I’m sorry, but I’m just not sporty. I know that every single other person in the whole of Ireland and England is going to be glued to the rugby this afternoon, but I just can’t muster up any enthusiasm. It’s not just the awkward English/Irish thing either. I just can’t understand what the hell’s going on.

Being married to someone terribly sporty has its problems too. When we were in love’s first blush I spent many an hour freezing my bum off on the touchline pretending to love watching him play football. I was initially quite pleased when he decided that he’d got too old and hung up his boots, but we just have to watch hours of it on telly now instead. Mind you, I don’t mind it on the TV quite as much - at least we can eat chocolate at the same time. I’ve also tried valiantly to understand his love for his running machine - I’ve had a few goes, but five minutes into it and I start feeling faint and dry heaving. It’s just not for me.

This isn’t a recent thing by the way, I was never sporty even at school. I was on the hockey team, but hated it because I always got my ankles whacked, or my already freezing fingers walloped by the ball. And if we did cross country, I was the one sauntering along at the back smoking a fag. I quite liked tennis, but I was rubbish at it, and I like yoga, but it has a habit of generating all sorts of bodily emissions, which I don’t wish to share with a room full of people, frankly.

Luckily, Hubby’s working this afternoon, so I’m going to avoid mentioning it and hopefully #2 (who inherited his father’s sporty genes) and #1 (my side: enthusiastic, but runs like he’s in foot-deep treacle) might forget and we can watch UKTV Food instead. Now where did I put that Fruit and Nut?

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