There is nothing like being incapacitated through exercise to give you a deeper appreciation of your legs. As part of my training for the Flora Women's Mini Marathon, in June, I spent 20 minutes in the gym last Friday morning, alternating between a leg weights machine and a series of deeply unflattering squatting exercises. By the end my legs were wobbling dangerously, but I was still able to climb some stairs and make it to a cafe, where I horsed down the egg-white omelette that is part of my training diet and a piece of toasted granary bread that is not.
My legs felt a little sore, but at this point the warning from the woman at the gym that in a couple of days I wouldn't be able to sit on the toilet seemed far fetched.
She was right, though. Obviously. For the past couple of days I've had to schedule in more time for even the most humdrum of activities. Walking down the stairs now takes a few minutes, as I hang grimly on to the banister and try to hoist my frozen thighs downwards. It takes even longer when the man of the house stands at the bottom of the stairs, watching me as if I'm in a wildlife documentary. "I knew we should have kept that safety rail," he smirks, referring to the white bar that used to be attached to the wall so that the elderly lady who once lived in the house could safely descend the stairs.
In my temporarily incapacitated state I am much more organised. Knowing how long it's going to take to go back up the stairs, I bring what I need with me wherever I go. Another side effect is that there has to be a very good reason for me to sit down - eating, writing or going to the toilet, say - because of the struggle that ensues when the time comes for me to have to get up again.
Getting into the car has proved the most difficult task, and I make sure nobody is looking before attempting it. After several tries, I've found that the reverse-entry approach is most successful, after which I swing in my legs as swiftly as possible. We did think of borrowing my father-in-law-in- waiting's disabled parking badge but decided it wasn't really worth the drive to Co Armagh.
It's not all bad. Normally a sedentary being, I have a tendency to let others fetch and carry for me, but this behaviour carries with it a certain amount of residual guilt. Knowing the song and dance that my moving around involves at the moment, however, people are kindly bringing me books I need, or cups of coffee or vitamins, and I don't have to feel guilty, because - and I love saying this - I'm incapacitated.
I still have to work, though. Apparently, you can't get a sick note for post-gym disorder. That's how I found myself outside Mansion House last Sunday, trying not to stare too much at Bob Geldof's beautiful daughters, Peaches, Pixie and Tiger. I'm a great admirer of 10-year-old Peaches' TV work. Articulate, stylish, original and a bit of a messer, she is exactly the kind of teenager I wish I had been -and perhaps could have been, had I not tried just a teeny-weeny bit too hard.
I sidled up to her a couple of times under the pretext of reporting on her father's Freedom of the City, but really I was just being a fan. Me: "Er, your programme on Sky was excellent." Her: "Thanks." Me: "I mean it; I think you are really great on TV." Her (signalling for security): "Yeah, thanks. Must go now." Later I watched her try to wrestle an ornamental sword from a member of the fire brigade. "It's just so cool; I want one," she said.
Nine-year-old Tiger, the daughter of the late Paula Yates and Michael Hutchence, radiates happiness; Pixie is a slightly shy 15-year-old with the endearing habit of nervously scratching the back of her neck while being photographed. I was so entranced by that lovely family I almost forgot about my gammy legs until I had to race back to the office, at which point it all came flooding painfully back.
I'm safely back at home now, and, as I write, one of my sisters is having her very healthy legs massaged by my boyfriend. If it sounds odd, try viewing it from my perspective. I know he is only a trainee masseur, but telling her that "chest or stomach massages are optional extras" makes him sound like a very different kind of therapist. I'd get up to give him a kick, but, as I may have mentioned, I'm incapacitated at the moment.
