In my early 20s, I did no exercise. Not a sausage – mainly because I was too busy eating all the sausages. As I approached 30, I bought a bicycle and a high-visibility jacket and tried to reinvent myself as a cyclist, which essentially meant turning up to work with frizzy helmet hair and sweat dripping down my back.
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Oh dear. I don’t know why I did this, rashly, the evening of 29 February. Leap Day. I took a leap. Maybe because I have a completion date on the vicarage looming and I need help, someone to share it with, and who is willing to change light bulbs*, heave boxes and dog-sit. Cook.