There has been an ongoing request (hello, dear Cassidy) for a Fitness Club, and apparently it’s up to the 93 year old with a dicky hip to take the lead.
When I was a young woman our idea of a good workout was a brisk ride across the moors after something unedible (usually a fox, although occasionally one of the more stupid maids), a glass of wine and three laps around the stable after the Second Footman.
Even though we ate about seven times a day – endless rounds of tea and scandal, long boozy lunches to celebrate Margaret’s new monkey or Jim’s new digs or Sammy snagging himself a Duke, dinners where the port went round seventeen times and had to be refilled thrice, late night suppers of toasted muffins and cocoa, all topped off with enough Battenberg cake to sink a queen and a soupçon of chocolate sauce licked from the chest of an under-butler – we never gained a pound.
All that energy must have been burned off by the raging fire of our youthful pomposity.
Now, of course, I can barely look at a vanilla slice without fearing for the seams of my best Balenciaga. The perils of age.
I have no idea how we are going to go about this.
What are the rules of Fitness Club?