Teeny tiny Vs cheese and champagne.

In order to get a step closer to the teeny, tiny dancer's body beloved of the Paris set, I order Tracey Anderson's workout DVD, as recommended by Gwyneth, Madonna et al. Or have Trace and Mads parted workout company? Not sure... Anyway, crazy son refuses to resume train track affair in lounge once he spies 'Barbie' on TV, thus hanging off me and making my arm workout even tougher than it was even before they felt like they were parting company from my exhausted body. It hurts. Like hell. Guess that's the point. Perhaps it's easier to break up my beautiful relationship up with French cheeses than go through this. The lounge slash chill out music playing in the background of the workout just serves to torture me further. Where's a good Beyonce bump 'n' grind workout track when you need it?

Young (20 plus 10 rather than me racing towards the 30 plus 10), single, blonde, country friend sweetly invited me to Wimbledon and I'm still recovering. Perhaps that's why I'm less fit than usual, though champagne bottles aren't light. But that's when they're full which is a fleeting affair together with said friend. Needless to say, we saw very little tennis and were nearly escorted from a court when an over-fizzed cork nearly took a player's eye out and we soaked a woman in front with rose bubbles. It was good stuff sure but not the greatest union with white Prada admittedly. Oops.