Ow!

This is Gemma (right), who came and gave me my training session last week because James was away in Canada at one of the eight (!) weddings he's going to this year and Phil couldn't make it.

So, Gemma drew the short straw and rocked up here on Friday morning (Laszlo went ballistic as she wheeled her bike into the hall, but she didn't seem to mind and even earned brownie points by saying he was 'lush'). Anyway, she's a teeny-tiny girl – not much over five foot, I'd guess, and she looks like she'd blow away with one good puff of wind.

I can't quite put my finger on why, but training with her felt slightly different from doing a session with one of the guys. It might have something to do with the fact that she's very softly spoken, and her dictats seemed to be phrased as suggestions rather than commands (not that James bullies me – it's just that when he asks for 10 squats or a jog round the park, refusal is very clearly not an option). And, attention seeker that I am, I got off on the fact that Gemma praised everything I did. It was great – I felt like I was some kind of super-athlete rather than a panting, tubby forty-something bird.

But somehow, despite the feeling that this was a low-key session, I ended up aching like a bastard all weekend. I'm sure it wasn't the fast-paced jog that kicked off the session and left me out of breath right from the get-go. It can't have been the boxing – Gemma looked like she'd fall over if I'd punched any harder. The lunges? Well, there were only a few of them, interleavened by some sprints and walks. The press-ups were fairly tough, but I only did two dozen, and two dozen of the triceps dips off the front of the bench. Oh – and then there were the pelvic raises with one leg off the floor – they were hard going, but were they really hard enough to leave me walking bandy-legged as a cowboy in some two-bit Western?

Nope, I can't quite put my finger on why, but somehow an easy session with Gemma turns out to be a bit like spending an hour in boot camp.