Sporting Mad

Alright, I'm going to admit it: I hate sport. I hate it. I don't like running; I can't bear the gym; I am not a big fan of anyone's sweat, mine included.

But as the last year of my 20s looms inexorably into view I find that my metabolism, sluggish at the best of times, is grinding entirely to a halt. The evening glass(es) of wine are taking more of a toll than they used to on my expanding waistline and I fear that if I don't take action soon I will, one day, have to seriously consider giving up Champagne Thursdays.

Such horror is too great to bear!

So how best to reconcile myself to this distressing new development? Let's start by looking at the options chosen by some of my nearest and dearest:

Swimming - In a public pool full of small children's wee? Enough said I think.
Gym - Leads to inevitable sweaty expiration at the feet of the beautiful buff gym regulars. Also: v dull.
Karate - I'm mal-coordinated and not inclined to fighting fair.
Cycling - My sister borrowed my bike three years ago and let it get stolen. I'm too bitter to try again.
Running - Out of the question. I run like this.
Wii Fit - Easier said than done. Anyone care to point me in the direction of a stockist?
Rollerblading - Last time I tried this I ended up with my coat stuck in a car door driven by an acquaintance with a very sick sense of humour. I won't be going there again.
Dance - Hindered by the mal-coordination and the fact that if I'm going to do something I really expect to be excellent at it from the word go.

And so I find myself left in a rather difficult position. The way I see it there's only really one option left to me: I'm just going to have to give up food.

Now where's that bottle opener?