Going walkies

As a teenager it never occurred to me that walking actually constituted exercise. In the holidays I regularly walked the half hour into town and half hour home a couple of times a day without even entertaining the notion that it might count as part of a fitness regime. Not that I was an especially sporty youth. Far from it. I was a B Team girl, which meant during sports practice I could stroll up and down the pitch or court as soon as I got even slightly out of breath.

Still, it may not have seemed a lot at the time, but now I look back at those school days with gaping awe at my level of physical fitness. Because now, in my more sedentary twenties, merely standing up can leave me feeling quite pleased with myself: “oh, I’ll stand up on the tube – that will give me a bit of exercise!”; “well, doing this washing up is at least giving my legs a bit of a work out!”

When I worked in an office, I could always be relied on to leave the flat too late to make the train, which meant power-trotting the entire way, charging up and down stairs in a state of mild panic. Now, working at home means that I can go for days and barely leave the house. Bum sores from sitting in my chair for too long are a constant hazard. But I try to get in a bit of a daily sweat on, nevertheless. I pace up and down whilst on the phone; pop to the cornershop for milk; wander up the hill to pay in some cheques, get some lunch in a café, or visit the Post Office. And when I actually go for a proper walk round the park – my god! - I feel positively saintly!