I've finally done it. I've put my money where I hope to leave my lard and I 've joined a gym. After months - years even - of promising myself that I'll go walking, cycling, watch my diet and generally be good, I've admitted that I'm all talk. Over the last few years, I've slipped into unfitness and struggled into a size 16. Enough is enough.
Joining up was easy. Young, fit and pretty Andrea showed me around and explained the workings of the lockers, car park etc. There's everything there a body could ask for. Fitness room with all the machines and weights, 22-metre pool, sauna, steam room, Jacuzzi et al. I paid my sub on the spot and went to buy a swimsuit.
Day one, however, was a little more demanding. Young, fit and pretty Paula took me on board for my initial assessment. She measured me every which way, weighed me, pinched various bits of me with a calliper thingy, did my peak flow, took my blood pressure and finally came up with a percentage that, were it the Leaving, I'd be looking at repeating. I am officially unfit.
Start easy, she said. Ten minutes on the treadmill to begin. She punched in an easy programme and let me off at a speed of 6.5 k.p.h. I watched the time crawl and willed myself to keep going. I'm new to the locale and spent the time trying to remember if Portlaoise has a hospital. After 10 minutes, she slowed me to a halt and I got off with wobbly legs.
I was about to head for the changing rooms when I realised I wasn't actually finished. The 10-minute treadmill session was only a warm up. There followed a stretching session which was fine - you actually look the part when you're doing those stretchy things that footballers do on the sideline.
Eight minutes on the rowing machine followed and another 10 on the treadmill. Then on to the cross trainer. I'd only ever seen these affairs on the late-at-night infomercials. It's like climbing stairs and skiing at the same time. Arms and legs are going all at once and, for me, it was a feat of co-ordination. I looked like a windmill. She programmed me in for 10 minutes. This is a young, fit and pretty Torquemada I'm dealing with. In an act of pure defiance, I called a halt after four minutes. Just when I thought I'd won, she told me to make up for it in the pool with five lengths. Any stroke I like, she said. She's all heart.
And then there was the episode with the Swiss ball. It looks like a space hopper minus the ears. I was to perch on this, roll back and lift my upper body to crunch my abs (at least I'm learning the lingo). She demonstrated and crunched her own don't-need-to-be-crunched abs. I wobbled about a bit and fell off. I'm not going to let it beat me, though. I intend to revisit it but I'll have to do it at a quiet time - I don't want to be the in-house entertainment.
I finally got to the pool. I floated about a for a bit and contemplated the fact that Paula, who's actually a dote, has devised a 45-minute gym programme for me and recommends that I do it three times a week. I could think up a million excuses for not doing it. But it's put-up or shut-up time and I've flogged out a small fortune. Besides, I'm not going to let that latex ball beat me. Day one endeth. And yes. I did the five lengths.
I chose a very slow, very lame doggy-paddle.