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Not only had Christmas been a financial nightmare, but I also managed, by some cruel twist of fate, to put on about six kilos. I had press stud marks permanently engraved into my fat rolls, and I could no longer do up my Levis. Situation: desperate.

So my New Year's resolution had been obvious: hauling my ass off to the gym and submitting myself to workout hell!

Now, after battling for 15 minutes for parking - it is the first Monday of the new year - I finally find a spot about a kilometre away from the gym and begin the hike uphill towards the entrance.

My sense of humour rapidly deteriorating, I push my way through the hordes of other frenzied festive over-eaters to the changing room.

The guilt hangs thick in the air. One can cut the self-deprecating atmosphere with a knife. No one looks in the mirrors, and the scale has never been so unused. Post-Christmas terror has set in!

Squeezing into my gym gear, which seemed so much looser just a month ago, I contemplate the task ahead. Half an hour on the step machine and, just to push myself into sado-masochistic overload, a quick stint around the Super Circuit. Might as well go huge...or go home.

I climb aboard the Stairmaster, trying to ignore the lustful stares of the overweight, over-aged and probably under-sexed neanderthal next to me. This is the gym, not a bloody singles club! Aargh, men!

Stepping furiously, I punch in my details. Getting to the "weight" category, I irrationally hit 80, wondering if the stair machine knows I'm suffering from a serious bolt of self-loathing and will "work me" extra hard.

After a mere five minutes I'm sweating up a storm, but still determined. After 15 minutes, I'm hanging onto the arms, struggling to breathe.

Twenty minutes. I start debating my sanity. Body has taken over, mind has shut down (probably a subconscious survival tactic to dull the pain) and the hairy monster next to me has become a blur. I decide to concentrate really hard on MTV. I hate Boyzone, but Ronan Keating really does have the most amazing colour eyes.

Five minutes to go. Reason escapes me and I set the machine to a higher level. Stepping hysterically, I can almost taste success!

Almost there... and I'm sure I'm getting thinner by the second. I too can have a body like Cindy Crawford!

Bingo. "Goal Attained" flashes in beautifully cheesy neon across the screen. I sink to the floor, breathing hard. The neanderthal has moved onto the bikes, and is staring at me oddly.

When my breathing returns to normal, I try to pinpoint the nearest water machine. Why do they always have to hide the bloody things?

I start feeling kinda proud of myself. Not a bad start to the year. I've survived the first onslaught without going into cardiac arrest, my legs have quit shaking and, suddenly, the Super Circuit doesn't seem necessary after all. Don't want to overdo it on the first day. Reason has returned!

Feeling slightly wobbly, but very satisfied, I manoeuvre through the crowds back to my car. The sun is still high in the sky, despite it being around six o'clock.

My bum already feels smaller! Don't you just love summer?