A couple of weeks ago I had a session with someone who showed me how to lie on the floor, breathe and move my legs a bit whilst doing some boring pelvic floor thing reminiscent of ante-natal classes. Anyway, I thought I’d acquitted myself rather well so felt justified in saying I was now doing Pilates. Today I went to a class in a local sports centre, dressed in my trusty purple trews, having been told that the class would be gentle as it was for Older Women – and yes, they did all look older than me. But even in the warm-up session I could tell that these babes were not just fitter than me, I wasn’t even in their league. Just holding my arms out to the side for more than a second was a challenge, let alone the other things that came after. I lay on the mat while Pink Floyd played on the CD player. I felt like Edina Monsoon from Absolutely Fabulous who got herself a personal fitness trainer but found that the only thing she was able to do was move her eyeballs. I could have done with Pats at my side to tell me well done when, after ten minutes, I grimaced my apologies and crept away. Which just goes to show that you can’t always tell a book from its cover (though these days, actually, you often can). I mean I look, you know, more or less ok. The muscles will not have it, though. I am living a double life, the mind seeming to do one thing and the body another. Of course, I’m used to living a substantial amount of time out of the body, else I’d have gone quite bonkers before now. But stone me, it’s unwelcoming when I go into it.
Also, I am quite done in with lack of sleep. Some say the moon has been playing tricks, what with the recent eclipse and all, and that this accounts for everything. But then everyone would be walking around bog-eyed, and I can see they are not. The moon just has it in for me, as I suspected all along.