E is for Exercise! And er, E-Bay.

If you've read my earlier post 'The Dirty Word', you'll already know what I think about exercise. Not a great fan. Cleaning the beach worked well for the winter months, but now it's summer (or should I say 'rumoured' to be summer) there's really not much to do. The council employs cleaners from May to September, so the place looks nice for holiday-makers; which would be wonderful if there were any, but the summer has been so 'pants' that every one's beggared off to Spain.

But fret not! I'm not sitting idle! Not me! I have found a new and very effective way to raise my pulse and it's available to anyone with access to a computer. All you have to do is go to the E-Bay site. Then you look in 'Automotive'. Next, find the cars for sale and bid on one. Finally- win the auction! That's it, that's all you need to do. Heart rate will triple instantly, sweat glands will work overtime, and you'll enjoy even more exertion by feverishly clutching your credit card uttering the words: 'What have I done?' while hitting the 'back' button.

I don't know why I did it. Having been without a car since December, (quite happily, I may add), I suddenly decided I couldn't live another minute without one, for reasons I can't quite recall now. Was it that I felt unnerved by the amount of extra cash I had in my pocket every week? Maybe I hankered after the fight for parking spots in this incredibly crowded island. Or possibly I missed the thrill of being to pushed off the road by some yob in a 4x4. Who knows? It's certainly not for the joy of motoring.

Whatever the reason, I am now the somewhat startled owner of a turquoise Honda. When my neighbour saw it, he ran to get his sunglasses, cheeky bar-steward. I think it looks rather festive. Here it is!

The Dirty Word.

If you've read a previous post titled 'The Fat Fight', you'll know I've been following the 'Idiot Proof Diet' (IPD) for quite a while now (since the end of last June, since you ask). It's basically low carbohydrate eating, and I like it. I like it a lot.



Like any decent weight loss plan, IPD strongly recommends you increase your level of activity as you progress through the days and down the scales. I have no problem with that; anyone with a brain cell knows that to lose weight you have to eat less and move more.



At the beginning of the diet the authors (India Knight and Neris Thomas) suggest you start off with a brisk 10 minute walk after breakfast. Well, I thought, I can do that. And so I did. I quite enjoyed it.



The next idea was, again entirely reasonably, to increase the time. No problem, I muttered to myself. I can do that, too. And soon I was up to a 4 or 5 mile walk most days, which, living where I do on the coast, is not exactly a hardship.



But then someone (well, India, actually) uttered a dirty word. The G word. You know, as in 'Join a Gym. '



Now I know she is 100% incontrovertibly, absolutely and unarguably RIGHT. I totally agree that the gym is where you will become toned and sleek; your newly slender body will emerge trimmed of unsightly flab, you will flex those muscles and Glory will be yours.



But. I'm not going to a gym. Not a snowball's chance in Hell; not over any one's dead body; not even if Hell were to freeze over. No.



Because, you see, I know who goes to the gym. The gym is populated by slim young things encased in straining day-glo Lycra, muscled arms out for display, sleek legs pumping on the machines, taut midriffs peeking happily out from under cropped tank tops. For Heaven's sake, they even manage to look good when they sweat.



Me, on the other hand- I'm 60, with fish belly-white wobbly bits. Exertion soon leaves me with a puce face, very stylish with the grey hair. Any midriff of mine on show wouldn't be so much 'peeking happily' as trying desperately to mount a grim escape. Even industrial strength Lycra would surrender. My bingo wings alone could give you a black eye. There's no question about it; the Gym is out of the question.



So what to do?



Well, as I mentioned, I live near the sea. The beach is one of my favourite places. I go there to walk, to think, to absorb the natural beauty and get fresh air and peace. I love it. I also love the creatures who live there, yes, even the seagulls.



And now, if you'll excuse me for a minute, I'm going to be a GOW (Grumpy Old Woman). I hate how people (not everyone, I know) dump litter there. They bring food for the day and leave the wrappers blowing all over the beach: Beer cans, drinks bottles, plastic bags and cigarette lighters. Boaters gaily chuck detritus over the side, bits of old rope, oil cans and burst balloons with streamers attached. It fouls the beach and the ocean. I watch the birds pecking away at rubbish, I know the fish have to swim in it, and it makes my blood pressure rise.



So- I've decided to use my pet hate to get my exercise. I take an old plastic shopping bag and a pair of Marigold gloves down to the beach and I collect the trash. I have some rules- anything that doesn't belong on a beach goes into the bag, it doesn't matter how small it is. And I must completely fill the bag. I fill at least one bag every time I go. It's very satisfying. By the time I've hauled my chubby self up and down the zig-zag cliff path and spent an hour picking up the pieces, it's also quite a work out.


When I'm finished the beach is cleaner, I'm less aggravated, an old shopping bag is put to good use, and I get to go home feeling extremely smug. Best of all- I don't have to go to the Gym.



Now that's what I call a result!