“Dad, you look massive in that top.”

Unfortunately, for my husband, the massiveness commented upon by our eldest daughter wasn’t muscular. The top he’d put on wasn’t clinging to his defined pecs and bulging biceps.

Sadly, it made him look like he’d spent the last two decades living on super-sized burgers, doughnuts and lager. I had to admit the jumper wasn’t so much figure-hugging as figure-overhanging. And the figure in question was a capital O.

Had any woman, including myself, been criticised in such a way, she’d have almost certainly ditched the garment, taken a long, hard look at herself in the mirror, and dashed to the nearest gym – especially at this time of year when body image comes under the microscope. But he just laughed, and asked what was for tea.

He didn’t bat an eyelid either, in summer on holiday, when the scathing comments of my daughters included references to ‘man boobs’ and offers to lend him a bra.

I assumed he was like most men, content with whatever shape he happened to be cultivating. After all, you don’t hear many blokes asking if their bums look big in a new pair of jeans.

But, it turns out, my husband is in a minority and most men do get body blues. Eighty per cent, in fact, have hang-ups about beer bellies and man boobs – commonly known as ‘moobs’. A survey revealed feelings of misery and insecurity among men, who frequently harbour hang-ups about beer bellies and being too fat to wear certain items of clothing. A quarter questioned in the research by the University of the West of England felt too self-conscious to visit a gym.

While I have always tended to steer clear of men who take a huge pride in their appearance, I would like my husband to show a little more concern. Not because I want to turn him into a god – he's almost there with Buddah – but because I really don’t want to be married to Jim Royle.

He smirked when our daughters compared him to Jim, as he lay back on the sofa watching the Christmas special while munching his way through a giant tube of Cheddars. And he ignores the comments we make about the huge platefuls of food he piles on his plate at dinner.

I’ve told him it’s no laughing matter. There are health implications. Ten years from now I don’t want a Channel 4 documentary crew banging on the door asking to film the local bedridden giant.

He won’t take any notice of me, so I’m leaving it up to my daughters to monitor their dad’s waistline. We’re not looking for a washboard stomach – they’re more grotesque than gorgeous – just less of a twin-tub.