I’ve joined a gym ...

... anyone fainted?

It’s a proper gym too, not just a FisherPrice one – full of big hunks and weights, iron-clad machinery, women with pert boobs who manage to stay firm-bottomed and perfect while sweating, loud music and the smell of exhausting under every bouncy black mat.

And then there’s me in the midst of it all, not so much a fish out of water but the token fattie in a room full of pecked perfection.

I’ve only been signed up for a week, but I’ve been thinking about going for ages.

I do lots of thinking, me; housemate Hiya Love says I could think for Wales, think for Britain, think myself out of doing anything constructive while lying supine on the settee with the cat on my lap.

I’ve also given up the fags, my mentholated peacemakers in rows of 20.

But that wasn’t much of a hardship as I’ve always been an “associated” smoker rather than a social one or someone who craved a hit.

When I’m relaxed I have a cup of tea, so I’d always add two cigarettes with my three sugars.

Lunchtimes it’s coffee time, sat on the roof of the coffee shop during my lunch hour, kicking back with a short skinny latte and maybe three breaths of death.

So I’ve stopped drinking tea and coffee and going over the coffee shop at lunch time.

I’ve amended my behaviour in order to kick the habit.

Proud of me? I’m slightly pleased with myself, but although I don’t have any cravings – told you I wasn’t addicted – I know I’m only one crisis away from smoky treat, a good mood away from a celebratory puff.

But as off today, I’m off the fags and I’m going to the gym.

It took some doing, getting me to sign up for the latter. As I said, the idea had been ruminating in my noodle for some time – I’d even gone so far as to look around it before handing over my credit card.

I walked away with the joining form and mulled it over while in Pizza Hut. Yes, Pizza Hut.

While there, eating three slices of the Chicken Supreme (that tight sod otherwise known as my Significant (thin) Other ordered and we had a medium BETWEEN THE TWO OF US) I scoured the small print to see if I could find something which could make me wiggle my way out of it.

And there it was – I was obliged to stay for the year, despite some ditsy bugger with a washboard belly telling me otherwise when I went in for the scout around.

“No you can leave any time,” she said. “But would you want to? Don’t you really want to commit? Because as the song says, if you’re wise you’ll exercise all the fat off.”

I don’t know what song she was referring to, but I don’t think that line was in the chorus of Food, Glorious Food.

Since then, you’ll be pleased to know, I’ve managed to convince myself that doing a bit of exercise, whatever the level, will do me good.

Smart, eh?

That said, my first trip into muscle beach was fraught with problems, ranging from what trousers I should wear to my lack of footwear and get-up-and-go mindset.

But walk in I did, purposively taking off my glasses so I couldn’t see either myself (sweating like a bullock) or anyone else watching me.

Nobody batted an eyelid, I’m happy to report. Thankfully, their vanity was my salvation because, let’s face it, the majority of gym trims are there because they either want to look good or they’re busily on their way to topping up their allure.

A big bird dying after two minutes on the treadmill and three seconds on the cross trainer doesn’t enter their orbit.

And for this week at least, concern about what other people may say/think/feel about me doesn’t enter my round world either.