I've no idea where the beating-your-children pool is. I've searched in vain for the collecting-at-one-end-and-talking-about-Eastenders pool and drawn a blank on a heavy-petting pool.
One thing's for sure though - when I find them, I'm going to be down there like a shot to annoy the hell out of everyone by swimming slowly up and down.
Which is a roundabout way of saying that, after fifteen years of proud inactivity, alcohol and heavy smoking, I've been taking a bit of exercise. I'm lucky in that I've been able to carry it off without looking obviously unfit, but just this year I've started to resemble a visibly-pregnant bearded lady.
Frankly, shaking the inertia has been like trying to sprint through porridge. Given that I spent a couple of years in my late twenties toying with joining the army*, with the twenty-mile runs and assault courses that would entail, it's mildly alarming to discover that I struggle with the Sysiphean ordeal of a small hill.
Now that I've got the ball rolling, it's not so bad. I'm not seeing any dramatic improvement in the waistline, but that might be connected to my continued beer intake. The internet tells me I should cut out lager and switch to spirits instead to cut calories but I can tell you, I drank nine pints of vodka last night and I don't feel very healthy at all.