Making God Giggle…and other Funny Anecdotes

So I’m just sitting and waiting, and waiting and sitting, and trying to recline but finding it hard to breathe, so I decide to eat cake. This is the life of a pregnant woman in the week of the impending due date.

I won’t lie to you, it’s a terrifying time. Women are blessed with the opportunity of considering whether or not their baby will be born with hair or if the kicks they have felt for months are indicative of a rugby player or dancer. But just whilst you’re overcome with sentimentality, you’re also forced to consider the implications of using a heat pack on your nether region and whether or not this will reduce the chance of someone coming at it with a scalpel. Enter the birth plan….

I have to disclose that I am not feeling very mother earth and all accepting at the moment. Much like my last post, I’m in need of a vent. A true believer in the power of the sisterhood, I’m about to jump ship and assert myself in a rather aggressive way. I reserve the right to retract below statements in a haze of “pregnancy hormones” if it all backfires…

Someone once said that to get a giggle from God, make a plan (or something like that) and I understand the meaning. I do believe it may have been the same person that said life is what happens when you’re making other plans. Both good anecdotes that elicit a wry smile. An even wiser person once said, “If you don’t plan how you’re going to get to the city from the suburbs on public transport, you’ll get lost, hot and bothered and you’ll end up in a taxi you couldn’t afford and makes you feel car sick”.

Ok, no one clever said that, it was obviously just me but I am assuming I’ve made my point.  

It continues to astound me how many people are so eager to tell me that I can’t plan a birth. I am painfully aware that my body has decided to pack up and do what it bloody well wants to of late (I’m happy to email a running sheet of disgusting things a pregnant woman is capable of) and no doubt birthing will be the same. But in an age where we plan parties to the most minute of floral and table setting detail, why are women not educating themselves about the birthing process and planning for a desired outcome?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a twelve page birth plan file to carry to the hospital which stipulates all medical officers must refer to me as Goddess of the Wild during contractions, I have a one page, dot point plan including such one hit wonders as “Please ask permission from parents before artificially breaking waters, cutting the vagina or taking baby from us”. Yep, grossly out of line aren’t I? Well I can tell you that I hear about all three happening every day in hospitals all over the country, all because it was “best for baby”. And in some cases, it definitely was…but in some it wasn’t. And perhaps, as women, we should be educating ourselves about the difference.

All I ask of you is to consider that whilst I could be wrong and completely naïve in considering a birth plan, I could also be right. And before you think we’ve all gone mad, also consider the thousands of women all over the world, who are survivors of trauma and to whom a simple “examination” might not be so simple at all.

When talking to the toolman today, we were desperately trying to figure out where my strong feelings were coming from. And I suppose it is this – please don’t talk to women like me (and by “women like me” I mean the slightly off to the left ones who take homepathics , use acupuncture and hire midwives instead of doctors) like we are stupid, uneducated or are taking unnecessary risks. We have indeed educated ourselves, have taken what is most probably a more expensive route with said homeopathic private midwife hippy treatment and believe we are making a good choice. I will indeed draw blood for any woman I love who is criticized for the choices she makes, regardless of what they are because I have blind hope that they are making an informed decision (and by informed I don’t mean “because the man in the white coat said so”). And I am accepting that you and I are likely to feel differently about many things. Just please tell me you have considered some information outside of what one person (usually a man) has told you.

All I ask for in return is that when you ask me about something I have decided to do (and I stress the word “ask” because I have completely given up advertising it), please don’t infer that it’s not safe or considered, naïve or risky, because I have been very polite this whole time in trying to make this coffee date pleasant and non-confrontational.

Oh bugger it….

Perhaps it’s best said like this, “If you don’t plan how you’re going to get to the city from the suburbs on public transport, you may just get hot, bothered and end up strapped to a bed,  legs in the air and a knife coming at your waa-waa”.

 

Living Large, Feeling Small.

I’m back to big, living large and emotional about it. My “born-before-his-time-renaissance-man” would probably say I’ve hit the skids. And it’s not what you think…

Before I go on, I must acknowledge my extended absence from the blog and pass on my apologies. You see, it can probably be best explained when I tell you I got really happy (and busy) at about the same time I stopped losing any more weight and the goal posts in my life suddenly changed. I think it’s also of note that we often feel the need to be heard most when things are tough (think how many facebook status updates are angry tirades about other drivers) and so when life got good, I no longer had the same urge to keytap away.

But today, like I have done my whole life, I turn back to writing to try and make sense of the world when I can sense myself slipping back to a place that I simply refuse to revisit (yep, I can hear the mental health gods laughing at that one).

So where were we…..

Around February this year, I had just begun my frantic downsizing (in the form of skip hiring and random belonging throwing) and was about to embark on a camping trip with the toolman in an attempt to get back to basics (both were rather happily unemployed at the time and looking for direction). Miraculously, in clearing out all the clutter of the mind, the house and our relationship, a few very special things happened.

Firstly, being physically and emotionally lighter and in full recognition of the absolute living hell the toolman and I had fled only a short 18 months before, we had an absolute ball. My paranoia about shape and size left me and I swam, drank, ate and sunned myself like a Jackie Collins character in a back shelf romance novel.

Runner up in the happy stakes was the offer of a position with a charity that I had spent some time volunteering with and that was personally very meaningful to me. Considering potential pay cuts and our scary financial situation but running with “happy wife, happy life”, the toolman quickly made a commitment to support me in my new role.

But then look what he made me do. I went and fell in love all over again and as we all know, the more love you have, the more you have to give and so I went and fell pregnant.

Anyone who has read this before today probably remembers I was rather perturbed by a gammy set of ovaries for some time. So it didn’t actually occur to that I may in fact be pregnant when I started feeling what I now know as the tell-tale signs of pregnancy a few weeks after returning home.

It’s about this time that things started getting really good. Like, really good. Money problems were no longer money fears, work seemed meaningful, the toolman became the funniest and most endearing man alive, and I had what I had always always wanted. ..my baby snug as a bug.

So it confuses me that as I sit here now, eight months pregnant, with everything that I have ever wanted, I feel dejected. It’s even worse that as I contemplate the above and know how grateful I should be, I feel such confusion about my position that I have retreated from the world.

It seems that whenever I leave the house, I invite such a tirade of horror from other mothers and fathers alike, that is so invalidating, so patronising, I’ve been inside for days now crying. And as much as I have tried to come up with explanations that explain the motivation behind telling these stories, I’ve become too lost in them to find my way out.

Let me digress for a moment to illustrate my point (it’s a curvy one, stay with me).

I have spent a lot of time in the past dealing with mental health problems that has seem me spend a lot of time as an in-patient, changing medications constantly, dealing with sweats and pains, hallucinations and paranoia, judgement and stereotypes and some darn right scary situations. What I do know is that if you told me that you had been diagnosed with a problem, needed medication and in patient treatment what I WOULDN’T say is this:

“Gee, you better prepare yourself for the fact that you’ll never sleep again. Those night sweats are a killer. Oh, they might drug you so much you’ll wet the bed too. Better look out for that one. But no worries, you’ll start to feel a bit better, feel a bit normal again and then BANG- you’ll lose your sleep all over again…so don’t get cocky cos’ for a year you’ll feel like absolute shit. Forget your husband…he’ll be the dust. He’ll probably start looking around. And your body will turn to crap as well. Aches and pains. Better start massaging those muscles now cos’ the leg cramps will continue every single night for the next four years”.

You see, I forecast no value in “warning” anyone about any of this. But the greatest misnomer going around is that future mothers need to be told, to be warned, as it’s the kindest thing to do. Ironically, the above is not very far away from what I heard in the past few weeks. There is however, an even more cruel mode of communication amongst mothers and mothers to be which I like to refer to as “The Question Trap”. This is how it works…

You are asked a question which usually sounds genuine (don’t be fooled, no one cares what your answer is, the lioness is coiling back, ready to spring), you answer said question, trying desperately to avoid landmines that you can sense are underfoot but don’t have the map for, and Boom…you’re shot down blazing, pieces of your confidence floating through the air like confetti. I swear I can now see the satisfaction in the eyes opposite mine that read “that’ll take you down a peg or two”.

Let me give you an example that I have relived over and over since I fell pregnant. There are two main varieties, pick which one works for you.

Option One

Mother: “Are you going to use cloth nappies”

Me: “Yes”

Mother: “Why?”

Me: (This is where I insert the explanation about financial benefit. Crying poor is much more savoury than simply saying you think it’s a better choice – see what I mean about landmines).

Mother: (After a few seconds thought). “Well you realise that there is the cost of the washing powder and water and that it actually uses more greenhouse gas to wash them all the time. I give you a month before you go to disposables. You really should just see how you go. (Finishing slightly out of breath)”

Me: Silence. I never once thought of telling a mother who uses disposable nappies to “see how they go” but anyway….

Option Two (This one is the real beauty)

Mother: “Have you thought about a birth plan?”

Me: (MAYDAY! MAYDAY! THIS IS A TRAP!). “Ummm…yes…ummmm”

Mother: “You’re not bloody having it at home are you?” (Because that’s not loaded at all).

Me: “Umm..no” (Don’t let it slip about the birthpool for heaven’s sake). “I’m going to the hospital”

Mother: “And what about pain. Are you having a natural birth?”

Me: (Now this is where you tread carefully, I’ve learnt over time. I used to reply with big doey eyes that yes, I was going to try for a natural birth…I laugh now at the naivety).

“Umm, well I’m going to hospital but I’ll try to do what I can without any pain relief.” (Don’t say birth plan, don’t say birth plan).

Mother: (Half satisfied but still hungry for a kill). “Well, you can’t prepare for childbirth and really there’s no point in a birth plan because you have no control over it anyway. Plus you think it’s so important before you have the baby but realise how stupid it all was thinking about it once the baby arrives. I wouldn’t make your mind up just now (said with a laugh), just wait and see”

Me: (Yep, so my fear is stupid. Yep, my preparation is stupid. I feel small and silly for having a plan and on top of all that, the absolute most traumatic thing you can say you a trauma survivor is that you will have no control, even if it is the truth).

Why is it so threatening that I might want to do it like this? Why do I have to be told that my choice is silly and naïve and that I am considering doing something “the hard way”? You wouldn’t say to someone who is looking at detox, “Just wait and see how you go…you’ll be grabbing for relief in no time”, you’d be all “you can do it”, cheering from the sidelines.

I thought the other night that I had come up with the plan of all plans to avoid setting someone off. A master scheme that I could implement in future- Just lie about my intentions. When asked the question about pain relief, I replied that I was going to hospital ASAP, and would probably just have an epidural if I was offered it. But still no love; “Won’t that just slow labour down” was the reply, “You really can’t plan for these things you know”.

The innate problem with all this when I really think about it is that from the moment you are thinking about a baby, you are constantly struggling against someone up the line who knows better than you. I thought that when I fell pregnant I would finally be able to do what I had wanted to do my whole life…join the ranks of motherhood, talk with meaning. But there was always someone telling me with a sideway glance that “you know you can’t eat soft cheese don’t you”, desperately trying to put me in my place.

And perhaps this is where I am at today. I feel put in my place and invalidated. I have spent a long time finding a voice and I make no apologies that over the past few years I have often yelled more loudly than I needed to (I was just getting used to it you see). You see, I kept a secret for a long time and I made a promise a few years back that I wouldn’t do it again which has resulted in me often overstepping boundaries and saying things that others don’t necessarily appreciate (stiff upper lips and all).

But despite my best efforts, in order not to challenge or confront others, I feel that over the past months, something has been chipped away slowly. I have been invalidated and inadvertently been silenced in so many interactions that I wonder whether I have been taken back to that place where no one speaks and why I find myself now, in my own home, unable to speak to anyone, including the toolman.

Fear creeps in when writing this as I can hear judgement (perhaps just my own) that reads, “Here she goes again, banging on about the past” but maybe it’s time to get my voice back. Perhaps my experiences are valid enough, just for me, because they are mine. Or maybe I should push more love out to the world that seems so keen on judging others (and most poignantly, probably themselves).

Or best of all, maybe I should go back to making a plan and start up that yelling again…

Back to Basics

I finally made it back to my weight loss meeting today after a fairly significant hiatus from the fat fight fighting ra-ra group. It served me well as I was able to confirm what I had been wondering for a few days; that I lost some weight over Christmas.

The suspicion gained some serious momentum two days ago when I pulled out a pair of pants, put them on and realised they actually fit me. I was sure they were a struggle to zip up, weren’t they? I won’t bore you with the details of the full two hours that ensued as I pulled out all my remaining clothes (of which there aren’t many due to my recent anti-terrorism antics), trying on each piece to check that the black pants hadn’t fooled me.

As it turns out, my recent activity ordering my house and as it seems, my mind, have paid off. The scales showed a 5.1kg loss today (11.2 pounds) and of course I feel good. Finally! My 35kg, two year project, is now just 9kg within reach.

The toolman and I are off for a month to walk some walks, camp some camps and boil some billy tea. It’s a trip that’s been 8 years in the making and unfortunate circumstances work-wise have given rise to a great opportunity to finally go.

And in trying incredibly hard to get “back to basics”, I’m becoming genuinely intrigued by the benefits it seems to be having already.

I could come back bug bitten and crabby but for the first time in a long time, I can see some light.

The Break Up

This year, once again I found myself beach bound with too much luggage and an incapacity to resolve in my mind the fact that I had not achieved what I set out for myself at the start of the year: to never go through a fat summer again. Imagine an overweight woman, sitting by the window, watching her family and friends outside in the Australian sun. Now watch her look down at herself, her stomach, and then back outside. She turns side on to look at her reflection in the mirror, checking no one is coming, then back outside. Looking square on in the mirror, she fluffs up her curls a little. “Right, you did this, so off you go”.
 
Every slim young thing that walked passed my camping site and it must be said, all those sitting at my very own table only highlighted to me how much I was still a physical disappointment, and my preoccupation with it only highlighted to me I’m a mental lightweight. I was unable to put aside the feelings of inadequacy and enjoy myself, falling further and further into a rather low state.
 
I must admit that for the past few months, and possibly a contributing factor accounting for my blog silence, I felt a creeping feeling of failure sneak up on me. There’s been something in the background, something I just couldn’t quite see clearly, shaking its finger at me and daring me to respond. Silencing that little voice inside*, I’ve tried to move quickly into action, keeping as busy as possible to avoid inviting over the black dog to bark at my backdoor.
 
As someone very talented in the art of emotional diversion, I convinced myself that the problem lay within the domain of my marriage. Namely, that I have never done anything to make my husband proud of me and therefore respect me. Such was my delusion, when watching a Grand Slam hosted in my home town, I actually wondered whether I could transform myself into a tennis-superstar-come-lately simply to impress the toolman.
 
Feminists put the gun down, you don’t want to waste that one bullet just yet.
 
On arriving home from my camping trip, I successfully humoured my gloomy disposition and opened and closed every cupboard in the house until I found a card I received from my family ten years ago before I left for Italy on a year long study trip. Along with the “Ciao Bellas” and the “Good Lucks” were more than a few messages that indicated that ”the Italian boys will just love you” and one message from my mother’s dear friend that actually said, “Good Luck Darling. They’re going to love your shape”. My shape? Tucked inside the card was a photo taken of me before I left. I stared at it for a long time, wiping the tears from my eyes.
 
That was who was in the back of my mind. The old me, holding me hostage and incapacitating the me that lives in 2011. For the past two years, I’ve been holding up a ten year old image of myself as the picture perfect unattainable range of who I should be. And in every corner of my house was a relic that told the narrative of my disappointment and my endless consumption to compensate.
 
The next day, I called, booked and paid for a commercial skip to be delivered to my house. For the past week I have emptied, cleaned and purged all the things that have been terrorising me. I walked up and down the incline of my drive, sweating and puffing. After watching me all week, the two men who live next door (and who I might add have not spoken to me in five years) caught me, cottage cheese bum in the air, fishing out a pair of tiny olive pants during a bout of post-throw-dissonance.
 
“Are you moving?” they yelled.
 
My sweaty, frizz haloed head popped out from the depths of the bin. “Huh? Oh, no. I’m a Buddhist now. I don’t need stuff”. Ok, yes. I admit I’m odd but seeing as I’m quite partial to oversharing, it was the easiest way to escape unscathed.
 
When the skip drove off on the back of a truck, I thought my work was done. But as I watched it turn the corner, I realised I was broken, that I’m not who I was born to be. So I sat down (and here’s the bit where you’ll have to reserve judgement about my sanity) and had a little talk with myself. The me I’m supposed to be has the innocence of a child, without fancy things and shiny hair, nor is she a heavily committed working woman (you want that bullet now?). She’s a fit mother, able to live her life. Able to jump in a river without hiding anything, run a little without collapsing and sit with her family without shame. And you know what else; I really don’t need any stuff to get that.
 
It was time to Break Up with myself!
 
So I did what any good woman does after a break up; I cleaned my fingers red raw. Up on ladders, down on knees, climbing on top of baths, toilets and sinks. And each day as I’ve said goodbye to another little piece of me, I’ve put less and less into my body to quieten that doubting voice. No doubt we’ll have conversations in the future, discuss some misery over some bread and cheese, but I don’t think we’ll fight.
 
Perhaps I’m a getting just a little bit too abstract on you here? I did a spot of cleaning, so what? A better illustration of my state of mind may be in the response I gave to a cleaning shop owner a few days ago. On my third visit during a single week his curiosity finally got the better of him and he asked,
 
“Let me guess. You’re a caterer? A chef? A cleaner?”
 
I paused ever so slightly and then responded, “Umm, I’m not too sure. I think I’m a nurse”. And with that I left, realising that I had spoken the truth; that I’m not sure where I’m going or who I’ll be at the end of this year. It could all go wrong, or bad, or right. And perhaps I am not of sound mind right now…
 
But give a girl a break, I have been through a break up after all.

* Note: There is no actual foreign voice inside my head. Call off the Doc’s Ma.

Knee Jerk Reaction

I’m yet to meet an adult that doesn’t cringe with the memories of their adolescence, regardless of how enlightened their parents were in dealing with their intrapsychic conflict (yes, I’ve obviously thought about this before). I was a rather gregarious teenager when it suited me but I also I suffered from what seems to be the unavoidable feelings of inadequacy that tend to go hand in hand with the period.

I maintain fiercely that adolescence is the most horrific time in ones life, only to be remembered fondly in later years with sentimental notions of skinny dipping in creeks and innocent kisses behind sheds. In reality, what we tend to forget is the girl in the year above yelling “Mooooooo!” and we disrobe and the boy of our dreams coaxing us behind the shed to laugh an “In Your Dreams!” in our face. But don’t pull out the tissue box on my behalf, scrape back the layers a little and I assure you, they’ll be something there for you too. Or better yet, just ask a sibling – they’re programmed to remember your most embarrassing moments!

So it was all this that came flooding back to me, in an unpredictable way when I was at the gym today. Having joined for the sheer fact that I would be amongst fellow “granny-knicker” wearers, I was shocked when faced with a demographic I had not accounted for when joining…the private schoolgirl!

Having not yet successfully evolved into true womanhood, I don’t find myself always able to look on with enough distance for these girls not to bother me. Instead of looking on with a “gee, I’m glad that’s over” sentiment, I found myself today wanting to hide inside the machine I was at that time straddling.

For some reason I haven’t yet understood, I perceive the fake tans, long nails and perfectly tinted hair as a personal attack. Perhaps I’m waiting for them to pull my school dress up as I bend over to fix my shoe.

I should at this time clarify that I wasn’t a bullied schoolgirl, and shamefully probably straddled the line of the bully myself. And maybe that’s why I’m afraid of girls, because I know that if I was capable of producing a “hey you” instead of addressing someone by their name, perhaps someone with a more compromised constitution could do worse to me now.

Perhaps all this is why I hurt my back today. Within three minutes, I let a 14 years old resembling a Whippet coax me into a rather enthusiastic knee-kick-with-hip-twist scenario, fuelled by the beat of Mamma Mia playing loudly from the speakers.

As the Mamma’s and the Mia’s blared out at a steady pace, the increased panting on the station across the room, propelled me into a double beat of kicking and twisting which I’m sure resembled a chubby woman trying to simultaneously stuff herself into a too-tight pair of jeans with matching turtleneck.

I’ve been on the couch, albeit laptop on lap, since my completely one sided showdown, wondering once more how on earth I got myself into this situation. You know, the one where I have all this blubber on rather important womanly bits that just won’t seem to go. Perhaps I should just end it all, throw in the bucket and declare myself “curvaceous, womanly, with more to hang onto”. Hmmmm…

Either way, perhaps a mixed and testosterone fuelled work out environment might have been a better choice. At least then, I wouldn’t hurt myself trying to compete.

Woman of My Dreams

A sneaky stop in an undisclosed suburb miles from home to get hot chips, a drive to the servo for an out of date ice cream, mindless nibbles on parmesan cheese and a blatant refusal to go to gym. Oh yeah, my back hurts, shouldn’t lift anything…

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of Florence Nightingale behaviour, so much so my sister has taken to calling me Florrie. Whilst I have neglected others (namely myself), I’ve been a flurry of activity helping family work, play and give birth.

Needless to say that no one could possibly help anyone in labour but some dashes to and from the hospital definitely left me feeling like I was helping or at least a little bit in control, in a completely out of control situation.

I truly love nothing more than to show the people I love, I care about them. Being of the school of thought that true altruism simply doesn’t exist, I suppose it’s because it makes me feel good about myself; that I am that sort of human being.

But while I’ve tried to control what’s going on around me, I’ve completely lost control myself. Anyone who has read these pages before knows of the instrinsic struggles of mental health problems and a gammy set of ovaries. For that reason, whilst completely in awe of what my sister just did and the gorgeous creation she brought into the world, I’ve experienced involuntary heart jerking.

In fact, the other night I experienced the classic signs of a heart attack – pain radiating into the jaw, a pressure in my chest, and pain in both arms. I went as far as to ask the toolman to call the ambulance but used to his wife’s hysterical nature, a sideward glance from him brought me back to reality.

Ah yes, now I recognised it, I’ve been there before – a feverish emotion-riddled heart strangulation. Did anyone say hysterical?

Sometimes my ol’ cogs turn slowly. Only after consuming all the above morsels with angered enthusiasm, I realised the wheels had officially fallen off. And so today I practiced weight loss 101 and channelled the woman of my dreams; the woman I often dream I will be tomorrow.

You see, I believe there is a secret phenomenon going on all around the world, in the darkness of night, with big girls everywhere. As your head hits the pillow, for the average seven minutes it takes to fall asleep, I suspect these women everywhere fantasise about the next day and how it will change. How they’ll look walking the block, how they’ll look by Christmas and for me, as always, how bouncy and healthy my hair will look (ok, ok, it’s my thing alright)!

Even though my hair looked dry and flat today at the supermarket, I loaded up on all the things I know I need and at home, organised my cupboard and fridge like all good slimmers should. Dry roasted veggies and cut up fruit are in containers in the fridge*, with the hope that they’ll tempt me away from what in the end will only kill me.

And while that heart has tried to close just a little bit again today, I’ve slapped it open. Because that’s the only way love is going to get out…and create the woman of my dreams.

*International Jet Setter Challotte: all containers are recyclable and reusable, no I’m not addicted to one time plastic.

Well, Well, Well…

Well well well, what do we have here? I’ve found it increasingly difficult to recognize my own good self recently. My “go-getter” status has definitely reached a new high, depending on who you ask of course. In actual fact, I seem to be slowly but surely morphing into my father.

When this afternoon I was daydreaming about my newly purchased attachment for the garden hose (do you know what those things can do these days?) and found myself calling my husband to see if he could bring home an empty milk bottle so that I might concoct a home made dripper for my basil, I realized I’d gone too far.

I wasn’t quite ready to tear myself away, so whilst I watered (the mist nozzle really gets me going by the way), I considered whether I actually had tipped over the “cat-lady-rose-bush-croc-wearing” line.

The funny thing is that like a mysterious beast of prey, you wouldn’t know what I was truly capable of upon meeting me; that I would be daydreaming about giving the corn (yes corn!) a good mulch and crying with delight when I found a worm in the compost. Unfortunately I live only a few kilometres from the city of Melbourne and therefore live with what could most generously be described as a large courtyard with a small lawn.

I grew up in the city but find that I move ever so gently, year by year, towards being a woman I would have never thought I would know. The vain city girl still lives strong; the biggest indicator of which is evident in all the fantasies I have about moving to a more rural area.

My fantasies always involve a great set of pins in tight jeans, bouncy hair and (I can hear the collective sigh of us fat girl now), a beautiful shirt tucked in to said jeans. Ah….the serenity…

Unfortunately little dreams don’t manifest themselves, so in the last few days, I’ve stepped into a new world, hoping to help me get back on track. Anyone following my weight loss would see, blaringly obviously, that I haven’t lost any significant weight in some time.

The difference in my appearance has motivated many to comment positively on how I look, inadvertently resulting in a release on the weight loss accelerator. But well aware of a job half done, I decided to take up a free trial at my local gym.

Not so much a gym as it is an oestrogen laden, sweat soaked women’s group, where middle aged gals doodle their way through a serious of hydraulic machines, enjoying a good dose of Abba coming through the speakers.

Needless to say, when I walked in, I knew instantly that it was the place for me to be. Free trial up and a decision about joining imminent, I went in today to complete my final workout free of charge. It was only when a woman walked in, donned in lycra and a sweat band rolled and tied around her forehead, all coordinated of course, I realised that I couldn’t possibly be more comical than that and would therefore be quite happy there.

Unfortunately joining seems to be more difficult that one would expect. You need to make an appointment for a fitness assessment, at which point I’m sure I’ll be sold all sorts of pointless gym-ing paraphernalia. When I finished my final trial, I walked up seriously to the young girl behind the desk,

“Now I’ve decided that I would like to join. I think this could work for me”

“Well, you have to book in for your assessment. Tomorrow’s no good, Friday’s no good. Why don’t you call next week?”

My face dropped. I had half expected a brass band to emerge from the staff room with a personalised congratulatory rendition of It’s Raining Men, every girls’ power song (C’mon, you know it is!). Alas, nothing; not even a discrete applause. It put me off enough to consider backing out.

But some places you have to get to on your own. And it could be the crazy in me, but lately I’ve been carrying my own little orchestra inside anyway…