In which Trisha totally creases me...

So, this morning I wandered down to the river, for kettlebells, my Sunday service.  And my heart sank. No little group loitering by the grass.  Had I got it wrong?  Was it cancelled?

Then Trisha popped out of her car, lean and tanned in tiny shorts and vest. 

‘Where is everyone?’ I asked.

‘On holiday,’ she replied. ‘I think it might just be us.’

And my heart soared.  I looked hopefully at her, fully expecting she’d say something like, ‘So how about we go get some breakfast at the Tantivy?’

‘So…’ she said.  ‘How about we do something different?’

I looked quizzically at her. Not the Tantivy then? 

‘How about we do some interval training?’

It sounded so simple.  ‘Er…sure.’

So we started off running… Well, she ran, I sort of amble-jogged. Then…oh God, I really can’t remember.  It was the longest hardest toughest hour of my life.  I have a dim recollection of doing shuttle runs, followed by sit-ups and push-ups.  There was a bit where we swung monster kettles, then did burpees (oh sweet heavens above, is there any more exquisite form of torture?), then …something or other that was equally painful.

I felt my face go red; I felt sweat gluing my t-shirt to my back; my mouth went dry. People stopped and watched and you could almost see the thoughts going through their heads. Who are these totally mad women and what the freaking hell are they doing on a Sunday morning? 

‘How’re you doing?’ said Trish, not even slightly out of breath.  I just stared, wild-eyed, and sort of spluttered. 'Fine. That is, if dying is fine.'

‘Right. 100 rep cycles now,’ she said. 

‘What?’ I gasped.

‘100 reps of everything – kettlebell swings, arm raises, burpees, kettlebell sit-ups, lateral flies, leg drops, triceps…’  I stopped listening.  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I begged. ‘Let’s just do it.’

And I just endured. And somehow it ended and I was still alive. Sort of.  And, as we walked along the river for a cool-down we bumped into Teresa and Dawn-Marie and Teresa said, ‘Wow.’ And I just sort of grimaced. 

‘You’re so fit,’ she said.  ‘We couldn’t believe what you were doing.’

‘No, I’m not,’ I said.  ‘And nor could I.’

Because the thing is, it’s oh so easy to get into a rut.  I can do my normal routines easy-peasy but this seriously floored me.

‘I think I may have creased Jane,’ said Trisha with an evil grin.

‘I think you may,’ I said with a simulacrum of a smile, mopping my puce-red face.

But truly, it was great. Pushed me out of my comfort zone and made me realize that I’ve let my foot slip off the gas lately.  Put on a fair few pounds; lost a fair bit of aerobic fitness.  Time to make some changes.  J

If you want a Trisha beasting, she offers personal fitness sessions as well as a series of classes (kettlebells, bootcamp, Nordic walking etc.) around Exmoor.  Check out her website.  And...relax...she will work with your level of ability and to your goals. Seriously, it could change your shape; change your life. Save your life even, if you've been killing yourself with food and lack of exercise.  She only beasts me because she knows that, despite all the moaning and groaning, I love it.   

I'll kill you if you die on me...

I’m wrecked. Shattered. Knackered. Every muscle in my entire body is aching.  And that’s good, really good.  If you want to get fit, if you want to get fitter, you have to keep challenging yourself.  Bodies are smart – they adapt very quickly.  If you stay doing the same exercise regime, week in, week out, your muscles will get used to it, you won’t progress.  Anyhow, doing the same thing all the time is boring. 

When my favourite classes closed down, initially I felt seriously pissed off.  But when one door closes, another opens.  You gotta keep trying new things, right?  You gotta keep an open mind.

So I fetched up at Sizzling Step.  Copied the others, getting out the gear.  Stayed near the back so it wouldn't be too obvious I didn't know what I was doing.  

'Hi,' I said brightly to the two twenty-somethings next to me.

'Hi,' they said. 

'So, is this fun? I'm new.'

They looked at one another, slight frowns on their perfect foreheads.

'You haven't done it before?'

'Absolutely not.'

'Have you done any of Debbie's step classes before?'

'Nope.'

That look again. 

'Er, is something wrong?'

'Nooo.  Just, it's a pretty advanced class.'  

Oh.

It started off so well.  Up and down, up and down, up and down. Kick to the side, knee repeater...blah blah.  Pussies. What where they on about?  

'Okay, now we're all warmed up, let's GO!' said Debbie, cranking up the music.

Oh shit.

Now I'm pretty coordinated and I'm relatively fit but bugger me sideways no way could I fathom this.  They were sort of dancing over and around their damn steps, spinning like tops. 

I sort of made it though but after class I had a chat with Debbie.

'It's not really my thing,' I said.

'Try Step and Sweat,' she said.  'You could do Zumba first so it would be a two-hour workout. You'd love it.' 

'Good idea,' I said. Cos, see, everyone's different.  You gotta try these things to find out if they're for you or not.  And, if not, you don't give up, you just try something else.  

So, goodbye Pilates and Zumba Tone; hello Zumba something else and Step and Sweat.  Goodbye Wednesdays, hello Mondays.  Two hours of full-on cardio and conditioning, with weights.  Now I’m pretty strong, what will all the kettlebelling, so I plumped for the heaviest hand weights.  It was only as we were well into the warm-up that I realized I was the only one with the heavy duty buggers.  After about ten minutes, I realized why.  But by then it was too late – I’d have broken my neck trying to navigate through a class of people bounding up and down steps waving weights around.  So I stuck with it and… owwwwwww.  I haven’t sweated like that since I started Zumba, over two years ago. 

But it will get easier.  It’s always tough at the beginning.  You just have to push yourself through that initial resistance.  Why do it?  Because bodies are made to move, they’re designed to be active.  Yeah, I know that the healthiest, fittest people can drop dead of a heart attack and that the biggest slobs can eat, drink and smoke their way to revoltingly robust old age but, hey, if you can exercise (and I accept that not everyone can) isn’t it crazy not to help your odds?  The heart is a muscle – it needs to be given a workout on a regular basis.  Our bones aren’t made for sitting around either and avoiding weight bearing exercise can leave you with the risk of osteoporosis in later life.  I dunno – I don’t want to go round town in an invalid carriage and I don’t want to have a heart attack (way too many of those going on around me right now – way, way too many.

If you know you've got a health issue, you can get a GP referral for exercise. My pal Trish does them round here and has got all sorts of people exercising (and loving it) regardless of their age and health concerns.  

If you want to lose weight exercise really is your friend.  Muscle weighs heavier than fat but it also burns way more calories.  I have watched people literally change shape at the classes I go to – one woman has lost seven stone so far.  That's 98 pounds.  She’s taken up running now.  She finds it tough but, by heck, she’s sticking in there; she's doing it.

But, more than any of that, exercise makes me feel good.  As long-term readers of this blog will know, I have a really unpleasant cur of a black dog that nips my heel.  Adrian calls it ‘thinking too much’.  Stupid name for a dog, if you ask me.  But three things act like a choke chain on the brute – meditation, laughter and bloody hard exercise.  Last few weeks…months actually…have been pretty tough – those three keep my nose above water. 

Anyhow. Where was I?  Oh yes, wimpering quietly in the corner wondering if I’ll make it through kettlebells in church tonight.  Yes, we are probably the only kettlebell group in the country (if not the world) who swing our bells in the aisles.  It’s pretty cool actually.  Almost as cool as doing it down by the river on Sunday mornings,  watched by ducks. 

So. Please. If you possibly can, do exercise. You know I don't believe in telling people what to do but, honestly, I love you lot and I don’t want you upping and dying on me. Seriously, I may have to kill you if you do. 

Find a class or an activity or a sport that appeals (even if only just a little bit).  Or get out and do the running thingy with me.  Honestly, it’s not that evil.  We’re starting slow, remember – 90 seconds running, 30 seconds walking for now.  Half an hour, three times a week.  That’s all.  Lecture over.   

Puddle people, pseudo penises and Pinterest (repinned)

I’ve talked about Pinterest before so forgive another musing. But really, the more I use it, the more I prowl around, the more – odd I find it.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I still find it hugely useful.  I keep mood boards for my novels there and they jumpstart my imagination if it’s on go-slow. I have what I hope are inspirational boards for readers of my non-fiction books – lately I’ve been pinning seasonal recipes and lifestyle type stuff on The Natural Year board and adding more information on living as chemical-free as possible on The Detox Plan.

It also occurred to me that, while my Kindle books can’t have pictures, I can supplement them with boards. So I have recently started boards for the four little spin-offs from Spirit of the Home – Spirit of the Bedroom, Spirit of the Kitchen, Spirit of the Living Room and Spirit of the Nursery.  I loved this series – small books with lovely design that aimed, not to discuss decoration so much as the mythology, spirituality and energy of each room.

It’s also proving an invaluable resource for research.  I have a couple of non-fiction book proposals going to Frankfurt and Pinterest is the perfect place to stick all my research, so I’ve got images, information (and all the originating websites) neatly filed in one place. 

I see a lot of authors, designers and so on using it pretty much the same way.  But a lot of other people just…pin.  Madly, wildly, obsessively.  And weirdly.  Whatever you care to think of, someone will have a board dedicated to it. ‘Women inexplicably partially submerged in water’.  Yup, serious.  ‘People with big pictures of people’.  Oh yeah. ‘Garden hoses.’ That one’s a work in progress. 

Odd things are huge, just huge, on Pinterest. Tattoos obviously come to mind (there is even a tattoo category), swiftly followed by nail art. There are endless boards dedicated to cupcakes and subdivisions of cupcakes – people even have boards dedicated to a particular colour theme in a particular type of cupcake for cupcake’s sake. 

And slowly, you realize that, well…you’re simply not that special, not that unusual.  Your weird little idiosyncrasies – the ones you thought were pretty awesomely oblique, if not entirely unique – are…run of the mill.  Damnit, half of Pinterest is obsessed with the same shit. It should be comforting, I suppose, that you’re not the only one who has a ‘thing’ about…nah, I’m not going to tell you now cos I feel…kinda ordinary. J

It seems that, within the Pinterest demographic (and let’s be honest, it strikes me it’s a relatively a narrow demographic) everyone pretty much wants to go to the same awesome places and wear the same cool things and decorate their houses in much the same way.  And, by hell, everyone wants to be inspired – pretty much every Pinner has a board for inspirational quotes (I’ve got a whole blog brewing on that) and if everyone were as fit as their fitness boards and as bendy as their yoga boards, we’d be a world of Olympians.

Of course Pinterest has its underbelly and I confess I lurk around there a bit when all the ombre and neon and clean minimalism and perfect sunsets get a bit much.  And then I leave my jaw hanging pretty much on the floor as I discover I still have a morbid fascination (legacy of childhood) for really weird things like puddle people and possess a very infantile amusement at things that look like penises.  And then I just hang my head in shame and…laugh helplessly. 

Why I'm so cross with a number

I’ve told you about our local gym before.   It’s small – really small – and not remotely fancy.  It doesn’t open all the time cos it’s run on a shoestring – and the membership fees are paltry (yet, even so, a lot of local people can’t afford it).  But, anyhow, that’s all moot because it’s shutting.  We’ve just been told that 1610 (formerly Somerset Leisure) is closing the gym from the end of April. 

People are upset, very upset.  And me?  I’m cross.  Okay, so in the scheme of things, it’s hardly earth-shattering.  A little rural gym used by 80 people?  As someone said on Twitter, you don’t really need a gym to get and keep fit – you can do it all by yourself, using minimal equipment or even just your own body weight.  And that is absolutely true.  But this little gym is far more than ten cardiovascular machines, eight weight machines,  two mats, two fitballs, a TRX and a set of free weights.  It’s a little community. 

I’ve been to a lot of gyms.  But I’ve never been to one whose members’ ages spanned eight decades.  And I’ve certainly never been to one with such a bloody brilliant attitude.  Or such lovely people.  Which is why I’m hacked off it’s shutting. For me, personally, it's not the end of the world - I use it because it's there and it's great but I do have other ways of keeping fit. However a lot of people really rely on it and they deserve better.

The great irony is that it’s shutting down in the year this country hosts the Olympic Games. Our politicians lecture us that we’re overweight and underfit; they urge us to take up sport, to exercise, to move our bodies.  They're right: exercise is vital – our bodies need to move in order to stay fit and healthy.  Sure, you could get out there and walk/run/cycle/swim.  But you need to be motivated to do that and, let’s be honest, for a lot of people motivation is the toughest part of the exercise equation.  Trisha, one of the instructors, is one of life’s natural motivators. I have watched people literally change shape under her mentoring.  They shed pounds, drop dress/trouser sizes, go from couch potatoes to people who run marathons. Seriously.  I’ve also seen confidence grow, shyness fade away, depression lift, anxiety calm down. People have healed themselves at that damn gym, damnit.

There are people in their 80s there,  going hell for leather on the bikes, pumping iron.  Often more gung-ho and up for it than those half their age.  It was attracting those tricky teens too – and by heck, surely anything that encourages young people to get off their backsides and move is a good thing?  Trisha devised fun, safe programmes for children too, getting them moving, while also gently introducing them to the concept of healthy eating. 

I've met people there who are fighting cancer and yet more who have kicked that bloody disease into touch and use exercise as part of their regime for staying fit and healthy.  And people who suffer other illnesses, not just physical but mental too.  And there, I think, lies the true benefit of the gym.  Because it’s not just about the equipment, the machines, the regimes. It’s about the psychological benefits of belonging, not remotely in a forced or formal or regimented way, but in the quiet magic of a little ad hoc casual conversation; a smile; an acceptance; a tacit nod of support.

Exmoor is a beautiful place but it can be very isolating living here.  People often don’t realise that rural communities can be deprived just as much as inner city ones and West Somerset is officially classed as deprived. 

The gym acts as an unofficial support group to many people.  Members often drop by just for a chat, even if they don’t have time for a workout.  As far as we can, we help one another – we don’t pry, we don’t push but I guess we provide a listening ear, share suggestions, introduce helpful people.  You can’t put a price on that.

Yet, despite all this, the gym is closing because… Well, presumably because of money.  Or lack thereof.  But this is what I really don’t understand.  Apparently we needed twenty more members to go into profit. Just twenty bodies. Yet 1610 (yeah, I know, isn’t it such a stupid name? Can a number even be a name??) barely advertised the facility and seemed uninterested in encouraging more people.  Not long ago I wrote a long email to them suggesting ideas for boosting membership (family memberships, links with GP surgery, better marketing, etc. etc.) – I never received a reply. 

I can understand that times are difficult, funds are tight.  But 1610 is a non-profit making leisure trust - it’s not big business.  Their website says: ‘Our aim is… to help people live fuller richer lives through an active body and active mind.’ Oh really?  You could have fooled me.   

What will we do?  Fight, of course.  Because that’s what you do for things that are worth it, isn’t it?  You don’t roll over and give up.   So we’re going to talk to the local council; we’re going to get media coverage of the issue; we’re going to see if there’s a way of taking the gym into our own hands and running it ourselves.  Something Dulverton always likes doing.  Cos it may only be 80 people but they are 80 people I know and care about.  And, with a bit of enthusiasm and inventiveness and passion there could be a lot lot more of them.  So, if there’s any way you can help, do get in touch. We now have a website:  Exmoor Gym - and also a Twitter account - @exmoorgym - follow us and support us if you can.

And if you have something similar in your neighbourhood, please support it.  In tough times it’s the little things that make a difference, that help us get by. Don’t let them falter and fall through neglect.

Update (10th April):  Following a meeting a working group has formed and has drafted a detailed business plan showing the gym is totally viable. Our town council and the church are fully on side and we have had support from a wide range of people - both gym users and others.
We would like to run the gym as a registered charity (accountable to locals via the Town Council).  We are confident we can run it professionally and within budget, ploughing any profit back into the facility. However, to date, 1610 are refusing to discuss the issue.  They would not go on local radio to talk about it. They have refused to meet with the group or the Town Council.  They want to keep the gym - but keep it closed. Now where is the sense in that?  Without wanting to be a conspiracy theorist, you have to wonder why?

So we have a  bit of a David and Goliath situation. Our MP, Ian Liddell-Grainger, isn't being exactly supportive so far. Which is also interesting because it's his party which has advocated the 'Big Society' and this, surely, is localism in action, rather than just rhetoric.

So right now we are seeking press coverage - because, frankly, the situation sucks.  So, if you have any contacts and could spread the word, we would be very grateful.  Actually, I suspect it might make a darn good story. 

It's not all about size zero, you know

‘It’s not all about being bloody size zero, you know, Jane,’ said the woman in the pub, stabbing her finger at me. ‘All this diet and exercise stuff you do; it’s not where it’s at. It doesn’t make you happy, you know.’ 

Now, admittedly she was very VERY drunk but it did rather take me aback because she sounded really angry. And it got me thinking.  Yes, I’ve lost a lot of weight over the last year – nigh on fifty pounds.  But it was never about being stick thin; it certainly wasn’t about being size zero (not that I’m anywhere close).  It was simply about not killing myself with food anymore.  I’m still not totally balanced out but I’m getting better; I’m trying.

The exercise stuff I just found I liked. I tried a lot of things and some worked for me; some didn’t. As my pal and fitness instructor Trisha always says, unless you find something you enjoy, you won’t stick with it; it won’t become part of your life.  I enjoy walking the SP cos it frees my head and gets me out in the fields or up in the woods, stroking the trees, kissing the sky, whispering to the river.  And I love yoga cos it shifts my perspective and makes me feel sooooo stretched.  Zumba, oh Zumba, I adore because it’s tough but fun and I can lose myself in the music and, shit, it’s just sexy as hell - plus I haven’t had a day’s backache since I started (cos it shimmies you out like nothing else).  When it comes to the gym, let’s be honest, I spent most of my time chatting with Trisha and when the house is cold, the gym is warm and I can scribble notes on the exercise bike.  Kettlercise?  Well, slugging kettlebells around just  makes me feel…strong.

Yeah, strong.  I love that I have well-defined muscles now – that if I flex my arm I can see those twin mythical beasts, biceps and triceps; that my quads ripple a bit when I walk.  Let’s be very clear here, I’m not talking muscle-bound Ms Universe stuff – just a bit of toned lean muscle.  I’m not entirely there yet and I’m pretty sure my stomach will never be a washboard but I’m starting to feel comfortable in my skin for the first time that I can remember.

But that word - strong.  It took me back to Israel and a woman we met at the Daniel Rowing Centre in Tel Aviv.  Her name was (and, as far I know, still is) Moran Samuel. She was an athlete (a talented basketball player) and a student.  Then, when she was 24, she had a stroke, clean out of the blue, and became paralysed from the chest down.  Suddenly her life was turned upside down and she headed into rehab. Did she give up?  Did she hell.  She went and qualified as a physical therapist, working with children with disabilities.  She returned to playing basketball (in her wheelchair) with the men’s Paralympic team and then, as if she hadn’t already achieved enough, she took up rowing and has recently won a bronze medal in the World Rowing Championship and has a ticket to the 2012 Paralympics. If you want to read her story in words far more eloquent than mine, do visit the Vibe Israel blog here where Sally Whittle tells her story. 

She was wearing a t-shirt when we met her that said simply:

Strong is the new beautiful. 

I like that message. And it struck me it’s one that might not be bad to impart to our children.  Because, while I may not be after a size zero body, a helluva lot of teenage girls are.  And boys aren’t immune either.  They’re trying to disappear, to vanish somehow. Young bodies need to grow strong, they need the nutrients a good healthy diet gives.  We ain’t gonna stop the glossy magazines and fashion designers peddling anorectic models, however much we may wish they would – so it has to come from us as parents.  How do you do it?  I dunno.  Be careful about the messages you give out maybe?  I just wish someone or other had gently nudged me into exercise when I was fourteen, instead of sticking me on a starvation diet.

So no. I know that a size zero body doesn’t bring happiness to anyone.  I know that dieting and exercise doesn’t make one happy per se either.  Happiness is a curious concept and not, to my feeling, a process so much as a glimpse - a moment, a song on the wind, a tug in the heart, a tingle in the gut.  Or maybe not even a noun but a verb – a happying.  But while I wait for my lovely happyings – and come they do – I think I’ll settle for trying strong.  When I'm not feeling weak.  :) What you reckon?

btw, if you live around Exmoor you might like to come along to a day's bootcamp I'm doing with Trisha and another local fitness instructor, Nicola.  See here for details...

You can't always get what you want

You ever have those times when carrots are dangled in front of your nose and then snatched cruelly, capriciously, away?  Now, I’m not grumbling because really, I have absolutely no right whatsoever… but, but, but…

‘Do you wanna come for a week’s Boot Camp?’ asked Julie. 
‘Shit yeah! Of course I do!  When?’
‘It kicks off this weekend.’
Nooooo. Damn. Damn. Triple damn.  Adrian is off on his travels again next week so I’m left holding the fort.  Ah well, there’s always Zumba tomorrow night. Except – damn and blast again – he’s away then as well.  At which point I’m really wishing James had taken to flexi-boarding.  But, hey, what can you do? 

But then it got even more cruel.  I was whining on Twitter last night about my poor teeth – or rather lack of them.  Now, let’s be clear, in the scheme of things they’re not that bad – people don’t openly flinch when I open my mouth; I don’t get cast as the evil witch for Hallowe’en..except… hmm. 

Anyhow, it’s just that I had this weird thing whereby four of my adult teeth simply never appeared (dentists are always fascinated by that – they get quite excited even and, heck, it takes a lot to get a dentist excited, apart from the flashing of credit cards) so, once the baby ones went mank, there was nothing to take their place.  Hence four gaps. 
Add to that the ones at the front where I bit my mate Mark’s head at Heaven in the 80s and the ones I chipped on nougat and the whole lot really need sorting. In fact I was watching Knight and Day (possibly the worst film I’ve seen since Waterworld) and was just mesmerised by Tom Cruise’s incisors (though maybe they’d been photo-shopped along with the rest of him).  So then I get an email with the title ‘teeth’.  Open it up to find a PR is offering me a consultation with a top dentist. 

‘Well that would be lovely except I know what’s wrong and I can’t afford to get it fixed,’ I said in a self-pitying tone.

‘Well, if you could write about it in the press, he’d probably do it for free.'

What???  Free teeth?  I nearly snapped off the hand that offered except…  Sigh.  It’s about time I got my arse in gear and found a new outlet for my wellbeing writing, it really is.  Not that I’m feeling self-centred or anything…  But…new teeth??
I know this sounds self-indulgent, I’m really aware of it.  But it’s the dangling that gets me.  Now, if nobody had mentioned bootcamps or new teeth, I wouldn’t remotely be sitting here thinking, ‘Darn, hellfire, I wanna go exhaust myself with eight hours exercise a day’ or ‘I must have a gleaming straight white smile’, would I?  Whereas now – see - I’m feeling hard done by.  You ever have that? 

Should I be stoical and say there's a reason?  Or should I listen to Mick and think I might not get what I want but I might get what I need?  Oh feck that.

Soooo, world.  Don’t offer things if you ain’t gonna deliver.  Alright?  It’s plain mean. 

PS: check out Brealy BootCamps  - one place going this weekend.  It didn’t work for me but maybe there is a reason – maybe it's waiting just for you!  Go on...click the link!  ;)

Bootcamp - in which I discover I love hardcore exercise

It was one of those weird coincidences – you know, the ones I love so much.


An editor I used to work for had sent a round robin email to announce she was going freelance. Soon after I got a call from someone else on the list - an ex-editor now turned PR.

‘Long time no speak,' she said.  'I saw you on the email list and wondered if you might fancy going on a bootcamp in Buckinghamshire?’ she asked. ‘It’s run by this amazing woman called Julie Brealy.’

‘Hang on a flipping minute,’ said I. ‘I know Julie Brealy.’ When I’d damaged a tendon, she’d given me sports massage on it for weeks – down here on Exmoor. She was fab. She was also pretty hardcore. My Achilles got better out of sheer fear. But, hey, small world. It was obviously A Sign so I signed up. And promptly forgot all about it.

Then realised, in a mild state of panic, that March was whizzing along and I had a hot and fast approaching date with eight hours’ exercise a day. Stumbled onto the train with a case full of trainers and my bodyweight in painkillers. Arrived at Latimer Place and was hurled straight into a circuit class followed by – oh yes – Zumba.

I don’t think I’ve talked about Zumba on the blog. About my mad love affair with the wildest, sweatiest, dirtiest dance going. But you can read about it on my Lady blog here. There was lots of Zumba on this weekend – four hours of it. Oh yes.

Anyhow. The weekend was a total blast. Just wonderful. There were twelve of us – all women but all ages, sizes and shapes. Some revoltingly fit, some not so. You work at your own pace, encouraged rather than pushed. No noses in the mud; no screaming and yelling. Best thing was trying out new classes and workouts. So it was thumbs up to kettlebells – yeah the Russian dead weight thingy you swing between your legs (very fetching). Thumbs down to bellydancing (I tried but I just can’t shimmy my boobs in the opposite direction to my hips). Actually, nor could anyone else – we all looked desperately stiff and Anglo-Saxon (even the French and Swedes in the group). Thumbs up to gym sticks (a deep and brilliant stretch) and, surprisingly, thumbs up to Jazzercise (bit of a blast). You know, I can’t remember everything we did but there was a lot of it. There was also tons of food. You think you have to live on a couple of carrot sticks and the odd oatcake? Wrong. I seriously couldn’t keep up.

At the end of the day we piled into the pool and swam and then jostled for room in the jacuzzi. Then crammed into the steam room and sauna. And laughed and laughed.

But, best of all – bliss upon bliss – I was working so hard that there was no room At All for the usual nonsense that flies through my head. I was in ‘no thought’ for such vast periods of time that the world transformed into a very pleasant place. So coming back home felt weird. What is this thing called ‘sitting on a chair at a PC?’ My muscles twitched; wanted to move. And my mind winced as the old crap came rushing back in as I unravelled over 100 emails and a slew of voicemails.

So I went to the gym. And talked to Trish who introduced me to Julie in the first place. ‘Did you like it?’ she asked, as I beat hell out of the exercise bike.
‘I loved it!’ I said.  'Just the dog's bollocks.'
‘Hmm,’ she replied. ‘Better do a week the next time.’

You know what?  I'm severely tempted. 


Brealy Bootcamps - give 'em a go! 

Win an XBox Kinect and YourShape

I’ve never got computer games. Never even went on Space Invaders or PacMan. Just don’t get the fun of fiddling with knobs (so to speak). I’ve watched a succession of consoles wander in and out of the house and never felt remotely tempted to pick up a joystick and join in. Okay, so once I let James persuade me to wield a light sabre in Star Wars and actually I did alright – mainly by adopting a wild spinning and slashing action.


I thought I’d like the Wii Fit but it fell short somehow. I didn’t like being confined to the balance board and coordinating nunchuks just got on my nerves. James loved it of course: mainly because he got a kick out of topping me in everything. Except for Zazen. Seems I can sit without moving a single muscle for a very long time. Who knew? 100% every time. Ker-ching.

Then along came Kinect. Some of my mates had been over to LA for the launch of this last year and had raved about it but, even so, it didn’t really register. But James had one for Christmas and I watched him play. No controllers. Just him in front of the TV.
‘You wanna have a go, Mum?’
‘Hmm, mebbe.’ (nose deep in my new Kindle)
‘C’mon. Even you can do this.’

So I stood up and it scanned me. Plotted out all my bones. Shit, do I really look like that?

You know what? It’s huge fun. We played all sorts – ducking, diving, jumping, sliding. My favourite is the one where you wave your arms to fly up to the ceiling (been trying to do that in real life for years).

Then we tried Your Shape and that was a bit of a revelation too. I’ve done aerobics classes for years, absolutely years, and I thought I had pretty good technique. Wrong. Because the Kinect is tracking your actual skeletal structure (actually I don’t want to think about how it does that too much) you can see exactly where you’re going wrong.

Is it perfect? No, of course not. But it’s damn good. I broke a serious sweat on the cardio class and the trainer is kickass on muscle toning – the squats were an absolute killer. Loved the cardio boxing and I’m impressed that it tries to persuade you to end each session with a Zen stretch.

Now, if they could just find a way to get Assassin’s Creed running on Kinect, I might really be a lost cause.


What? Oh, the competition....sorry. If you have an Xbox and would like to try out Kinect, here’s your opportunity. Ubisoft, the game developer, has promised that one of you lovely lot will win a Kinect and a copy of Your Shape. Read on....and good luck.

Here’s the official blurb bit...(not written by me - how did you guess?) 

Diary of a Desperate Exmoor Woman has teamed up with game developer, Ubisoft, to give readers the chance to win an Xbox Kinect along with a copy of Your Shape: Fitness Evolved.

Your Shape's groundbreaking camera tracking technology completely changes the fitness experience, providing users with an unprecedented level of accuracy and efficiency. Unlike other games, Your Shape’s proprietary Player Projection technology puts your body into the game for the ultimate fitness experience. You will physically interact with virtual environments in ways you’ve never seen before and you’ll be captivated by unique and exciting visual effects that respond to your movements and impact.

To be in with a chance to win all you have to do is view the Your Shape Discover Your Shape (‘Toned Body’) video clip on their home page at http://yourshapecenter.uk.ubi.com/ and then come back here to answer the following simple question:

Question: How many new classes does Your Shape’s Cardio Boxing Platinum offer?

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Post your answer in the comments below...

Please note that the Xbox 360 console is NOT included in the prize bundle.  Also, sadly, the prize can only be sent out to a UK address.  The competition will close on 10th February.

I'm average

I’m average. I am... And it’s fine, it really is. We can’t all be special, you know. :-) 


Actually I’m rather chuffed. A new gym has opened, literally two minutes from my front door and I have been studiously ignoring it; pretending it doesn’t exist; that the people marching down the lane in trainers and day-glo sweatshirts just have dodgy fashion sense.

It’s a bit mad really cos at heart I’m an uber gym-bunny. I caught the bug when I was staying in the States with my brother. He signed me up for his local gym, a spit and sawdust place where I was the only one not on steroids. I think I was also the only woman – but, hey, who knows? Anyhow, I loved it. The big guys were lovely – they’d coax me to one final muscle-tearing rep and send me flying when they high-fived me.

Back in London I joined a smart gym in Covent Garden with my friend Nicky. The guys there would probably have headbutted you it meant they go on the stepper first.  But hey, whatever...we got so fit I even had one of those thong up the backside leotards. Nicky used it as her happy hunting ground for meeting cute guys (the naughty minx even had sex on the sunbed with one of them) but my Celtic skin with its tendency to go puce on extreme exertion rather scuppered my chances. I’ve probably already told you about the guy who chatted me up at a party one evening and then didn’t recognise me on the StairMaster the next day, with my day-glo face and sweat pouring down my nose.

Down to Somerset and more gyms followed, each one smaller and less fancy than the last. Then the council opened what is apparently the UK’s first ‘rural gym’. It’s housed in the old parish rooms hall and, while not remotely large or flash, it is smart and clean and has all you need for a seriously good workout: bikes, treadmills, cross-trainers, rowers plus a comprehensive range of weight machines. At £17 a month, it’s also ridiculously cheap in comparison to most places. So how insane was it that I hadn’t been?

Then, I dunno, something switched in my head. I marched down the road, swept through the door, signed on the dotted line.
I’ve lost a fair bit of weight and I need to firm up, to get strong again. Actually I hadn’t realised quite how MUCH weight I’d lost until Trish, the gym trainer, got me on the scales. 30 pounds. Sheesh.

‘How long has it taken you to lose that?’ she asked.
‘Ummm.’ I looked sheepish. ‘Since November maybe.’
‘Beginning of November?’
‘Sort of...’
‘Bloody hell.’

Why am I so sodding extreme?
She measured my fat, my body mass index, my peak flow, my fitness level.
‘It’s not going to be pretty,’ I warned her. ‘I’ve lost my edge.’
‘Average,’ she said. ‘You’re not as bad as you thought you’d be.’

Hmm. No, I’m not. In fact, in this context, average is just perfect.


Live on Exmoor?  Hey, come and check it out - here  You can also shout at me if I'm cheating - chatting and not running!