I don’t exercise to lose weight – but if I did, who cares?

We shouldn’t judge women like Adele who want to shed a few pounds

I’ve been going to the gym. It’s a nice gym, about a 25-minute walk from my house, but I catch the bus – going to the gym is enough of a workout for me, thanks. A good week sees me visit three times; I do a 30-minute intense cardio class which turns me claret, a 40-minute workout on some fancy-pants machines which leaves me with a damp T-shirt, and an intermediate yoga class which makes me radiate smugness.

Some weeks I can only manage the yoga. I’m good at yoga – though I’d be better if I didn’t have a big roll of tummy fat that gets in the way of certain moves. Sometimes I feel like I’m about to suffocate in my own flesh, for instance when I lie on the mat with my legs over my head and my toes touching the floor behind me, my stomach is like a massive blubbery airbag in my face.

Some people at the gym assume I’m there to lose weight – after all, I must want to? I’ve got a wobbly bum and washerwoman’s arms – but actually, it’s not my main motivation. I’m driven by the simple fact that I don’t want to have a massive coronary and I’d quite like to be able to run for a bus without dry-heaving at the roadside.