I see Prince Charles is looking after himself; his royally buff beach body is being much admired. I have nowhere near as many miles on the clock as the heir to the throne, but he has my sympathy. Obviously I know what it’s like to be of a certain age and be so objectified in the press. Why can’t they love us for who we are, rather than how we look?
This much I know about food and fitness as the years tick by: I now eat sensibly, drink less, take lots of exercise and I have lost a good bit of weight. But I feel as old as a conker tree. It’s all to do with stiffness. I am so inflexible, it’s untrue. Bending down is a planned event, not to be undertaken lightly. If, say, I drop a coin in my flat, it can stay there until the cleaner comes, which is only once a fortnight. If my laces come undone after 6pm, I’ll not bother to do them up. What’s the point? They will be coming off before midnight anyway.
I have run four marathons; I regularly walk 20 miles in a day, and I lift lots of weights. But can I be bothered to bend down? Nope.
Getting out of a car is a horror show. My friend had a silly Aston Martin thing. I avoided taking lifts. Once I had to, because I was late for a train. He stopped in traffic to let me out. Opening the door, I realised I was so low down next to the curb that I couldn’t just get out. Instead, I had to sort of roll out on to the pavement on all fours, gather my thoughts, and then clamber to my feet. Whatever. I never much cared for sports cars anyway.
