My parents tried, they really did. They tried to keep me active when I was a child. My mother appeared categorically incapable of sitting still (she still is) and she would drag us out on weekend walks, which I really resented. I once got roped into doing a “fun run” around the Serpentine [large pond in Hyde Park] and it was the least fun thing ever! I detested any activity that involved chasing balls. I mean, come on! Chasing projectiles with a view to intercepting them? Nope! I’d also ruled out pretty much anything that would get me hot and sweaty. I mean, come on, anyone who’s had to tame frizzy hair will know nothing good can come from sweating! I’d make an exception for swimming because it’s hardly exercise if you’re weightlessly immersed in cool (but not cold, never cold) water! So I guess there was that little seed of possibility as I discovered I could swim quite far reasonably fast. No balls, no overheating, but totally ruins a good hair day… Still, I hardly overdid it. Did I mention I carried a little extra weight? I blamed it on working shifts, you know, irregular hours, irregular meals, nights and weekends… how was I supposed to do regular exercise when I had zero routine ? Also (crucially) I didn’t want to. I was convinced that my nursing job was keeping me active enough, and if I was grazing on chocolate while on shift, that didn’t count because you could hardly turn down patients’ grateful gifts, could you? And I believed myself until, one early summer afternoon, it dawned on me that I would have to go clothes shopping. And not in a fun way. But because my summer wardrobe had shrunk.

You get my drift. I was forced to re-evaluate my lifestyle choices. To this end, I joined a gym and started going regularly. I tied my hair up and forced myself to get hot, bothered and sweaty. I did what I had to do so that clothes shopping, while still not my favourite activity, wouldn’t turn into a fresh hell every summer! And then something extraordinary happened… I got into into running. It was an accident, I swear! My (crazy/inspiring) friend signed us up for the London Marathon (2001). To this day I don’t know what she was thinking but I do know she wasn’t taking no for an answer. We both started from scratch, neither of us having run (slowly) more than 3km up til then. My parents laughed when I told them, and I couldn’t blame them. They could not conceive of anything more unlikely! I’d just started my midwifery training and one of my tutors (not knowing that I’d already been coerced into doing it) had specifically mentioned the Marathon as something we would definitely not have time for. But being a student again meant zero nights and far fewer weekends at work which allowed for a strict training routine. 7 months later, we crossed that finish line together [for the record, that’s 26.2 miles], me and my legendary friend! A year later, I qualified as a midwife. I still catch babies and I still run (and swim and cycle, anything for guilt free chocolate fixes!) Now, my children think I’m the crazy hyperactive freak who ought to quit dragging them out for a bracing walk! It’s karma, isn’t it! I’m struggling to inculcate healthy exercise habits in my children. And then I remember what I was like.