Two things became clear to me over the weekend; to be forever cemented in my grey matter. The first one didn’t come as much of a surprise as I am no stranger to its benefits. Exercise. I found out I need it. Similar to the way a person needs a nicotine hit first thing in the morning, closely followed by a coffee chaser, I need exercise. But I more or less took the week off. I did my class on Tuesday and after that, nothing. Boy did I feel it! I woke up on Saturday morning last and not only was I like an old woman of 90, I was in the horrors. Mister Husband has a collection of colourful phrases of which he likes to make regular use and the most fitting one for Saturday morning was, “she’d ate ye without salt.” And all because I decided I couldn’t be arsed enough to get my arse in gear and do the required 30 minutes of exercise three times a week that is needed for me to keep a sane head on my shoulders. Some of you may have ascertained by now that I am a Davina fan. I don’t have a strong opinion about her one way or another but I do like her workout ethic. You’d also have to admit that she looks pretty great and she herself attributes a lot of that to her training. Mister Husband bought me her Three Thirty Minute workouts last summer and admittedly, I’ve never gotten past the first 30 minutes, but it has helped me to shed over a stone and a half. (If this is advertising/endorsement or whatever the “clebs” call it, Davina, please feel free to contact my unfriendly bank manager for my details. Thanks a mill, love). Anyway, back to the point I was trying to make. I was doing my own head in so I decided for all concerned, I had better get out and blow the contrary cobwebs away with a good power walk. And by Jesus, I was less than 10 minutes down the road and I could feel it working! So imagine the brand new woman, wife and mother that returned home a further 20 minutes or so later. Mister Husband received strict instructions to make sure, in future, I stick to this routine, no matter how much I hem and haw. Between you, me and the wall (apologies here, Davina) but I much prefer to exercise out in the fresh air than working out to a DVD in the dark, the only light in the room being that from the PC monitor as I huff and puff my way through the 30 minute routine trying not to waken Screecher Creature No. 4 who is sleeping in his cot. The other revelation didn’t come as a surprise to me either as I’d heard all the rumours and old wives tales surrounding gin and how it’s a depressant. But I was disappointed nonetheless. I treated myself to a bottle of gin over the Christmas. It was my first Christmas in 6 years where I wasn’t pregnant and by God was I going to enjoy a tipple. Wine goes straight to my head and puts me to sleep faster than you can say “chardonnay.” Beer is nice and all but I fancied something tastier so G&T it was. I would wait until the Screecher Creatures were gone to bed, in fact, there was an evening or two where they were putting on their jammies, and I was pouring myself a measure. The boys would come running, attracted by the hiss of the tonic bottle being opened. God love them, fizzy drinks don’t get invited into our house and they got great craic out of submerging the slice of lemon in my drink, to raise the bubbles. The novel innocence of them all. So yeah, I used to partake of a G&T of an evening when the Screecher Creatures were in bed. And it was lovely. One was all I needed and it seems one is all it takes. I didn’t have one for 2 nights in a row. As a little experiment I indulged on Friday night and on Saturday morning I had my results. We have to go our separate ways. I have fallen out with gin big time. It looks like Mister Husband is going to get his inheritance after all. He has been eying up my liquor since I brought it home, but was severely warned to stay away. I’m not too bothered. Me and alcohol parted company a long time ago and I have gotten used to being a teetotaller. I certainly don’t miss the hangovers. But then again, in those days I had the luxury of being able to sleep one off. Not anymore. So goodbye, G&T’s. It was nice knowing (and drinking!) ya. Mister Husband wouldn’t be a big fan of the hot ports so I might invest in a bottle of that!