contemplate going in a) during daylight hours, b) when you're sober, and c) because all the nice blokes behind the counter know your usual.

Either that, or the mark of a truly gluttonous student.

But we'll go with the first one.

Because the truth is, even when I try to eat healthily, calories just creep in from nowhere and inhibit our bikini-wearing possibilities.

It is a good job I have a patented list of loopholes to ensure maximum consumption but minimise wobbly side-effects.

Take alcohol, for example.

As far as I'm concerned, liquid should NOT COUNT.

So it doesn't.

It is a beverage, it is refreshment.

It is your third Bailey's, because St Patrick would have wanted you to.

Ditto, food eaten off other people's plates.

My friend Sarah and I recently had a dieting breakthrough when we realised that if we bit every shortbread biscuit in two and ate half each, the result would be calorie-free snacking'¦ because I'm eating half of her biscuit and she is eating half of mine.

Genius.

Food eaten in celebration of something is fat-free, which is why I'm off to have a slice of Pete's quarter-year-birthday cake.

Which, if I eat from Kirsty's plate and wash down with a bottle of Beck's, will be a glowing example of sensible eating.

With this kind of attitude, we'll all be svelte enough to truly embrace summer.

I might tell Vanessa.