Screwfit

I have become troubled about this fitness test.

Number One Daughter rang this morning, having investigated all of the details of what it would involve. The curious can watch her doing something similar, except faster, on her Facebook page.

I have got to do a Bleep Test.

This is not related to the things you say whilst struggling up and down the gym, but to the amount of time one has between bleeps to reach the other end. They get closer and closer together until at the end you are dashing frantically up and down, presumably huffing and puffing and sobbing your surrender.

Number One Daughter said helpfully that the bit I was expected to do was rather less than she does as a warm up before she exercises, and that they would probably be tolerant because of my advanced age. Then she laughed, told me that I would definitely need to practice, and then hung up.

I am becoming concerned.

I have not told Mark anything about it at all.

This is because I do not wish to be any more ridiculous than is avoidable, so please be aware it is a complete secret.

I do not want to be more amusing than is strictly necessary.

I have a recollection of being with some splendid people, with whom, at the time, I had been deep and affectionate friends for over twenty years. One day one of us came out of the closet and confessed to us all that secretly, he dressed up as a girl in his spare time.

We considered this, and eventually got together. We asked him, in consideration of our long-standing and close association, why on earth he had never confided in us before.

“I was afraid you’d laugh,” he said sadly.

There was a guilty silence.

“Well,” said Chris, kindly, “you were right about that at least. Funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

With this in mind I am reluctant to confess my innermost anxieties to my nearest and dearest, so only you know that in five days time I will be spluttering my way up and down a prison gym, desperately attempting to contain my mounds of wobbling flab, and being assessed for my precise degree of uselessness by one of HMP’s ruthless fitness instructors.

I am definitely not going to tell Mark.

There are other associated anxieties, for example, what on earth I am going to wear. Just to begin at skin level, I do not own a sports bra, and have got no intention of shelling out twenty quid for one. This is too much investment just to get me through three and a half minutes of breathless misery applying for a job that we all know I am not remotely likely to be offered. Not owning one will not help the looking ridiculous difficulty, but it cannot be helped.

Then there are my feet. I do possess a pair of trainers, but I have never worn them, and am a bit troubled about doing so. I once went on a long walk with some old school friends wearing a pair of boots that I had not worn before, and the results were excruciating. I am going to have to practice wearing trainers as well, secretly, so that Mark does not begin to wonder if I am having some sort of sartorial epiphany.

Lucy has got jogging pants. She is away at boarding school, so I can borrow them without having to think of a credible explanation, so that will be all right, and I expect have got a T-shirt without holes or paint somewhere. I am going to try the whole outfit on on Monday when Mark goes back to work, and go to the gym with the lodger. I have not been in the gym before, so it will be yet another new experience with which to fill these pages. I shall let you know how I go on.

The picture is Mark’s activity for the day. He is trying to do some nice things to the camper van in order that I do not feel entirely abandoned and neglected. We can’t go anywhere in it no matter what he does to it but I appreciate the thought. This is the new door for the wardrobe. When he has finished it I can paint some pictures on it. I am looking forward to that very much indeed.

Even the darkest days have got some good bits.