It’s like entering a world of grunting testosterone”

I’VE joined a gym. Though I can’t even explain to myself how strange a turn of events this is, I’m trying to explain it to my mother.

“You’ve joined a gym?” she says. “When?” “About four weeks ago.” “But what on earth possessed you?” Nothing possessed me, I say, certainly no revolutionary fitness zeal.

One minute, I tell Mum, I’m retrieving my husband from the gym, and the next, he’s introducing me to the owner of the gym, and I’m taking out a month’s membership.

“Your face will go all drawn, love, if you get any thinner.” “It’s not a weight-loss thing, Mum. It’s about increasing my muscle mass. Apparently, as you get older, you need to…”

Mum says “oh, honestly,” and expounds a carefully considered, well-constructed theory about fitness: the prevailing cultural attitude towards it is unhealthy, fitness is the new religion. It’s just as enslaving, and much duller than the old one.

“No slim, active woman should feel obliged to do anything in service of fitness other than go for a brisk walk every day and eat in moderation,” she concludes.

I remind her that I’ve always been in complete agreement with her on this matter, which is why I can’t explain the fact that I’ve just joined a gym.

“I hope you’re being careful, love, with all that exertion,” she says, “you don’t want to do yourself an injury. I mean over-exertion is different for men…”

“I am being careful. What do you mean it’s different for…”

“Your womb might fall out. And that’s the last thing anyone needs.

“What do you actually do there? I mean what is it like?”

“It’s like entering a different world — a world of grunting testosterone,” I say. “There’s a bunch of men down one end lifting weights in front of mirrors, making noises like the ones you make when you’re in the transition phase of labour.

“Mainly, I’ve been up the other end of the gym. At first the gym owner stayed with me, but now he’s taught me how to use the different machines, I work on my own. He gives me instructions — bike, squats, this machine, that machine, floor exercises, treadmill etc, and then he just keeps an eye.”

“Is the trainer-man nice, love? I hope he’s being nice to you.”

“He’s got a smiley face,” I say, “and forearms the circumference of my head.”

“Oh.” “He’s like a nice but stern dog-owner. I’m like the dog.”

“God, how awful.” “The whole thing is completely inelegant,” I say. I describe a particular floor exercise, in which I have to adopt the position of a baboon proffering its rear for impregnation. Then I describe the business of having to straddle a machine and operate its weights by opening my legs as wide as possible.

“How unseemly,” Mum says. “It firms up your thighs.” “Oh, for goodness sake.” “And when you’re on the treadmill or bike, you watch videos of these enormous muscly monsters lifting weights and using machines. It makes me feel nervous, because their muscles look like over-blown balloons, and I keep thinking they’re going to suddenly burst through their skin.”

“That can’t be nice, love.” “And there’s loud music playing all the time.” “Now that really is too awful.” “And there are pictures on the wall of these muscle monsters. They’re all wearing little briefs, like bikini-bottoms.”

“I told you — men are just as vain as women, only men would sooner admit to a crime than admit to being vain.”

“Actually, I don’t know if the men in the pictures with the bikini-bottoms know but…”

“But what?” “Well, all that body-building does a very strange thing to proportion… to perspective....”

“What do you mean?” “Well their bodies are so gargantuan that it makes their penises look tiny. I mean really tiny.”

“Well of course, darling,” Mum says, and then, sounding rather pleased, “and there’s no machine for that.”