Awarding myself a Chufty Badge

Typically, the weather has decided to really give it with both barrels, just as I was about to leave the office (persistent drizzle will, I suspect, morph into bucketing-it-down very soon, as it did earlier today). So I thought I'd postpone the inevitable trudge through town trying to hide under my tiny umbrella. I am, however, going out for a drink with a POTENTIAL FRIEND, which is exciting indeed. And another POTENTIAL FRIEND has just offered me complimentary tickets for some baroque music do-dad on Tuesday night (he's doing the PR for it). Not to mention the sister of an old family friend, who's invited me to a dinner party on Thursday! Gracious, I'm practically Jaime Winstone or Daisy Lowe (both of whom seem to be ubiquitous party fodder in the pages of the tabs/ES mag and the like, without anyone being that sure about what they do. Still, they're both very pretty in their various ways, and I'm sure are largely harmless. They certainly were at the party I saw them at. Ha - just because I'm not in London any more doesn't mean I can't still name-drop).

I am also avoiding moving from my chair because earlier I had another session with Cheerful James, the King of Exercise and I'm now crippled. Having not done anything for a week, since my free session with the Rival Personal Trainer (I think Cheerful James was a bit jealous when I said I'd been putting my biceps about with another man; he told me the way his rival had taught me how to swing a kettle bell around was all wrong, for a start), I was expecting the worst, and he certainly delivered. I don't think it really helps when you've eaten breakfast at 9.30am, you start the session at 2.00pm, and you haven't eaten anything in the meantime. That's my excuse, anyway.

The session did at least start well, with CJ telling me that my hair was looking particularly shiny today. Aww! I love him! Well, I did until the point that he made me do something simple yet thigh-shatteringly awful on the cross-trainer. I then nearly had a heart attack on the rowing machine; I wanted to give up, but didn't have the breath available to puff out, 'I want to give up'. Still, that's what it's all about; paying someone to stand over you to force you to carry on, when your natural instinct is to have given up at least half an hour ago.

I can see why people get really into it, though - having someone act like you're the most important person in the world, and nothing could be more key to them than blasting your back fat into oblivion (and that this is a worthwhile use of an hour of their time) is nice. And being told you're doing really well - even if you suspect that you're not, particularly - is also nice. It's not that often you get told you're doing really well after the age of about, what, ten? So, in honour of my friend Ed, who often used to tell me I had lovely shiny hair, I have awarded myself my first ever Chufty Badge for Exercise. A Chufty Badge is something that Ed invented; it's a self-awarded gong when you feel particularly proud of an achievement. Perhaps especially a fairly minor achievement.

Now I just have to fill in Cheerful James's questionnaire on what my 'goals' are. Given that they run to such general, unspecific things like 'lose weight and tone up', which is what everyone puts, one of my friends suggested, 'Become the oldest person on the 2012 GB Olympic team'. I'm tempted, just to amuse myself. Especially if I can aim to be on the curling team - as everyone knows curling is basically just really enthusiastic housework, but on ice.