Well it was inevitable really.  The birthday that I had been dreading finally came around and luckily passed with a whimper rather than a bang.  But on paper I am officially no longer a “spring chicken”.  Nothing much changed in the mirror from the day before to the day after, but as the months have passed it has dawned on me that now is the time to grasp the nettle, before too much food and creeping stiffness make getting back into shape impossible.

I want to ski like a lunatic this winter and go surfing with my family next summer, and not be that sedate mother who watches from the mountain cafe or the beach.  I want to put on my favourite shirt and not be convinced that the buttons will fly off and take someone´s eye out when I sit down.  There is also the small matter of groaning when I bend over  (a dead giveaway of getting old so I am told by my delightful children) and being frightened of my back seizing up and having to walk around bent over after loading the dishwasher.

So I have joined a gym (I hate gyms but it is better than bootcamp), booked in my first personal training session (oh the horror of being weighed and measured by a twentysomething fitness fanatic), have sadly put the gin bottle out of reach (midweek only, there is no point in making myself completely miserable) and I am ready to go.  How hard can it be?