Let's Get Physical

No matter how much tennis I play and how many cakes and chips I don’t eat, I am still piling on the pounds. I’m no longer a voluptuous goddess and definitely a tad on the chunky side. This is especially depressing as I have to be ready for my close-up on September 19th in the south of bloody France, when I shall be playing the role of me in The Making of Plus One movie.

As we all know, the camera is a cruel beast that adds ten pounds, so there’s a danger people will start lumping me in with Kirstie Alley once they see me on celluloid. I treated my Woman Child’s unhelpful and ridiculous suggestion that I join Overeaters Anonymous with the contempt it deserved. She wasn’t joking. That’s her pictured with me. She’s the young, beautiful, slim one on the right.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Confucius, he say: when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. So it came as no surprise that, while loading a tumble dryer in the communal laundry room at Mariner’s Village, my gaze should fall upon the flyer pinned on the notice board, inviting me to join Kim’s boot camp, three days a week from 8 until 9am, at the beach end of our road.

Colin dragged himself out of bed to come with me. I enjoyed it much more than he did. He has a bad shoulder and dodgy knees and couldn’t keep up with the rest of us. He was singled out for “special” attention. He was given his own “easy” exercises to do, away from the main pack. He’s not a morning person, so what with being sleep deprived and getting “the special-needs kid” treatment, I doubt he’ll be coming again. But I am on a mission. If this doesn’t work, I’ll be dusting off the credit card and buying myself some liposuction, or lipo-sculpture as they call it these days.

It’s been a while since my last visual gag, but I was inspired by the Beijing Olympic gymnasts to scrape my hair back into a ponytail held in place with twenty assorted pins, don a swimming costume and perform a floor routine in front of the telly box for Colin. He was suitably impressed, but insisted my last visual gag was even better.

A few months back, I conveyed the passing of Marcel Marceau in mime, which Colin found quite brilliant. Whichever one of us logs onto our computer first will report to the other the latest celeb to pop their clogs. This week, we announced (with due respect and reverence)… Bernie Mac: gone. Isaac Hayes: gone.

The best visual gag ever was many years ago, when my parents were looking after a friend’s piano. We heard banging on the keys and rushed in to see what was going on. Dad was sat there bollock naked, à la Monty Python, beaming at us over his shoulder. Mum was not amused, which made it even funnier.

On a serious note, the opening ceremony at the Beijing Olympics was absolutely astonishing and brilliant, and I doubt I will ever see the likes of it again. Well, I can because we Tivo’d it, but you know what I mean. I get goose bumps just thinking about it. Tracey and I were raving about it in between tennis shots. She said you can imagine the organizing committee for the 2012 Olympics in London in panic, saying: “I don’t think Elton John is going to be enough.”

No news on the reality TV show, but no worries. I re-read The Secret after boot camp and have asked the cosmos to handle it. I believe and I’m waiting to receive.