Being fit and healthy is an expensive business. On the upside, there’s the money I save on wine; on the downside, there’s the endless stream of purple sprouting broccoli and organic blueberries going from supermarket to fridge to bin. I squandered £119 on a flashy juicer in a bid to arrest the flow, but it sat in my kitchen for three months before being relegated to the cupboard. My cleaner used to dust it.

Now, as the nation teeters on the verge of bankruptcy, I’m tempted to say, “Sod the overpriced goji berries” and sink my few remaining pence into a cheering new handbag or a week in Anguilla. But the looming prospect of my BUPA company health check is usually enough to make me cower in the corner, totting up weekly units and fictitious portions of fruit, and this year is no exception. They’ve stopped making you go on an exercise bike, thank God, but they still do a lung capacity trial and test every vital organ for all manner of self-inflicted abuse. I used to pat myself on the back because I’d given up smoking, but that was nearly nine years ago. I can rest on that particular laurel no longer.

Something must be done, but what? And with a budget of £0? I hate gyms. I used to pay £70 a month for membership of a gym I never went to. I carried on paying for years on the grounds that this painless act of direct debit was an investment in my future health and fitness, while cancelling it would be an admission that I would never have either. I only saw sanity when someone pointed out that every time I went swimming it cost me £1,680.

I love skiing, and skating, and rollerblading, in fact, anything glide-y and fast. But glide-y, fast things tend to be expensive, and there are limited opportunities for them in Wapping, which is cobbled and damp. I like horse riding, but rarely encounter any horses. I like running, but have yet to meet the sports bra that makes it anything less than an act of public indecency.

That leaves cycling, but then a friend told me a decent bike would be about a grand. In the parallel universe I inhabit, this is roughly three pairs of shoes. Plus, if I cycle to work, I’ll have to shower when I get here, which means lugging clothes, make-up, hairdryer, creams, mousses and brushes, and getting ready for work in a scuzzy changing room instead of the comfort of my flat. Case closed.

I have therefore concluded that it’s all just too expensive. There are no bargains, or short cuts, to be had. So the only way I’m going to get through my BUPA check is by sending a proxy. If there’s a teetotal gym bunny out there who could pass for a 5ft 7in, blonde couch potato, please get in touch. I’ll even throw in a juicer.

Carol Midgley is away

bargainhunter@thetimes.co.uk

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