WHO would have thought that finding a belt to secure my drooping trousers would have been such a traumatic experience?

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about my trouser problems, and was inundated with suggestions as to how to stop the full nappy look when being viewed from the rear. I was assured that Hexham’s charity shops were brimming with belts of every description, costing no more than £1, rather than the £20 plus demanded by the town’s gentlemen’s outfitters.

So Mrs Hextol and I spent a full afternoon trawling the town – and were unable to find a single belt up to the job of keeping my pants in place. There were belts, but they were either for emaciated schoolboys or of the type which used to be deployed to open the windows in steamy train carriages.

I spent the entire afternoon hauling my jeans back into place as they seemed determined to gravitate groundwards.

I was down to my last leather belt, as I have poked so many extra holes in my other belts that they had all literally fallen apart – including one purchased as a present for in excess of £20 just last year.

I had actually put two extra holes in the last belt, so that it now keeps my trousers in place, but has to be wrapped round my waist twice, or else I have a large loop of leather flapping about like the tongue of a lolloping labrador.

The dramatic weight loss which occasioned the trouser crisis was brought about by my stint as a stable hand third class, when I undertook several hours of shovelling six days per week after half a century sitting on my backside behind a desk.

It was the first sustained manual labour I have ever carried out, and it was very educational as well as beneficial to health – apart from being kicked by one horse and bitten by three others. I learned some rich and inventive Scottish oaths from my supervisor, who was frequently left shaking his head at my lack of coordination and supremely incompetent methods of carrying out the simplest of tasks.

He marvelled: “If there is an awkward way of doing something, you will find it. In 40 years working with horses, you are the only person I have ever seen pulling a wheelbarrow from the front end rather than pushing it from the back.”

I was there for nine weeks as emergency help, awaiting the arrival of someone who actually knew what they were doing, but by the time I left, I had lost a stone in weight – making me almost three stones lighter than when I retired just over a year ago.

While none of the weight seems to have gone from my belly, it has certainly disappeared from my waist, as was proven by my first venture into shorts during the warm spell last month. I donned my favourite pair to stroll round the garden – and had to grab them hastily to prevent them collapsing in an unseemly heap round my ankles.

So much as I hate buying clothes, I was forced to accept that I would have to purchase some less commodious trousers, or risk being arrested for indecent exposure.

For the first time in over 20 years I headed for the fitting room with a selection of trousers with a 36 inch waist – and the first pair I tried on would not even go close to fastening,

It was with some trepidation I tried the second and third pairs – and was ridiculously pleased with myself when they fitted like a favourite pair of gloves. The legs were a little too long, as I appear to have shrunk in height as well as weight, but I was delighted with the prospective purchase.

I was deciding which pair to buy when Mrs Hextol bustled up with two more pairs draped over her arm, and refused to countenance a singular purchase.

“One pair is no good at all,” she scolded. “You need at least three more, because I know you – once you start eating pies again, all your weight will go back on. However, if you spend money on these trousers, I know you are too much of a skinflint to let the cash go to waste by getting too fat to wear them.

“You might be able to stand wasting money on one pair, but not four!”

She knows me too well – but I still haven’t been able to find a decent belt!