A new decision

Right. Fourteen helpings of strawberry ice cream later. I have reached a new decision. I'm going back to the gym.

This has been prompted by two events. The first is the awareness over the last 24 hours that I have eaten rather a lot of ice cream. And it has to go somewhere. I already have an enormous backside that follows me about. I get through the door first, and two minutes later it's following. I'm going to get the stairmaster onto it next week. That'll fix it. Then there's the wobbly legs. The bike's heading their way. And one of those big plastic balls they keep at the gym. That'll help with the waist which disappeared in 2000 and which was replaced by a few spare tyres sitting squashed together. It's not pretty. But it is all going to change.

The gym is a wonderful place and I love it. Getting there is difficult, because I have trouble leaving the children. I know the moment that I leave the house then Shark, Tiger and Squirrel will be running wild, neglected, unfed, turn feral, fall out, fight, drink poison, need a hospital, stab each other by accident or fall out of a window. All of these disasters would be prevented if only I had been close by. But if the only available adult apart from me is in China, or slumped in front of the computer with only a click finger on a mouse to tell me that they are still living, then I feel I cannot leave the house to go to the gym. So I don't go.

But when I can go, it is bliss. People who do not go to a gym think it is all about being body conscious, pumping up muscles, taking steriods and showing off your shorts. This is not true.

For a start, if I feel like having no exercise whatever then I lie on the exercise mats and watch the Jeremy Kyle show on trash TV. I can do some pretend cycling while I listen to 1980s music, then I can loaf around in the sauna or by the swimming pool. I get to wear an old tee shirt and battered leggings which are the height of slob fashion. The gym provides me with towels, shampoos, creams and scents and nobody takes the slightest bit of notice of me.

This is the best bit of all. Nobody bothers me. Nobody comes to check up on me or asks me what I'm up to. Nobody is shouting 'Mummy Mummy Mummy' or telling me that she's been hit by her sister with the puffin. In fact, I don't feel obliged to do anything, or speak to anyone. The only thing I reckon is not acceptable is to sit on the exercise bike set at level one in front of the Jeremy Kyle show eating a packet of crisps. But I bet if I tried it, no-one would say anything.

And on the days when a bit of gentle exercise is called for, like after fourteen helpings of strawberry ice cream, then there's the pretend bikes, the pretend rowing thing, the machine which has funny paddles for feet and feels like you might be skiing or underwater walking, the stairs which go up and up and up, the machines which have touch-screen TVs and radio access, and the big plastic balls that you can roll about on.

Well, why next week? Why not tomorrow? Well, my return to the gym will be helped by the second big event. Next week Nanjo is coming to stay. And when Nanjo comes to stay, everything becomes possible. Getting out to the gym will be stress free because Nanjo will be looking after Shark, Squirrel and Tiger. Dig will be slumped in front of the computer as usual, and Nanjo will be ensuring that no-one is starved, turning feral, stabbed, shot or falling out of a window. And if this wasn't enough, she'll be doing educational activities and the children will be learning things. Bliss. So next week I'll be pretending to cycle, watching Jeremy Kyle, I won't be worried, and the backside might even shrink a bit.