Proof that one size does not fit all

My quest for fitness began within a couple of hours of stepping on board Celebrity Silhouette in Corfu. Turning my back on the Mast Grill with its tempting burgers and chips, and the Cafe al Bacio Gelateria’s selection of decadent ices, I headed for the AquaSpa to discover what was in store.
First, a session with the fitness centre’s Laura Cull, a former gymnast from Guildford. After a succession of questions about my lifestyle, she proceeded to collate a pageful statistics with the aid of a set of bathroom scales and an electronic device that hooked up to a foot and the back of my hand.
So, the important numbers. Weight: I’m not going to tell you. Percentage of body fat: Far too much. Target weight loss: You’ll have to guess. Let’s just say that if it was put in front of me in the form of buckets of water, bags of sugar, packets of lard, or whatever metaphors you choose, I would probably struggle to lift it in my present condition.
Laura also had plenty of dietary advice. Don’t starve yourself was the bit I liked hearing most. Stick to chicken, fish, steamed vegetables and salads was an expected, but less welcome recommendation.
Best not stroll through the Ensemble Lounge on Deck 5 then, in the direction of the temptations of the Murano restaurant, the Tuscan Grille steakhouse, or the uniquely unordinary delights of Qsine. And if I find myself heading for the grassy area at the top of the ship, I’ll have to turn my back on the Lawn Club Grill where last year, unconcerned about my waist, I set about barbecueing enough red meat to feed an army.
More advice: Don’t eat too late in the evening. Excuse me, I’m a night owl, not an early bird. That’s another habit I’ll have to change. But given that I have forsworn alcohol this week, and coffee has also been put on the banned list, perhaps it won’t be too difficult.
Just as I thought this was all beginning to turn into an ordeal – even before I was set to work in the gym – I found that there can be some pleasant experiences as well.
Having changed into a bathrobe, I was led by therapist Maria into a darkened treatment room where my massage table awaited. The afternoon almost descended into farce when I proved without fear of contradiction that the “one-size-fits-all” paper modesty pants do not live up to those claims.
The boxer shorts were ripped to shreds as I struggled to squeeze my thighs into them. I just about managed to pull up the trunks, but they struggled to contain various parts of my anatomy that should have remained covered. But that, of course, is exactly why I’m here in the first place.
Not to worry, I am at least able to get onto the massage table. But what’s this under the towel? Enough kitchen foil for a hog roast, appropriately enough – although its purpose was still a mystery to me until Maria had covered me all over in a slimy green goo and then wrapped me up to marinade for half an hour.
The rest of the treatment, with repeated showers and soothing massages to my head, feet and eventually all my body, passed almost in a trance. I never imagined I could have had so much pleasure lying down with my hands by my sides.
After almost two hours, it was time to sit up, dress, and drink lots of water. And prepare for the first encounter with my personal trainer. I had to wait for that. And so will you.