It's Life Gym, (But Not As We Know It).

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a posh mum in possession of thirty eight years must be in want of a gym membership.

Thus it came to be that PoshMum was searching for a suitable exercise emporium within which to feel the burn. She had foolishly overindulged at the whirl of Christmas parties and had seriously greedy at Daphne’s, the Coral Reef Club, the fabulous Lone Star in Barbados. The insidious, creeping result was a ‘muffin top’ of midriff bulging over the top of her Superfine Jeans; PoshHusband, seizing the advantage, started passing comment on these mini love-handles as she sat to put on her socks, resplendent in an Elle McPherson Intimates ensemble (her choice for everday – she saved her Aubade for country house weekends).

“Bit of a of a pot belly there! Oink oink (har har har)!” said PoshHusband wearing (what he thought was) a cheeky grin and lumbering over to pinch an inch. PoshMum scowled and slapped his hand away.

“You’re one to talk – when was the last time you saw your feet?” she enquired acidly, “You’ll soon have to pay for two plane seats the way your bum is enlarging!”.

“A tad touchy this morning, aren’t we?” chuckled PoshHubby “Darling – in case you haven’t noticed I am a man; and we can be as bald and fat and ugly as we like, there is always some little girly who’ll be grateful, which you would do well to remember!” Pleased with his riposte, he shambled off to the kitchen, looking for all the world like a pink and white hippo in boxer shorts.

Outrageous!! Unbelievable! PoshMum rose to her feet, slammed the en-suite bathroom door and started slapping on judicious amounts of La Prairie Skin Caviar. “Right,” she thought furiously (yet gently) patting cream on that oh-so-delicate under-eye area, – someone needed to be taught a sharp lesson; it was time to join a new, very expensive gym, lose seven pounds and flirt with all the partnership-trackers at PoshHusband’s law firm. That would take him down a peg, the egotistical sod! Fired up with a stimulating combo of rage and enthusiasm she jumped into her gym gear, marshalled the children, the kit bags, and the books and sped off.

This is how PoshMum found herself sitting in the lobby of a very swanky gym, enduring the deduction of a punishingly large some of money from her Coutts account. It was worth it though; driving into the car park she recognised Araminta’s black Porsche Cayenne, and she swung the Volvo round to park neatly behind Flick’s own navy XC90. What larks - they could all grab a coffee later (and maybe a small biscotti as a reward for all their hard work). Then again, perhaps not – if she was going to break PoshHubby’s arrogant spirit with her glorious physical perfection she would have to stop eating (and, even worse, stop drinking). This was not going to be fun.

PoshMum stalked into the changing room (fabulously appointed; and so it should be after parting with all that cash!), plonked her bag down and looked around. School run mummies of every conceivable shape and size were pottering gently between the lockers, the steam room, and the showers - the more confident souls were as naked as jaybirds (or was it simply that they had been an English boarding school where bashfulness regarding nudity is mocked, pilloried and ruthlessly stripped away by the scarier girls). She grabbed her ipod nano and zipped up to the gym, where serried ranks of treadmills, and cross-trainers awaited. Waving at Flick who was busy on the step machine (Flick’s butt was tiny, damn her!) she plugged herself in and got down to business. No time to talk - on catching sight of Flick (and Araminta who was doing laps in the pool below) PoshMum’s manic competetivness clicked on; she was now on a mission, a mission to sit without a single flap of flesh folding over her waistband. The presence of her would simply provide the extra, necessary spur.

Three months later, with a washboard stomach and her skinny jeans simply hanging off (a fact that she continually drew to her husband’s attention) it was time for the annual ski trip. PoshMum was looking good and feeling fine. Upon their arrival in at the chalet in Chamonix, she suddenly thought of the most brilliant wheeze to bring her rude, fat husband to heel.

“Darling, my technique could really use some polishing – I’ve picked up some awful habits and I’m not au fait with these whizzy technological skis. I’ve booked three days of lessons (and some skiing off-piste) with Evolution 2; I’m afraid you’ll be skiing alone with the kids – you don’t mind do you, sweetie?”

“Oh really, who with?” asked PoshHusband suspiciously.

“Jean Michel. He’s just over there – see him? The tall one with the black, shoulder length hair. Looks like Dr Luka Kovac from ER.”

A lengthy silence ensued.

“Yes, well, all right. If you must” said PoshHubby.

“I must.” Said PoshMum.