I collect exercise videos.
Not deliberately, that would be ridiculous. I didn't know I collected them until quite recently. I suppose I had been in denial. I counted them last week and found that I have 11, which, I think you'll agree, is enough to put them in the Collection category, rather than the Randomly Acquired category.
The thing is I have never actually used them for the purpose of exercising. In fact, the last two I bought are still in their wrappers. I did watch one once, sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea and a biscuit, just to see whether I felt up to it. I didn't. It was 1996 and Beverley Callard promised Rapid Results, but I was feeling a bit peaky and opted for a pizza. (Quattro Formaggio.)
The videos arrive on the doormat at periodic intervals, usually after a prolonged bout of cheese consumption. I am an exercise video maker's dream, not to mention a cheesemaker's dream, blessed as they are. Because I believe. I absolutely, completely and utterly, 100% believe that if I follow the video, I too will get to be a size 8. (Or even a size 6, if I gave up cheese at the same time.) The problem is that when faced with a choice between a Dolcelatte sandwich and Jane Fonda yelling "Feel the Burn" (her workout was the first video I ever bought...which just shows how long I have suffered from these delusions), I invariably opt for the cheesy option. Who am I kidding? I will always opt for the cheese.
It isn't just dairy products which are my girth's undoing - one needs a little something to wash it down with. I am in awe of those people who, when asked if they'd like another drink, can put their hand over their glass and say with absolute authority, "No thanks. I've had enough." How do they know when they've had enough? Do they have some sort of early-warning system? I wasn't in the queue when they handed those out. I don't seem to possess a stop button. However, I do have an arse the size of Moldavia and a collection of 11 exercise videos and how many people can say that?
I was talking to a girlfriend in the pub on Friday night and we were bemoaning that fact that the rest of our girlfriends are whip-thin. (She could not, under any circumstances, be labelled a fatty herself - she has an enviable figure and probably weighs as much as one of my buttocks.) We came to the conclusion that they obviously possess the kind of iron will that means a stick of celery is more than enough to make breakfast, lunch and supper for a week. I want to force-feed them roast potatoes cooked in goose fat and pints of Baileys Irish Cream. They are definitely hand-over-the-glass girls. I envy them the kind of self-control that means they can leave a party at a respectable time with a cheery wave, their make-up as fresh as when it was applied and all their faculties (and designer clothing) intact. I am less sophisticated. It has been necessary on occasion to issue an eviction notice to get me out, reduced as I am to dribbling incoherence with my girdle on my head and legs that have lost the power of walk.
Anyway, the latest addition to the exercise video collection - bought after the Christmas girth-expanding jollities - promises me a Hollywood Star's body in 30 days. So by March I'll be looking like Hattie Jacques.
