For the last five years I lived on the same road as Yoga Home, a popular venue for all sorts of exercise classes of the more stretchy variety. I kept meaning to go but never quite managed it. I think I thought I'd feel out of place.
Why then am I so excited to discover that my new village hall has weekly Pilates classes? Today I even summon up the courage to go.
The hall is packed with women quite a bit my senior, but then it is 2pm on a Tuesday and most people my age have proper jobs to go to. A tall, lithe Lancastrian lass leads the session which starts quietly enough but is soon accompanied by giggles and grunts and "You must be joking!" These ladies are regulars, and regardless of their wrinkles their pelvic floors are most likely much stronger than mine.
"I've got a confession," says our teacher, halfway through.
"You 'ad fish and chips for lunch," comes a voice from the floor and everyone chuckles.
"How did you know?" replies the teacher, genuinely surprised.
The hour is a long one.
We're reaching breaking point when the teacher calls out, "Eight more lifts."
"Hey, it's not our fault you 'ad fish and chips for lunch," comes another voice.
Cue general merriment.
I reckon anyone would feel at ease in this class, even a posh Southerner who's never done Pilates before in her life. I think I'll become a regular.