Is that a wingéd pig I see?

Picture the (fictional) scene: it's early 2007 and I've gone to see a well-respected fortune teller at a convention in Earl's Court. She jangles her imitation coin bracelets, brushes her headscarf over her shoulder, peers into her crystal ball and recounts what she sees in a witchy voice. 'You will be working in the City,' she croons. I splutter at the absurdity of her suggestion and start to ask for my money back. 'You will buy a flat. You will be single and self-content...' By now I'm thinking of having her sectioned. 'And you will love to keep fit.' I laugh and exit, slightly disappointed that my foray into the mystical otherworld has proved its unreliability so conclusively.

For it is true that although I can imagine myself as many things: pregnant, dead, famous, ill, unpopular, fragrant or ambitious, I could never, ever have imagined myself as a fitness freak. If our made-up gypsy friend had told me that, in early January 08, I would be climbing up the walls with desperation, craving exercise like I used to crave garlic bread, I would have laughed in her face and then taken her to The Priory for a cold turkey detox, so clear would her drug-addled insanity be to me.

But the unthinkable has occurred. After two weeks of enforced stationary behaviour following my hilarious cervical experience, I had had enough. I was getting spots, the pterodactyl arms were making a credible comeback and, as predicted, my seratonin levels had noticeably dipped. With the doctor's specific instructions not to engage in strenuous exercise for 2-4 weeks post-op ringing in my ears above the bad house music, this afternoon I clambered aboard the treadmill and walked at a medium pace for 20 minutes. I followed this with some intensive upper arm and chest work. And having felt like the End Was Nigh for most of the day, I bounced out of the gym wondering if someone had spiked the water fountain, so much perkier did I feel.

When I told my boss I was flouting medical advice to work out, he said, 'You're addicted.' And although I am far from that, it does strike me as unexpected that I'm champing at the bit to return to the gym when I have a perfectly good excuse not to go for at least another fortnight. Things really are different these days. Who knows which of my engrained hatreds will become my next passion? Maybe in a week or two I'll be sitting here eating raw tomatoes with a coriander garnish, revelling in the noise of squeaky London taxi brakes, collecting box sets of Steve Martin DVDs, loving people who are really late to meet me, adding fruit to my main course, reading the Daily Mail and laughing at racist jokes. Maybe.