1988

Of course I never cancelled my gym membership when we left England. I am not stupid. One of the first places I need to inhabit on my return to normality is the gym.

I love the gym. I adore it. I am going to stay there forever. It is a perfect place where I can live in 1988. Duran Duran is still going round on the sound system, Michael Jackson's not dead, we are still grateful to The Young Ones, and I have a sense of liberation and irresponsibility towards my own backside, having ditched the pointless boyfriend, avoided marriage and never got pregnant. Tonight I might go out or stay in, as the fancy takes me! And what is wrong with a fantasy like that?

You people who eschew the gym and scorn all who go there, you simply must have grown beyond 1988 to fill your lives with purpose, be successful in your business careers and feel rewarded in your personal relationships. It is likely you anticipate your satisfied and balanced days will be completed by gymnastic sex. You may have it all, and not need the gym. I have a house that looks like shit, triplets, no career, bosoms gone south and no sex life, so the gym circa 1988 is a perfect place to stay for a few hours while I reinvent all that has gone.

There is that other thing I can do, which is not an anachronism at all. It is a pure benefit of now being aged 50, invisible, and able to skulk behind the Stair Master. I can slyly glance at semi-naked men working out. Strongly recommended for all ladies in my disposition, especially if Bruce Willis in his vest was an object of great delight first time round.