No, I haven’t done a whoopsie in my undercrackers.

Nor have I had all my muscles and bones replaced with those of my grandmother in some bizarre ‘pensioner body exchange program’.

It’s true that should you spy the strange and precarious way in which I’m walking today you may think it, but my delicate state is down to neither of those things.

Yesterday I dragged my wobblicious buttocks down to the gym for a much needed work out. Usually the mere thought of this would make me break out the jam tarts in protest, but I’d happened to wander past the window days earlier and my naughty little peepers had clocked a pant-achingly gorgeous gym instructor. So I immediately purchased the finest Lycra leotard pennies can buy and booked myself in for a class.

Now, although I’m not strictly a regular ‘gym bunny’ I do undertake the odd erhem…‘work out’ so I reckoned myself to be fairly darned fit …

Sweet Mary Mother of GOD!

Within ten minutes all I wanted to do was curl up in a corner and beg that damned instructor to stop. I would have let him thwack me with a splintered broom, set my ears on fire with the sun’s rays and a magnifying glass, skin my entire body with the blunt edge of a trombone… anything that would have distracted me from the torture of this class.

Under normal circumstances I would have swiftly realized I was in way over my gizzards and strolled out and back into ‘LazyArseLand’ where I belong, but because this chap had made my flirt-bone stand to full attention I did no such thing.

Not only did I stay in the ridiculous class I worked myself to the very precipice of death in a bid to impress him. I lunged, I lifted and I pumped until my body was nothing but a dripping sack of sodden skin. The only thing pushing me through the pain was my conviction that he would recognize my sterling efforts and reward them with the offer of a small bevvie – that was until I caught sight of myself in the mirror!

Gurning, straining, soaked with sweat and a face so red it’s a wonder I wasn’t mistaken for a baboon’s ass – the minute I clocked my God-awful appearance I realized I had approximately zero chance.

So I did what I should have done to start with, I hauled my tired and sweaty buttocks out of there!

In hindsight perhaps it might have been a smidge smarter to hang around the gym cafeteria in a cute outfit waiting for an opportunity to chat to him. But nooooo, I had to choose the route that has left my muscles so sore I currently require the services of a very understanding chum to lift me up from the loo!

So my dear friends, I’m sorry to say, my Lycra leotard and I have decided to part company. Permanently.

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