Thursday is the day I put my money where my mouth is, and work out with my own personal trainer. I figure if I’m trying to convince people to pay me to train them, I should be seen to follow my own advice. Most people have a trainer because they’re unmotivated to work out on their own, or they get bored really easily and prefer to have someone else do the thinking for them. I can tick both those boxes, so for half an hour on Thursday mornings, Steve - one of my favorite co-workers - systematically destroys every muscle in my body.

Half an hour doesn’t sound long, but I think time in a gym operates on a strange wormhole principle. Work time drags, rest time speeds. I wonder what Steven Hawking would have to say about that? I can’t help checking the clock to see how much time is left, even when I know only ten minutes has gone past, and there’s still heaps of torture to come. Complaining aside, I totally love it. Steve always has an evil smile on his face and an exercise to match. I should get “Squeeze those glutes” tattooed on my butt I hear it so much!

The day after our first session my legs were so sore I cried while riding my bike into work. The gym floor is up two flights of stairs, and I suddenly got a flash forward of what life would be like when I was eighty, as I hauled myself up each one using the banister and as little of my legs as possible. But I go back for more each week, and yesterday I benched a PB of 42.5kg (only one and half legitimate reps, but you gotta start somewhere, right?), which is more than 2/3 of my body weight.

The funniest side effect is how much my clients love hearing the stories about what torture I’ve undergone, and watching me wince as I try to show them the exercises they’ll be doing that day. In the most loving kind of way of course! Whoever said revenge is sweet knew what they were talking about.