Skin folds and hankies

D-Day. About as frightening a day as any woman could dream up in an over-active imagination, fuelled by cider binges and chocolate indulgence.

The day Luke Collins, personal trainer, Redruth rugby player, and all-round fitness-guru had to go through my daily food intake, then weigh, measure, poke, prod and evaluate my strength, 'skin folds' and body fat mass.

Breath in, ladies.

Settling down in the relaxing aroma of a spa treatment room, 6ft 6" Luke could have been about as intimidating as Alan Sugar to David Brent, but he wasn't.

Deeply sympathetic, he walked me carefully, patiently and un-patronisingly through food fixations and neurosis, body image and the advantages of fitness.

I learnt things I didn't dream could be possible - such as no amount of cardio work or praying to the Lord Almighty can ever reduce the amount of fat cells I now possess - this is only possible in childhood. All I can aim to do is simply reduce the size of the fat cells I am currently left with.

I raise my eyes and thank God I was an active child. The dangers and problems of childhood obesity now inherently clear, as the number of fat cells are then passed on through genetics to the next generation.

Also, Luke informs me, I am to no longer refer to myself as 'getting older'. Apparently 28 is the prime of a woman's natural physical fitness. Once again, a small prayer of thanks is uttered. Perhaps that second helping of apple pie might simply forget to travel via my hips.

Nestled in the room with us are a variety of complicated sciencey looking implements, designed to see into my very soul. Ok, not quite that far, but that’s about as naked as I felt when they magically told Luke all my secrets - what my resting heartbeat is (an annoyingly higher than wanted 72, although anything up to 90 is ok. Luke's thumps at an incredibly relaxed 40 or so); what my blood pressure is (practically registering me dead it's so low, but we knew this about me already); and most horrifically, what percent of my body is fat.
This is it. Callipers at the ready, my biceps, triceps (bingo wings), sub-scapular (back fat), and supra-iliac (love handles) are gently pinched, measured and scrutinised. Luke's face gives nothing away but I am getting more and more frantic.

A few complex calculations are scribbled down and worked out (who knew personal training was so mathematical!?). He then measures the results on various age/weight/eye colour charts (ok, I lied about the eye colour). He fixes me with his eyes.

"Ok. On a scale of fitness, average, below average, and GP referral, where do you think you are?"

Difficult one. I do a few calculations of my own in my head. I take into account Wednesday's apple pie, my office based job, minus childhood fitness and a small frame. Throw in a total consumption of what must be 3 large bars of dairy milk since new year. I play safe. 'GP referral?'

Laughter is a good cover for nerves and I laugh. His is more genuine however, as he breaks the jaw-dropping, incredible, impossible news that I fall within 'fitness'. My body fat is a respectable 22.5%.

It is almost too much to take in and for a few elated moments all I can do is assume he is kidding. When it turns out he is not, I go to shake his hand and leave. Surely, my work here is done?

Wrong. The wobble still exists, there's no getting away from it. And although I have allowed to talk myself into being far less fit and far weightier than I actually am, there is still lots of work to be done.

I am severely deficient in vitamins provided by veg (I am a renowned green veg-dodger), and I don't consume enough carbs. The thigh circumference is too high to put in print (I blame a childhood career of gymnastics), and I still can't wear a vest top without turning white every time I see my upper arms.

It is with this resolve that I book to see Luke again in a few days for a session in the gym - apparently the body's 'wall' is far beyond the wall in my mind and he's going to 'push me through it'. It sounds like Chinese torture, but he's such a gentle giant I just can't believe it of him.

Day 6:
Food intake: have already forgotten to eat the breakfast I promised Luke I'd force down - must tie a knot in my hankie to do so tomorrow. Must also buy hankie in which to tie knot;
Cigarettes: 2 yesterday, none today. Feeling like I should be able to knock this on the head once and for all;
Alcohol units: Am half tempted to count cider simply as a 'fruit' to add to my 5-a-day (which Luke says should really be 9 anyway - not sure I could physically consume that much a day, though);
Optimism: After a refreshingly relaxed and super-friendly hour and a half with Luke, I feel like anything's possible. Kate Moss, here I come;
Age: Not 'getting older' just yet...