5th July 2026

I am back from the cruise.

The Norwegian fjords are behind me, the laundry is in front of me, and somewhere in the middle lies the grim realisation that I cannot continue living as if “breakfast pudding” is a legitimate food group.

Cruises are dangerous things. Not in the obvious way. Nobody warns you that the true peril is not rough seas, rogue icebergs, or being trapped in a lift with a man called Derek who wants to tell you about the engine room. No. The real danger is the buffet.

A cruise buffet does something terrible to the human mind. It removes consequences. It says, “Go on, have the pastry.” Then it says, “Actually, have two. You’re on holiday.” Then, by day five, it has you standing in front of a selection of cold meats at 10.30 in the morning thinking, “Well, I should probably try the smoked salmon again in case it has changed.”

It has not changed.

I, however, have.

I returned home with several important souvenirs: photographs of waterfalls, a vague knowledge of fjords, a fridge magnet, and the body composition of a well-upholstered armchair.

So, naturally, I have made declarations.

This is what one does after a holiday. One comes home, looks at oneself in the mirror, notices that one’s waistband is now operating at a diplomatic level of tension, and announces a new era of discipline.

Healthy eating. Proper routine. More movement. Less cheese. Possibly running.

I know.

Running. Again. Not the first time I have heard that particular declaration.

At 60, the word “running” no longer suggests freedom, youth and wind in the hair. It suggests impact, laundry, and the possibility of needing to explain to a paramedic that I used to be quite fit in 1998.

Still, I am considering it.

Not heroic running, obviously. I will not be bounding along pavements in neon Lycra, checking my split times and drinking something called Electrolyte Thunder. My running, should it occur, will be more of a negotiated shuffle. A light trot. A dignified attempt to move faster than a determined pigeon.

It has been a while so I may begin with walking. Brisk walking, if I feel emotionally prepared. The kind of walk where you swing your arms and hope neighbours understand this is exercise, not distress.

From there, perhaps I will graduate to something more ambitious. A gentle jog. Thirty seconds of momentum. A brief spell of forward propulsion followed by several minutes of leaning against a tree pretending to admire it.

This, I am told, is how fitness begins. I think I have a vague memory jostling for recognition alongside my mind wondering what’s for dinner.

The routine is also coming. I am going to become a woman of structure. A woman who lays out her clothes the night before. A woman who drinks water voluntarily. A woman who owns vegetables that are not merely decorative guilt items softening in the salad drawer.

There will be meal planning.

There will be early nights.

There will be fewer occasions on which dinner is “whatever is closest and requires no emotional investment.”

I am prepared for the fact that this new lifestyle may last until Thursday.

But perhaps that is the point of this new decade. Not perfection. Not transformation through grim punishment and chia seeds. Just the repeated, faintly comic act of beginning again.

At 60, I do not need to become a different person. I simply need to become a version of myself who occasionally stretches before bending down to pick something up.

Ageing, I am discovering, is mostly a process of renegotiation. With gravity. With digestion. With one’s knees. With the waistband of trousers that absolutely fitted before Norway and have clearly shrunk in international waters.

So this is my solemn pledge.

I will eat better. I will move more. I will establish a routine. I will possibly run again, though both legs have requested further information in writing.

I will not become smug about it, because smug fitness people are a menace and should be gently relocated to a separate island where they can discuss protein in peace.

I will, however, try.

And if you see me out there, red-faced, slow-moving, dressed in what appears to be an apology made of Lycra, please do not be alarmed.

I am not being chased.

I am entering my fitness era.

Very gradually.

With snacks under review.