The giveaway is the sound of stomping coming from the bathroom. All over the country, I suspect there are thousands of desperate marchers pounding up and down frantically as they get ready for bed, trying to reach the magic 10,000 on their pedometer. You think it's easy? Reckon you could do it in your sleep? Ha! Ten thousand is much, much, much further than you could ever imagine.
I toyed with the Weight Watchers pedometer and the one from the sport shop before eventually being won over by the Fitbug, a computer-compatible device that allegedly motivates you by making you send your information regularly via your PC. Now my peaceful evenings are ruined by intrusive text messages saying, "We haven't heard from you in a while - we need your steps to set your next target." It acts like a little devilish conscience sitting on my shoulder; as I pour a glass of wine, another text reminds me that there are still 4,000 steps to go today. When I'm working at the computer, an email arrives to warn me that I have not logged in for a while.
The relationship between this little machine and me intensifies as I power up and down the country lanes. I live an increasingly lonely existence, eschewing bike rides with friends because pedalling does not contribute to the total. How does it know I am not walking?
It has become a real war between me and the Machine. I try to trick it, and it rebelliously grinds to a halt. I play tennis, and it tells me I have not made one aerobic step. I go swimming and it ignores all the effort I made because it is tucked up in my locker. Charging around shops and marching up and down on the spot are the only activities it is guaranteed to accept. It is like a linguistic pedant who will only acknowledge you if you speak the Queen's English. And yet, infuriatingly, I have become desperate for its approval, and cannot suppress my joy when I receive the text that says, "Well done!"
When I spent a weekend climbing Scafell Pike in the Lake District for the charity Water Aid, I watched with satisfaction as the counter rocketed beyond 17,000 - so many aerobic steps that I could happily munch on a reviving chocolate bar and retire from exercise for a week. But my success came back to haunt me. The Fitbug team, obviously impressed by my sudden Damascene conversion, put my next week's target up to 17,000 a day. Seventeen thousand! That would mean skipping work and walking all day long.
I admit I am completely in the power of this tiny machine. Everything I do is controlled by how many steps it will yield. Nothing is wasted. My legs pound up and down while I talk to people on the telephone. I go to the loo six times a day because it's another 40 steps there and back.
Determined to recruit others into this new sect, I bought a Weightwatchers device for my sister. She could not immediately get it to work, and set the stride length to seven metres by mistake, but she has since become one of the converted. Now we ignore news of children, mother, work and husbands, forsake our usual discussion of The Archers, and instead compare step totals, smugly trying to outdo each other. She, predictably, is cheating, treating her morning run as an excuse to eat another biscuit. I text her back to remind her that she has to lose 500 calories a day to lose a pound a week. There is no reply. Ha! Score one more to me.
Last week, in an effort to break the monotony of walking, I decided to give cycling another go. I joined a friend and her companion. As we were about to set off, I tried surreptitiously to attach my pedometer to my trainers. My slim, fit friend looked on, utterly perplexed; her companion, meanwhile, shot me a look of sympathy. It was a moment of complete understanding; it felt as if I was a member of an exclusive club.
