I SUSPECT many of us are finding that due to gyms being closed and outdoor exercise time limited, our waistlines are expanding.

Having lived in comfy leggings for the past five weeks, I mustered up the courage to try on my favourite denims. Well… say no more!
However, this led me to a brilliant idea.
“I’m going to turn my house into my very own DIY home gym,” I announced to my pal Christine.
“Yer whit?” She thought I had lost the plot.
“Christine, this is a win-win situation,” I enthused.
Before she could disagree, I continued: “I’ve already got an exercise bike, a hula hoop and can make my own weights.”
Pen and notebook in hand, I did a recce of my house and put a plan of action in place.
Exercise one – 15 minutes, jog on the spot to warm up, lounge area.
Exercise two – 20 sit-ups, lounge area.
Exercise three – 10 minutes, hula hoop, lounge area.
Exercise four – 10 minutes, exercise bike, kitchen.
Exercise five – run up and down stairs five times.
Exercise six – five minutes, weights, bedroom floor.
I was well chuffed with my very professional exercise routine and couldn’t wait to get started.
My Take That DVD was blaring from the telly as I began a 15-minute jog on the spot.
Goodness, it was blinkin’ hot, so after only four minutes I stopped so that I could breathe again.
Feet tucked under the couch I slowly creaked my way to doing eight sit-ups, but hey ho, small steps.
Next was my giant hula hoop, which was soon swirling in rhythm. Easy peasy.
“It only takes a minute, girl…” Take That blared in the background.
But the very second I sat on the exercise bike I realised why it had remained in the back of the cupboard for so long, because it was absolute torture to sit on.
So, I ran upstairs for my woolly hat to cushion my bum on the hard seat.
“Argh… that’s better.” I smiled at my clever idea.
Pedal, pedal, pedal. My wee legs didn’t know what had hit them.
Stairs next, and I ran out of puff after running up and down a couple of times, so although not on my planned schedule, and as I was upstairs anyway, I dropped to the bedroom floor for some press-ups.
“Oh no.” I caught sight of myself in the long mirror and instantly realised that I looked nothing like the fit folk on the telly because I couldn’t even get my stomach off the floor.
So, after four wobbly press-ups, I headed downstairs again.
Completing the first round of DIY home exercise, I gave myself a well-earned break.
“I’m doing really well.” I phoned Christine.
“Blah, blah, blah… but I need to go as I’m on to round two.”
I skipped the jogging part as I was warm enough and went straight to the hula hoop again, which was soon whirling round the room like a tornado.
Somehow, in my enthusiasm, I must have gotten too near the coffee table when suddenly the giant hula hoop caught the edge of my ceramic lamp, sending it crashing to the floor.
“Have a little patience,” blasted the music from the telly.
“Patience, patience?” I muttered all hot and sweaty.
“I’ll try the bike again and clear this mess up later.”
Pedal, pedal, pedal.
“Today, this could be… The greatest day of our lives,” I mimicked the lyrics.
But next minute, the bloody woolly hat suddenly slipped off the seat and I shot forward right on to the hard metal bar. “Argh…”
Take That again: “Relight my fire!”
And I must admit that my nether regions were certainly on fire!
As my wee legs were like jelly and I ached in certain places, I missed the stairs out this round (it was boring anyway) and lay back on the lounge carpet for my sit-ups.
“Up… ohhh… up… argh…” This exercising malarkey was not easy, but I managed to master nine sit-ups, which was one more than last time, and a positive result for me.
Time for my homemade weights which consisted of a large bottle of fabric softener and a large bottle of diluting juice which I carted up to my bedroom and began lifting above my head.
Huff… puff… I panted as my puny arms struggled to cope with the weights, and I decided that it was unwise to over-exert myself at my age.
But, as I swung the bottles for one last time, the diluting juice leaked, spraying sticky orange juice all over my white duvet set.
“Could it be magic…” My favourite boy band couldn’t have been more wrong.
Stepping out the freezing shower with aches in places I never had before, my phone rang.
“No, Christine, my bloody DIY home gym was a disaster,” I sniffed.
“I’ve injured my nether regions, ruined a lamp and a duvet and…”
Meanwhile, in the background, Take That, who were now getting right on my nerves were still blasting away.
“I guess now it’s time for me to give up…”