For some time my lack of resemblance to Daniel Craig and my marked similarity to a fat dwarf has been noted, joked about but tolerated by my friends. Being squat and overweight hasn't really held me back, but at 44 you have to decide what the future is going to be about. Do you 'Rage Rage Against the Dying of the Light'and murder yourself in the gym every day, or do you slip into comfy twee lardiness (and an early death?)
Reader, I have put aside fears over the usefulness of my pension arrangements and chosen the former path. I have lost five pounds since Christmas, and to help me lose the rest of my squalid bulk I went to the gym on Tuesday evening to meet my personal trainer. We will call him A. He wasn't what I expected.
I was expecting a sort of bouncy motivational bunny/human cross who was going to inspire me to cardiovascular heights. Instead A looked at my portly form with an unusual degree of scepticism. He made it clear he'd help me. But he thought I wouldn't last.
Several sentences of his haunt me two days later.
"You're not going to enjoy this."
"If you give me bollocks during a session I will tell you. I don't tolerate bollocks."
"Do you drink coffee?" (Yes. I LOVE coffee.) Sigh. "Oh dear"
"See this?" indicating a two litre bottle of water "Drink one of these a day." (I HATE water unadulterated by tasty toxins.)
For all his doomsaying A is an early riser. I have to meet him at 0700 Friday!