A glimpse at any internet dating site will convince you that fat people kid themselves that they're thinner than they really are. Click on any personal ad where the Lonely Heart confesses to carrying “a few extra pounds”, and the image will reveal a body so rotund that it blocks out the sunlight.

Similarly, many obese parents pretend that their children weigh less than they actually do. Even as the scales are creaking in protest because their 11-year-old princess weighs the same as a pygmy hippo, they prattle on about “puppy fat” and insist that she will eventually transform into a waif-like supermodel. No she won't. Fat 11-year-old kids grow into fat adults.

So let's hear it for the Government's latest health initiative, which hit the headlines this week.

From September parents of primary school children will get a standardised letter informing them if their child is overweight and likely to suffer the complications of obesity in later life.

I've slept through enough lectures and seminars on the topic of “Breaking Bad News” to know that it's never a good idea to do it by second-class post. It's better to write to the patient and ask him to book an appointment to talk over the results, face to face. At least, it is if you're going to tell him something that he doesn't already know.

But I know that parents whose kids are overweight know deep inside that their kids are too heavy. So what's the point in sending a letter? Especially one so mealy-mouthed that it won't even refer to children with a body mass index of 30-plus as “obese”. They're to be labelled, “very overweight”.

Apparently the word “obesity” would be enough to stop parents reading before they get to the bit about the increased risk of diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure and cancer that results from childhood, er, “veryoverweight”-isity.

And in the unlikely event that the parents decide to seek help, they're asked to see their family doctor to get some healthy lifestyle advice.

I can already picture the scene. Outraged mother is complaining about whoever measured her big-boned little soldier. “How can you call him fat?” Actually, Mrs Krispy Kreme, it's easy.

And don't give me any more of that “big boned” nonsense either, I've seen enough skeletons in my time to know that that's an old and invariably morbidly obese wives' tale.

I'm supposed to recommend that fat kids take part in regular “physical activity” rather than “exercise” because a Department of Health spokesman “didn't want to point the finger at them”. I do. I want to point it, stick it into their belly blubber and wiggle it around before confiscating their Pringles and PlayStations.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all in favour of breaking bad news gently, sitting the patient down, making eye contact and starting out with “I'm afraid the test results weren't as good as we'd hoped for ...” before dropping a diagnostic bombshell.

As a rule GPs are pretty good at gauging the right moment to tell somebody that they might want to invest in a good-quality antiperspirant or that their itchy rash might be scabies rather than prickly heat.

We're well versed in the art of getting a patient to go to the local clap clinic for a sexual health checkup without making him feel like a antisocial pariah with a social disease.

We can even calm people down and tell them that having diabetes diagnosed need not be the end of the world.

But telling parents that their kid is obese, and acting as if they didn't already know, is like pretending that someone who buys size 13 shoes hasn't figured out that his feet are bigger than average.

Trying to keep a straight face at a time like that really would be biting off more than I could chew.

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