Let me get one thing straight.
In spite of my buffed appearance, I am NOT a gym bunny.
In fact I loathe exercise.
I loathe exercise more than I loathe Facebook updates about farkin exercise. I loathe exercise more than I loathe the new iWatch. I loathe exercise more than I loathe the idea of shitting on the side of the pavement in full view of the public and the world’s media, which is also to say that if I’d been the one running the London Marathon in 2005, shitting on the pavement would have been the highlight of my fucking race, Paula. All of which makes my recent love affair with an exercise bike, frankly, disturbing.
It all began a few weeks ago, after an episode of PMS so severe that not even smashing the kitchen up – normally a marvellous stress-buster – would have worked. So, having read that exercise was good for regulating hormones, I approached the exercise bike gathering dust in the study.
“Hello Mr Bike!” I said, brightly, hoping he’d forgive the years of neglect, adding, “Are you pleased to see me or is that just a massive head tube?! Way-hay!!"