My daughter the personal trainer

So Ella and I have started working out together. I know, I know, at four years old ‘cellulite’ isn’t really even worth pronouncing, let alone worrying about. But she’s expressed such enthusiasm to join me in my morning exercise – in fact almost equal to my enthusiasm to not do it at all – that we’ve joined forces.

Let me tell you, if you haven’t had a child to whoop your ass into a tight wad of muscly goodness (okay, maybe I’m overselling myself there) then you are seriously missing out. There’s nothing quite like a tiny bundle of limbs saying “Okay, now let’s RUN MUMMY!” followed very shortly afterwards (I’m happy to say) by “Okay, now let’s walk.”

Insert skipping, star jumps and running laps around the playground – i.e. me running laps while she works out her pecs on the climbing equipment – topped off with piggy-backing said child home when she’s absolutely flat-out pooped at the end and you have yourself one hell of a workout in the guise of quality mummy-daughter time.

In short ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a whole new revamp concept for the next The Biggest Loser: BYO child and get them to take responsibility for their part in your postnatal jiggly bits.

Hell, I’d probably even take part.