It’s that time of year when we all try to shed the weight we gained over the festive season, and I’m Mrs Elf’s ‘project’ for the foreseeable future. Life will never be the same again – well, not until I lose the three stone that puts me in the ‘danger zone’, so I’m told.
If that isn’t bad enough, I’ve been put in charge of health and fitness at work, so I don’t even get a rest there. My new daily regime would bring tears to the eyes of an Army physical training instructor, with a two-mile jog at 6am, followed by a 50-length swim of the Leisure Centre pool – would someone tell me why they call it a leisure centre? All of this has to be completed by 8.30am so that I can enjoy a brisk walk to work and arrive on time for 9am.
I get no breakfast – well, none that any right-minded person would call breakfast: two crisp-breads and a grapefruit. On this I have to get through ’til lunchtime, and even then there is no respite as I have to take the midday ‘Spinning’ class at work. Whoever created this pastime should be assessed by a psychiatrist. We sit on bikes which are attached to the floor so go nowhere at all, cycling as fast as possible to the deafening throb of heavy metal rock anthems. This must be a health and safety issue. I’m sure it could get me off the hook if I play it right.
After a nice cold shower (they’re never hot) I try to grab some illicit ‘fast food’ but more often than not get dragged to the ‘juice’ bar with the female admin staff.
By 2pm my gastric juices are bubbling and seething like a cauldron of acid. I have blisters, chilblains, backache, gastritis, halitosis and wind, and I can barely walk, never mind run. And this is ‘fitness’? I don’t think so.