Exercise and me. We've never had what you might call a ‘loving' relationship. I blame my parents; I come from a family who disdained it, who spent more time sucking up to Culture, Conversation and Plain Healthy Living than they did rolling balls to me when I was a baby, and on receiving my school report the last thing they bothered to check out was my mark for Physical Education.

After a couple of brief flirtations with Exercise at college and again in my early twenties ( both of which ended at about the same time as the relationships with the sporty blokes I was trying to impress) I forgot all about my trainers for the next few years and ignored it completely. I spent my spare time with the sofa, and concentrated on policing my weight with much more practical measures, like cutting all the fat out of my diet, or forgoing food for energy shakes a couple of days a week. This worked, for a while, until one day a flatmate of mine who was following the same eminently sensible regime commented on how her nails had all started breaking and her hair had started to fall out. Hmmm. Finally, at the great age of 26, the penny dropped. I needed to get back on good terms with Exercise. Would it take me back? Would it even remember my name? There was only one way to find out; I signed up for the gym and tried to get to know it. 

At first, we got on. It wasn't a natural fit (pardon the pun), but we made it work, and at times it was even successful. But although Exercise has always been there for me since, I'm afraid I have not been faithful. And therein lies the problem. This was always going to be something of a forced marriage. Sure, I would put the units in now and again, showing up three times a week for one, even two months at a time. But in the end, I was always called away by the siren lure of the sofa.

When I was younger this wasn't a problem, of course. Exercise would welcome me back whenever I chose, not questioning where I had been, tactfully ignoring the evidence of my sofa lifestyle, and putting me back on track until I felt secure enough to walk away again. ‘I'm sorry' I would say, the moment my clothes started to feel a little less tight. ‘It's not you. It's me. I just haven't got what it takes to commit. You understand...' And I would walk away without so much as a backward glance, leaving Exercise kicking it's heels on the changing room bench and no doubt thinking ‘She'll be back. I know it. She can't live without me.' And of course that would turn out to be true. Sooner or later I'd be hunting for that locker-room padlock in the bottom of my rucksack and scampering back to the treadmill, asking Exercise sadly if I could still cut it, if I still had what it takes. 

The problem is, as I've got older, Exercise has started to get a little more standoffish. It takes longer to deliver. I have to work harder. If I ignore it - even if only for a couple of weeks - it gets all antsy and gives me a really hard time when I pay it attention again. ‘Where have you been?' it asks. ‘Holiday, huh? That's no excuse. Don't think you can just ignore me and get all pally with that sunbed by the pool whilst you're away. We both know that's just a sofa by another name. You know what your problem is? You just won't commit...'

What can I say? Exercise was right. But last summer things changed. On returning from holiday I wondered who the porktastic housewife in the photos was, and renewed my vows. ‘I promise.' I told it. ‘I promise I won't ignore you again. Three times a week. For a year, at least. I promise!'  ‘We'll see' Exercise replied haughtily. ‘I'm not sure I believe you. I'm not even sure it will be enough to repair all the damage you've done...'  ‘Just let me try' I begged. ‘I can do it!  I know I can!'

Well, dear reader, here I am. A year down the road. 156 gym visits (give or take a virus or two) under my still considerable belt. And guess what?

I'm still the same bloody weight I was when I got back from that holiday last summer.

Perhaps I should have paid Diet some attention at the same time?