I HAVE a confession to make.

Over the years, like most women, I've moaned about extra pounds, a wobbly tummy and legs that just don't match up to Elle McPherson's.

But much as I'd like to have a figure like Kylie's, there's one major problem - I just can't bring myself to set foot in a gym.

And despite all the glossy magazine articles that'll tell you otherwise, I reckon that old fashioned working out is probably the only way to get the body you want. I ride six days out of seven, and still have a bottom that could be described as "generous", so I have proof of this theory.

My objections to gym-going are plentiful, but basically consist of a) I don't want to look like an idiot because I don't know what "circuit training" means and b) well, it all seems a bit much like hard work, doesn't it?

But, just as on the advice of a friend I started using Roc anti-wrinkle eye cream on my 25th birthday (she's 32 and looks 26, so it must be worthwhile), it's probably time to take pre-emptive action. I don't want to hit 30 and find I have a figure like a blancmange and no way back. Because it's oversize t-shirts and bad, flat shoes from thereon, which would be a waste of some fabulous clothes.

So yes, the gym beckons. And because I'm ultimately quite lazy, and need great motivation to do anything quite this potentially life-changing (well being a size 8 would mean I could shop at Harvey Nicks and not feel intimidated by the sales girls), it seems like the best idea to make my humiliation public. This is me now, and in six weeks that photo will, hopefully, be replaced by a svelte and radiant version of the same. Because if it isn't I'm going to look a bit silly.

And for those in the same predicament who want to share advice, tips, or irrational anxiety attacks about yoga, log on to the Bolton Blog, where I'll be keeping the online world updated of my progress.

Here goes!