When my membership to the Unfriendliest Gym in the World ran out before Christmas I swore I’d never join again.

Even though I’d been going there almost four years, the staff always eyed me suspiciously, as if I was an out of town stranger who’d borrowed somebody else’s membership card to get in.

Okay, I never was one of those gym bunnies who turn up in pink lycra every day. But I did try to get there three times a week, twice….or at least once.

There was always a jar of mints on the reception desk, but they were a trap. Anyone stupid enough to reach in and take a lolly would be sniggered out the door by the anorexic girls behind the counter.

Frankly, I don’t think it was a happy place to work. Staff turnover seemed faster than a treadmill on Sprint. There was always a new manager.

Other gym members weren’t friendly either. Not that I went along expecting to find soul mates to exchange sweat bands and drink bottles with. They never made eye contact and were territorial about the machines to the point of being hostile.

Worst mistake I made was to climb on someone’s treadmill when she’d left it on Pause to go to the loo. I had no idea it was officially her personal treadmill while she was in the building, and I didn’t realise the fact she’d put it on Pause meant she was intending to use it again. She practically screamed the walls down.

How I loathed the stale, sweaty smell of the place and the certificates on display featuring smiling Members of the Month. It reminded me of school where the only thing I was good at was being invisible.

There are better ways to stay fit and lose weight anyway. Like walking. Much as I enjoy the delights of fresh air and peering over fences at peoples’ gardens, however, I don’t entirely see the point of walking unless it’s to a destination. A café, for example - specially one with warm croissants and home made jam or maybe fairy cakes with fresh cream.

Trouble with walking is it seems to make me put on weight rather than lose it. Before long I was defeated, depressed and back signing up at the Unfriendliest Gym in the World for another year.

The woman who filled out the form didn’t recognise me of course. When I told her I’d belonged for the best part of four years she seemed surprised – but then she was new there. For some reason I quite liked her, so I started opening up.

“Not the friendliest place here, is it?” I said.

“What do you mean?” she replied, startled.

“Just that I get the feeling it’s not the happiest place to work,” I said, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “Staff move on pretty quickly.”

“It’s changed now,” she snapped. “We’ve got a new manager. Have you met her? She’ll have you laughing in no time. Let me introduce you.”

Lucky for me the manager was in a meeting. Compulsory exercise is bad enough without compulsory laughter.

Demonstrating how determined I was to metamorphosise into a new improved human being I signed up for the Slimming Programme.

Although the Director of Slimness was a pleasant girl only a year older than my son she insisted on calling me Sweetie. None of my son’s friends ever call me anything other than Helen or Mrs Brown – either of which would be preferable to Sweetie.

When I told the Director of Slimness I’d like to lose five kilograms, she gazed at me sternly and said it would be better if I lost 10. This seemed ambitious of her on my behalf. It was something to do with the fact I’d have to pay more if I wanted to lose 10 kg. I was so desperate to escape by that stage I’d have signed up for a year in Antarctica.

We agreed sedentary work such as writing wasn’t helpful for losing weight.

“Why don’t you take your computer outside to write, Sweetie?” she suggested, maybe thinking I could jog and write at the same time.

You don’t have to be the author of A Brief History of Time to realise my computer is attached to the mains.

The Director of Slimness assured me that with discipline and focus I’d reach my (her) goal weight in 12 weeks, maybe less.

Scurrying towards the door, I paused at the reception desk, grabbed a mint and ran.