A life in the great indoors

So this is Christmas and what have you done, eh? Not much? Me neither. Had great life-changing plans too. Three simple New Year resolutions: `Must get out more', `Well, at least get out a bit more than usual' and `Oh alright then, if you don't intend getting out at least take some exercise in front of the telly'. It's not as if I was short of equipment.

January. Still speechless, a little overwhelmed and a touch emotional about the unrequested presents I received for Christmas: a dumb-bell set, gravity boots and EZ-Up inversion rack, a pulse-controlled ergometer exercise bike, an abdominal toner, a supersonic treadmill, a smooth pull cable rowing machine, a stepper climber, a book (A Guide to the Outdoors - The Front Door Is Over There), mountain hiking boots and a Homer Simpson electronic calorie counter that goes doh when you tap in custard, chocolate chip cookies or cheddar-smothered-cheesy-chips. "I don't know what to say," I said to my loved ones around the Christmas tree. So, spent January reading the manuals while watching the football World Club Championships and the darts World Championships on telly. Couldn't help but thinking if Manchester United had Jocky Wilson at right back, instead of Gary Neville, it could all have been so different. Then February came. Tried out my gravity boots and inversion rack and watched the Benson and Hedges' snooker Masters on telly upside down. Not once did the balls fall off the table. Spooky. Like me, Ronnie O'Sullivan appeared not to be in touch with planet earth for much of the tournament and lost in the quarter-finals, thus ending any hope of controversy in the latter stages. Gutted. Tried to storm out of telly room in protest but inversion rack wouldn't allow. March. Having been released from the ceiling by Dublin Fire Brigade, travelled to England for hockey, bringing my Guide to the Outdoors book with me. Watched telly for two weeks. Well, have you ever tried doing anything else of an evening in Milton Keynes? April. Came home, a broken woman. Set up supersonic treadmill while watching the snooker world championships on telly but didn't read manual carefully enough and ended up breaking nose on far wall after fiddling with speed controls. May. Studied dumb-bells while watching the French tennis Open on telly and tried to figure out what one was supposed to do with them. At last, Eureka. They are, of course, book ends and door stoppers. Very handy too. June. Watched telly for nigh on a whole month - Euro 2000 and Wimbledon, what could you do? Lent my pulse-controlled ergometer exercise bike to Kev Keegan in the hope that it might control his pulse while watching Phil Neville defend (sic), but all to no avail. Couldn't help but thinking if England had Eric Bristow at left back, instead of Phil, it could all have been so different.

July. Went for a walk. To the shop for new batteries for remote control. Could have sworn I saw England beating the West Indies in a cricket test on my return so called my TV repair man to check my tube. "It seems alright to me, love," he said, "it's the Windies whose horizontal hold isn't quite what it used to be." August. The month one traditionally, briefly, leaves the house. Tried to play golf in Donegal with a close relation but he was wearing white knee socks and shoes with frilly bits on the front so I lost concentration and, consequently, my game suffered. Returned indoors.

September. Watched telly for three weeks. The O'Lympics. Dusted down my smooth pull cable rowing machine and pipped Steve Redgrave on the finishing line, denying him his fifth gold medal (granted, I only beat him when I paused the video). Can't believe Pat Hickey hasn't been around to congratulate me yet. October. Had a look at my abdominal toner and said `naaa' so put it back in its box. Anyway, a reliable source told me if I ate fish instead of fatty things I'd be twice the person and half the size. But when I was watching the US tennis Open on telly I heard about Jelena Dokic's da Damir rioting upon discovering that a piece of salmon in the players' restaurant cost £7. "Forget that for a lark," I said to myself. "You can get a batter burger, onion rings and a large curried chips around my way for £2.99." November. Took deep breath, put on mountain hiking boots and set off for the attic to find last year's tinsel. Made the summit around December 12th and descended on the same day after tripping over uneaten plum pudding. December. Bliss. No Christmas shopping to be done. Presents already sorted. Loved ones will receive a dumbbell set, gravity boots and EZ-Up inversion rack, a pulse-controlled ergometer exercise bike, an abdominal toner, a supersonic treadmill, a smooth pull cable rowing machine, a stepper climber, a book, mountain hiking boots and a Homer Simpson electronic calorie counter. Ample time, therefore, to watch white truck trial racing from Minsk on Eurosport and the Grand Sumo Tournament from Fukuoka, Japan. My kind of lads. If you gave them an abdominal toner for Christmas they'd probably eat it.