THE many hours I have spent wielding a muck fork over the past few weeks has had a remarkable effect on my weight.

I am now the lightest I have been in about 20 years, and discovering muscle groups I never knew existed, but I am still struggling in the trouser department.

I was strolling to the shops in the village the other day, when a young lady of my acquaintance rushed up and said: “Hextol, man – for pity’s sake pull your troosers up! Your gusset’s hanging down nearly to your knees, and you look like one of those young chavvy laddies, not an old age pensioner!”

Crimson faced, I hitched up my breeks as far as they would go, and cinched in my belt another notch, as I do 50 times a day, despite the sure and certain knowledge that the pull of gravity will send them drooping south like a well filled nappy in a matter of moments.

My shirt will also come out, exposing several acres of hairy belly, and I will once again toy with the possibility of attaching my shirt to my underpants with hidden safety pins to keep everything in place,

Keeping my pants in situ has been a problem for years, for while my waist size has remained pretty constant for decades , the belly above has swelled to occasionally unmanageable proportions.

If I hitch my trousers up over my belly, creating what my sons mockingly call ribsters, the results are verging on the obscene below the Plimsoll line, as well as being exceedingly uncomfortable .

There is also the matter of my trouser fly, which to Mrs Hextol’s permanent embarrassment, I occasionally forget to re-zip amongst all the pulling down, tucking in and generally putting into place.

I am far too mean to buy smaller trousers when I have innumerable pairs to wear out, so I have to make the most of the ones I have

I have toyed with the idea of wearing braces, a fashion accessory I have not sported since I was about five, when they almost proved my undoing when being pursued by members of a rival street gang.

I had almost reached the sanctuary of the entry to our back garden, when a clutching hand grabbed the back of my Roy Rogers braces, and a spotty oaf from Wilwick Lane started reeling me in like a plump rainbow trout.

I thought I was in for a painful series of Chinese burns, skin a rabbit chops, spit dangles and other indignities, but then the buttons securing the galluses came off, and the elastic lashed back and caught my captor full in the face, causing him to loosen his grip enough for me to scuttle to safety like a rabbit outwitting a hungry stoat.

That narrow escape 60 years ago had made its mark on my psyche, and I retain a deep distrust of braces, with or without Roy Rogers.

I associate them with skinheads, flash city types or really old men, and feel that there is something of the Coco the Clown about them.

I have therefore always been a belt without braces man, ever since getting my first red and green elasticated snake belt at primary school , When not holding my shorts up it did admirable service as a makeshift catapult.

Since my dramatic two and a half stone weight loss following my retirement a year ago, I have worked my way through four different belts, none of which appears up to the job. I can haul some of them in until the pips squeak, but they continue to circle my waist like hula hoops; if I do get one of them tight enough, there are yards of leather left flapping at the front like the tongue of a chow chow after a lengthy run along the beach.

Perhaps it’s because I have had to prog extra holes in them all which has weakened the leather, but each one has slowly disintegrated in recent months. One of them snapped completely in half whilst I was strolling through the MetroCentre, and I almost had a major wardrobe malfunction whilst juggling shopping bags and descending trousers.

Another split lengthwise and the third has become so worn it looks as though it has been used to tie the hands of convicted felons on their way to the gallows.

Can anyone recommend a good belt supplier?