Sweat and tears

They say women glow and men sweat. Well, last night, I think I was doing both. At the same time.

So appallingly knackered was I that, forget men and women, I was struggling with weights a four-year-old girl could probably handle.

In fact I'm sure I saw Mitch, my personal trainer at Virgin Active, writing 'little girl' on the little clipboard he carries around with him like an evil secretary.

Mitch, it seems, is a masochist.

In image terms he drove me to the edge of hell. Then, when we arrived, he said 'Yay, let's go sightseeing!'.

Yes, last night was a struggle. The biggest struggle I have had so far.

First up, and I think what did me for the rest of the hour-long session (it seemed like much, MUCH longer), was a run.

Now, I am no runner. My team mates on Real Papparazzi will vouch for that. In fact, I would prefer to take blunt spoons to my own eyeballs than run for more than two minutes. But Mitch, dear evil Mitch, had me on the treadmill for 15 entire minutes.

Not only that, but we did incriments of 1 minute at 8.5 kmph and then another minute at 12.5 kmph.

I did not last. At about 11 minutes I pleaded for mercy. I was allowed to walk for two minutes, before the speed was cranked up again.

Later we did a few weights and some more core work. Remember, nothing whatsoever to do with apples, or pears, or any other fruit for that matter. Apparently.

I was thoroughly exhausted by the end and I don't think I've sweated so much, certainly not in a gym, my entire life.

It's a good thing we reporters just make up quotes (we don't really!) because I've hardly been able to lift a pen all day.

Keyan