Louis Wise on getting back together with his personal trainer

I’m seeing a personal trainer again.

The noticeable bit here is the word ‘again’ because I feel like every Londoner sees a PT once. It’s a rite of passage, like buying tickets to an overpriced star vehicle in the West End, or falling asleep on the Central line and waking up in Redbridge. My issue is that I’m not just on my second PT, but my third. If you’re about to chirp ‘third time lucky!’ please hold back until you’ve seen me in a vest.

As said, I have form, although maybe form isn’t the right word. I saw the first trainer for a few years and honestly, I loved him: he got me leaner and musclier and, though I did struggle with the whole ‘giving it 100 per cent’ thing, we’d often meet at a solid 85. But then I changed jobs, panicked about cash and suddenly left. I feel bad. I don’t feel so bad about the second one, who on our first session launched into a scathing dismissal of the migrants at Calais. As I wheezed away on the rowing machine, I thought, I really do not have the puff to deal with racism right now. I know I’m a snowflake — that’s why I’m here, paying you to turn me into, like, an icicle, or something. Can’t we just chill out and enjoy the Cascada?

That was 18 months ago. All this time I’ve also wrestled with the mad idea that I should enjoy my body just as it is. The thing is though, I wasn’t so much wrestling as sat on my sofa, downing whatever old wine was left in the fridge plus a packet of Thai chicken Real McCoy’s. And all the while, one pair of trousers after another was getting consigned to the very back of the cupboard. It was getting me down. I got halfway through one of Brené Brown’s chapters on self-love and thought, sod it. I want my arse back.