IN THE past four months, we have heard more about the 53lbs Liz Hurley has lost than the 7lb baby she gave birth to.

Pictures of little Damian 'The Omen' Charles's mum have appeared in the tabloids and glossies on more or less a daily basis since he made his controversial entry into the world, with fewer and fewer column inches being given to her views on the joys of motherhood and more and more on how she managed to carve off her own excess inches.

Now, I am not saying that I desperately want to see more pictures of Damo or indeed that I want to read more about how "simply super" life is for a Hollywood single mum. It's just that I would pay good money to see fewer photographs of the lovely Liz and her rapidly diminishing cleavage.

She has undoubtedly worked hard to regain her svelte figure so quickly, but if one more newspaper asks "how did she do it?" with incredulous gasps all round just one more time, I may very well scream until my tonsils bleed.

She did it because she lives an incredibly pampered life in which people are on call at all times of the day and night to tend to her every need. She did it because she moved in with Elton John, his partner David Furnish and their army of servants after giving birth. She did it because she could afford to have a personal trainer whip her into shape, a chef to cook low fat, high fibre, nutritionally balanced meals three times a day and a spiritual guide to ensure her mind was as well toned as her body.

She also did it because she could afford to employ a top notch nanny to keep an eye on Hurley Jnr while she went about her normal life without having to worry about nappy bags, nipple shields and changing mats.

That is how this miraculous weight loss occurred. It wasn't divine intervention, it was money.

And unfortunately it is also a severe pain in the rear end for all the other new mums up and down the country who read about Hurley's victory over her post-natal posterior and voluminous boobs as they struggle themselves to get back to some semblance of normal life.

For us normal, non-pampered women, the first four months of our babies' lives are usually a whirlwind of screaming, nappy changing, sleepless nights, feeding and burping. Going to the gym every day, preparing carefully balanced meals and achieving spiritual fulfilment are just not on the agenda. In fact, wearing matching socks and a sweatshirt without sick on it is probably about the height of our ambitions.

I remember when the Munchkin was born I barely had the time, energy or inclination to visit the corner shop for a paper and a pint of milk, and the thought of doing anything more energetic than dunking a biscuit into a mug of tea left me near to tears.

Lucky old, plucky old Liz, on the other hand, managed to squeeze in two weeks at the exclusive Chiva-Som health resort on the eastern coast of Thailand, where she was treated to saunas, hot ginger oil baths, lymphatic massages, a daily body brush and de-stress breathing classes.

Her diet at the resort was laughably different to what I remember enjoying during the first few months after the Munchkin made his debut. For breakfast she had porridge oats soaked overnight in apple juice and served with rice milk and honey; I had a handful of dry cornflakes (who has time to buy milk?).

For lunch Liz tucked into toasted pitta bread with leafy green vegetables, hummus and sweetcorn; I had a packet of custard creams (the ultimate convenience food - if you dunk them in your tea, you don't even have to bother chewing them).

And finally, at suppertime she sat down to poached salmon and stir-fried vegetables, while I walked around the living room jiggling the baby up and down while a nuked lasagne that had been lurking at the bottom of the freezer since 1994 congealed into a rubbery mass on my plate.

That's why Liz is now a svelte size 8, and I waddle when I walk. Not that I'm bitter or anything...

Updated: 09:02 Tuesday, September 24, 2002