The Park Bench Test. Sarah Lefebve

get the tube to the gym where Katie signs me in as her guest. Before I am allowed in I have to fill in a form with my name and address, date of birth and vital statistics – so that they can use them to attempt to con me out of £75 a month, no doubt. And I also have to sign a waiver – to say that I won’t sue them when I come flying off the end of the treadmill and break both my legs. Or words to that effect.

      “You never know B, you might meet a man here,” Katie tells me, shoving her bag in the locker and slamming the door shut before it falls back out again.

      Katie wants to find me a man. She thinks I need one. She says it’s just like falling off a horse – “you have to get straight back on”.

      “Or what?” I asked her, “I’ll forget how to do it?” I’m not quite sure exactly what it was I meant by ‘it.’

      “I keep telling you – I don’t want a man right now,” I say, pulling my ponytail tight and digging my knickers out of my backside through Katie’s cycling shorts. Her bottom is a bit smaller than mine, evidently.

      “Well keep digging your knickers out of your backside in front of everyone in the gym and you’ll probably be safe,” Katie laughs.

      “Where do you want to start?” she asks me.

      Nowhere is not an option, I presume.

      I look around at the equipment – there are rows and rows of bicycles, treadmills, cross trainers, rowing machines…all with maniacs on them cycling, running, rowing for dear life and getting absolutely bloody nowhere. It all seems ever so tedious. Whatever happened to getting outdoors – on a real bike, on a real road?

      “How about the sauna?” I ask.

      I have to earn my time in the sauna, apparently. Two miles on the bike and one mile on the treadmill earns me twenty minutes in the sauna, according to Katie’s Law. Well, that sounds easy enough.

      There are no pairs of bikes together so Katie and I take the bikes on opposite ends of the row and get to work. Or should I say, Katie gets to work while I fiddle about with the earphones trying to find the best channel on the gym’s sound system.

      I settle on what appears to be a dance album and start cycling whilst simultaneously pressing buttons on the bike – completely at random. I must look like someone who doesn’t know what they are doing because the guy on the bike next to me offers to help.

      I continue to prod feverishly at the buttons.

      “Thanks, I’m fine,” I tell him, even though it’s abundantly clear I’m really not.

      By sheer bad luck I seem to have ended up on the hill climb setting. On level 18. Out of 20.

      Bloody hell this is hard work. I suspect I may have gone a shade of puce.

      I am being watched. I can tell. I look up and the guy next to me is grinning at me in the mirror. He’s quite cute. Actually he’s very cute – in a sweaty kind of way.

      Now, is it not bad enough that I have been dragged to the gym against my will, in a pair of shorts that are practically cutting my nether regions in half and been left to the mercy of a machine I have absolutely no idea how to use, without being subjected to the scrutiny of a frankly rather gorgeous guy too?

      I am quite possibly in danger of hyperventilating on my level 18 hill climb when cute guys leans over and gently taps my screen, bringing it down to a more manageable level 10 (okay, 4).

      “Thanks,” I pant.

      How utterly humiliating.

      Cute guy has gone and I have clocked up a pretty unimpressive 0.8 miles (okay 0.4 – my only excuse being the cute guy – I was distracted) when Katie comes bounding over 20 minutes later. Where does she get her energy?

      I quickly cover the screen with my towel.

      “How are you doing?” she asks.

      “Yeah, great,” I lie.

      “Shall we have a go on the treadmill?” she asks, though I don’t think I actually have a choice.

      “Sounds fabulous,” I say, hitting ‘cancel workout’ before she can see the pitiful distance I have cycled.

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      On my second day at Potty Wotty Doodah, I am astonishingly given responsibility for operating an oven that reaches temperatures of over 900 degrees and in six short hours I am asked by several naive youngsters to draw a cow and a pig on a seesaw, a giraffe and a hippopotamus playing leapfrog, and two spiders holding hands, amongst other things. On a good note I break only one tile and one saucer. I get home, utterly frazzled, to find a note on the fridge.

       B, we’ve popped to see a man about a band. Can you turn the oven on at 6pm. Ta. K&M x

      Unlike me, Katie is a veritable Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen. She can make anything out of anything. Literally. While I am on television demonstrating precisely why Can’t Cook Won’t Cook was so named, Katie will be on Ready Steady Cook preparing a four-course banquet from a single tomato, a tin of custard and a packet of salted peanuts.

      Between us, Matt and I have negotiated what we consider to be a terrific deal. Katie cooks. He washes. I dry. And for the days she can’t be bothered we’ll get a takeaway. They live a three-minute walk from two Chineses, an Italian, a curry house and a fish and chip shop (yes, we’ve actually timed it).

      They are also a four-stop tube ride from the offices of a zillion magazines, which will come in very handy when the flood of invitations to meet their editors lands on the doormat. Which it inevitably will.

      It just hasn’t yet, that’s all.

      Bollocks.

      I have written to no less than twenty seven different magazines so far, begging for a job and so far I have heard absolutely nothing. Not a jot. Zip. Nada.

      Okay, so I know I have no journalism qualifications to speak of, and absolutely no knowledge of the magazine industry whatsoever, but apart from that I’m an ideal candidate for a job on a magazine.