Okay, so it was going really well until my fit young personal trainer said these fateful words: ‘Don’t let your belly dome, Sue-’

Sorry?

My what?

In fact, I beg your pardon?

Or, putting it another way- What did you just say?

So, we’ve established that I don’t *do* exercise, in order to preserve my *almost* unused body, but with a family ski trip coming up for New Year, do I really want to be the last one down the slope??

Maybe if that means I am the last one *off* the slopes, it isn’t quite so bad. But last man down buys the drinks- so this is serious, ladies!

So I have a trainer twice a week to *whip* me into shape- Don’t that sound like fun?

Now all you ladies who took umbrage at all the hanky-spanky in Virgin For Sale had better not read on- for my work outs at the gym do involve rather a lot of physical discomfort-

and risk-

Have you ever used one of those huge, unwieldy *balancing balls*?
Er, don’t bother- they involve pain and er, risk.

But if the end result is a stronger moi- one with a flat stomach, instead of…er, a dome.

(a dome?)

Then all will be right with the world.

Huge thanks to Paul at the gym- if I don’t get a *&^!)){Y”! book out of this- I’ll eat my trainers.

Yes, those huge, clodhoppy things- even I have to wear them at the gym!

Have yourselves the best of weekends ladies!

Sxxx

ps: more to come from the torture chamber after Monday’s session.
Yes, Paul still works on Bank Holiday’s- the *&^)!”! fitness fanatic- Wouldn’t you just know that!