Eyes wide shut..

This picture just about sums up my attitude to exercise: if I close my eyes and ignore it, maybe it will go away. Sadly, my ostrich days are over. If I want to lose weight, raising my metabolic rate by means of physical exertion is part and parcel of the deal.

Yes, I could do it all through dieting, but a) it would take longer and b) there'd be all kinds of floppy bits left over after I'd shed the pounds. So, in the interests of getting the weight off quicker and looking taut and trim once I've done so (not to mention improving my health), I'm biting the exercise bullet.

I've explained before that working on a cardio machine in the gym doesn't really do it for me. Nor am I much of a team player, so games like football, basketball and netball are out. My hand to eye co-ordination is, to put it bluntly, crap – in four years of playing school tennis (way back in the Jurassic era), I think I only connected racket and ball a dozen times. In fact the only sports I've got any enthusiasm for are horse riding, particularly hunter trials (I must have had a death wish as a teenager because I got a huge thrill out of riding half a ton of unsteerable pony towards railway sleepers fixed about three feet off the ground) and skiing (much more cowardly about this – I've snow-ploughed down some of the steepest black runs in Europe). I'm also pretty keen on scuba diving, too. Now, given that I don't have a small fortune to spend on such sports (and in fact haven't since my dad blew the family dosh on a losing investment at Lloyds some 20 years ago), the options have been somewhat restricted.

I knew that one thing that would motivate me would be working out with a personal trainer. The combination of being guided by someone who would know my limits – and when to push me right up against them; someone who could devise an ever-changing programme of routines that would prevent me from getting bored; someone who could come up with exercises that would help target the specific bits of my body that need most help and, perhaps most importantly, someone who would turn up at the door so that I couldn't make any excuses to stay home and carry on working at the computer pushes all the right buttons for me. After two sessions with the fabulous James (toned body, sympathetic smile and a sadistic streak two miles wide), I'm in a position to say that I'm hopeful that PT may well be the way forward for someone as intrinsically lazy as me.

At the moment, I've got two sessions with James each week – the idea being to get the exercise program off to a racing start. In time this will go down to one session a week (which will be a bit easier on the pocket – training doesn't come cheap). It's down to me to supplement the sessions with at least one more exercise outing a week (and walking the dog doesn't count – sorry Laszlo).

The first couple of sessions have included some pretty basic exercises – squat thrusts; holding a heavy bottle of water out to the side, the front and above my head; brisk walking and knee raises, among others – along with some basic boxing moves (jabs, upper cuts, etc) and some stretches. It may be baby steps as far as James is concerned, but given how unfit I am it's already pushing me a fair bit.

I'm enjoying the boxing bit – there's something about the rhythm of it and the way I need to co-ordinate all my body to get the moves right that I enjoy (not to mention the opportunity to take out any aggressive tendencies I might feel – did anyone say John Torode?). Some of the exercises that foccus on one specific group of muscles are tough, though – I've noticed my shoulder muscles are particularly weak. Trouble is, James has noticed that too. Have I mentioned his sadistic streak?