LAST week I went to a spinning class.

Some of you might be thinking: “How nice, she’s learning to weave.”

Others might say: “Ooh is that like twirling with a hula hoop? What larks!”

Sadly, you would all be wrong.

Spinning is the creation of an evil genius.

It’s static cycling, but the ‘torture edition’, while you sweat out every bit of liquid in your body.

It's exercise overseen by a minion of Satan, who masquerades as a nice, normal fitness instructor from Burneside.

It’s entirely possible I’m writing this from beyond the grave because I’m pretty sure I died halfway through the class.

“I...can’t...take...anymore!” I managed to gasp, with my final breaths.

The colleague and erstwhile friend who dragged me there - we’ll call her The Slavedriver - gave me 'the look'.

She didn’t speak, but her face said: “The class only started 15 minutes ago. And you were five minutes late. So suck it up!”

I should have known it was a bad idea to go to the gym with someone who takes the stairs instead of the lift.

Still I persevered, although time was not my friend.

And I could almost taste the regret in the room when the instructor told the roomful of sweating, beetroot-red woman to ‘crank it up to the next level’.

Even The Slavedriver looked alarmed, while someone behind me broke down into loud, sweaty sobs. Maybe.

But later that day something strange started to happen.

The festive lethargy finally lifted. I began to feel more like the pre-Christmas version of myself.

And against my better judgment I found myself phoning the gym and uttering the words I may yet come to regret.

“Can I please book a place on next week’s class? I actually quite enjoyed it this morning...”