Let’s get physical
Look, I’ve never been one for the gym. That knackering grunt ‘n’ grind, surrounded by earnest young dudes sweatily endeavouring to build the sort of buff physique which they hope will get them onto ‘Love Island’.
My weekly exercise regime consists of a leisurely hour-long ramble on a Friday with folk of a similar vintage, all kidding ourselves this qualifies as ‘keeping fit’. What it does do is offer a nice cup of tea at the end, accompanied by a flaky pastry sausage roll, immediately replacing any calories which might have been shed along the way.
Talking of which, it was comforting to read that a visit to the cinema apparently counts as a light workout, because it raises the heart rate for the duration of the movie. This comes from a study by University College, London, although the fact it was commissioned by Vue Cinemas might lead the more cynical among us to, er, question its veracity.
But so far as the house move was concerned, I felt quite confident of surmounting any physical challenges it could pose.
Reality check lay ahead though, and a bit of a marker showed up shortly before the move, when I packed up
several boxes of books and assorted household stuff. That single day of bending and stretching re-shaped my body into a facsimile of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, barely eased later by the ingestion of several glasses of wine. Purely medicinal, you understand.
Fast forward to moving day, and the reverse process of unpacking meant I found myself on my hands and knees slotting the books into a low-level bookcase and entirely incapable of getting up again. Resuming the vertical entailed an undignified process of rolling on my back like an upturned tortoise, grabbing anything adjacent to aid traction, and hauling myself upright with the sort of vocal sound effects normally only heard in adult movies (so they tell me).
It was not as if I got involved in humping heavy furniture – that was undertaken with serene ease by a cheerful gang of professional removers.
But some weeks later, and I’ve still not entirely recovered, although that might simply be a case of ‘tempus fugit’, and a realisation that I really ought to consider that gym membership.
Money for nothing?
Consolation, of course, comes in the knowledge we now have the facility to work our way through the collateral from the old house, and maybe at some stage even summon our IFA to advise us on equity release.
Which I guess proves the old maxim ‘no pain, no gain’.
