NEVER MIND THE SITUPS

In these lean and austere times, a generous embonpoint might be construed as an unnecessary and cruel reminder to the have-nots of the social divide that plagues our society. Purely as a gesture of solidarity with the undernourished of this world I made a New Year resolution and on 2nd January renounced chocolate. I gave my last box of Corné Port Royal to a malodorous old drunk, and got nothing but abuse for my trouble, but I turned the other cheek and resolved to transform myself into a lean, mean blogging machine. Or at least get back into my ballgown. Can you believe that since I've been living in the land of chips, beer and chocolate I've put on so much weight I've gone up a shoe size? (Yes we can! - Ed.).


I must admit to a few lapses on the chocolate front, but have not binged since the beginning of the year. And, readers, I joined a gym! A proper one, with tellies and everything. I must say keep-fit has changed a bit since I last donned a pair of plimsolls. No piano or vaulting horse. It's all electronic contraptions and swipe cards. I was a little afraid that I would be upstaged by ice-blonde Ukrainian supermodels in sweatbands and lycra, balancing their Evian bottles on their finely-chiselled buttocks. But fortunately this is Belgium, not the Cote d'Azur. My fellow fatfighters are a motley crew of lumpen and lumpy flaxen-haired and ruddy-cheeked Flemish office workers in tracky bottoms, with a faint smattering of sleek and gleaming Africans in singlets and running shorts doing a steady 30 mph on the treadmill and not even breaking sweat, to give us something to aim for. I try to position myself on a machine just behind the shiny black ones, purely for the view. Of the telly, I mean.


Of course, just because one is working out at the gym doesn't mean one should wear one's old gardening trousers. I had to actually go and buy a pair of trainers, since I don't go in much for "leezhure wear" as the Americans call it. Tracksuits are just pyjamas for going to the shops in. Personally I favour a more track-and-field look when I am on the treadmill. FloJo is my inspiration. Even when you're glowing with effort, girls, you should try to look elegant. An extra couche of Estee Lauder Maximum Cover before going into the gym will make sure you avoid that just-boiled lobster look.


I got a free hour with a personal trainer, a slim young man with eyelashes to die for but very poor customer skills, who only managed to look interested at the point where I was supposed to sign up for his services for an extra monthly fee, so I am muddling along on my own. I tried a group session, which was disastrous - wearing varifocals, I couldn't see the instructors through my legs, they were going much too fast for me to keep up with the movements, and I kept getting vertigo and having to stop. It must have looked like an sketch by French and Saunders. I decided group exercise is not for me.

I must confess to a dirty little secret. I have a weakness for the smell of a sweaty male armpit. You can keep your endorphins. The pheromones wafting along from the guy on the next machine keep me on a "natural high".

I am taking it very easy to start with. I don't want to keel over with a heart attack. I set the treadmill to the lowest setting, "sitting down". Only when I feel I am ready to move up a notch will I progress to "shuffle to bathroom", then "aimless meander to the end of the garden with occasional stops to smell the flowers", before working my way up to "leisurely stroll to the cake shop". I am preparing to feel the burn.

Meanwhile, I would recommend Mr Bean's workout routine for the faint-hearted.