But I think these well wishers may have got their senses confused, because the one thing that has come back with a vengeance is my sense of smell.

And I hate it.

My favourite greasy café never used to stink, as far as I was concerned anyway.
Now, however, I can't spend five minutes in the place without regretting it all afternoon, as the stench of chip fat grips to my clothes.

Forget the smell of fags, 'Eau de Fried Bacon' is not in any way alluring and my over-sensitive nostrils won't let me forget it.

Worse still are our two elderly dogs, who I once thought were simply family pets but I now realise are walking stink bombs. The combination of wet fur, gas and dog breath is too much for me to bear.

And mud! Don't even get me started. After comfort eating my way to an extra stone in weight after quitting, I made a new year resolution to go for a short run every day (yes, really.)

Trouble is, to save embarrassment I steer off the pavements and into public fields where only a handful of dog walkers can witness my gasping attempts at keeping fit.

British climate means this involves wading through patches of caked mud - and it stinks!

My mother, ever the optimist, tells me that just because I never used to be able to smell, everyone else reeled at the stench of fags emitting from my clothes and hair.

I miss that.