Gone are the days that I read Fielding’s fictional friend with a wry smile safe in the knowledge that my body will retain an unwavering size 10 no matter what I do with it.
The Christmas holidays and my first gruelling Cornish winter have done peculiar things to my once petit body, now in its 29th year.
My one-a-day smoking habit seems to have cunningly and curiously crept up without my noticing. Vitamin-rich summer salads have now been replaced by comfort-giving carbohydrate-laden ye ole Englishe dinners.
I'm not one who weighs herself - in fact, I actively disagree with the fashion of calorie counting and modern fixations on whether I've gained or lost a pound and a half - in the main, I honestly, truly don’t care.
How things change! With the absence of a sensible summer last year, and the winter months doing a good job of keeping me out of the sea, my 'packaging' has become a bit cuddlier in recent months.
Then, shockingly, the worst happened. Without warning or apparently any shame, my arms developed what could only be described as the tell-tale wobble of bingo wings.
Something had to be done. The back-fat had to be addressed. The bingo wings most certainly had to go.
Then in from the gloomy mist rode St Michael's Hotel and Spa, offering me a month to sample their gym, spa and pool facilities, as well as nutritional advice and one-to-one personal training attention.
Boasting a magnificent view over Falmouth’s Gyllyngvase beach, one weaves one’s way through St Michael’s bar, through the thoroughly tempting smells of the fine restaurant, to reach the marvellously well-equipped gym and spa, where Health Club Manager, Caroline Evans offered me an effortlessly warm and friendly welcome.
Something of a water baby, I am cold-sweat petrified of windowless gyms full of terrifying looking metal equipment, topped off with a low-settling cloud of gun-kissing testosterone. There I stood. The only female (bar Caroline) in a 20 yard radius with guys all around me 'pumping iron'.
There was no time to dwell on the ridiculous, however, as Health and Fitness Advisor Simon marched me through my paces, endlessly patient, unwaveringly forgiving. He formulated an 80 minute gym plan for me, which was nothing if not a little optimistic, mixing cardio vascular equipment such as the rower and arc trainer, with weights, free weights (inducing a good set of giggles) and floor work - including the ever-amusing 'gym ball'.
My favourite part of the entire evening was perhaps at the end, signing a waver that I 'exercise at my own risk'. How true, how true.
Bumping into Personal Trainer Luke on my way through reception, he presented me with the all-daunting forms and lists - I had to make a diary of what I ate day-to-day in preparation for my first personal training session and nutritional tutorial 6 days later. As I had no idea of how little, or let’s face it, how much I consume on a daily basis, this interested even me - and I wondered vaguely if there was a limit on Cadbury’s Cream Egg intake.
But there they were, attached ominously at the back - the all singing, all dancing calorie counting lists. Q: ‘do you know a slice of bread has 90 calories in it'? I had the nagging feeling that I will start to feel guilty about eating, and it made me slightly resentful.
Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. With food diary, calorie lists and exercise disclaimer safely tucked in my bag, at last I sank into the glorious pool for a few dozen lengths and some gentle rejuvenation.
Day 1: Weight: unknown, but sporting an alarming, unusual overall wobble; Cigarettes: 3 - ok, ok, 4 (Bridget would be proud); Alcohol units: a smugly satisfying nil; Optimism: wavering slightly, but resolved to my task ahead.
And so my 4-week adventure begins, with a little trepidation, but a strong will.
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