A message in flashing lights about my body mass index

Be careful what you wish for. When my Hedge-Fund Girlfriend asked me last year what I’d really like for Christmas, I said a week in the Viva Mayr clinic. Of course I was joking – Austria is too far, both economically and time-wise, in the little PA-28 aircraft I fly. And I am refusing to undertake unnecessary commercial air travel now that it takes longer to get through security than to actually fly anywhere. But the idea of a week where I could rest, exercise, eat properly and not deal with the competing demands of home and work did seem like the ultimate fantasy.

HFG didn’t think much of the Mayr clinic idea either, so she booked us into a spa rather nearer to Guildford than Lake Wörth. When we arrived, they asked me if I wanted a “health check-in”. This meant that I would be weighed and measured, which is never a heartening experience, and especially not at the moment. I am currently negotiating new life cover to replace the five-year policies I put in place to secure the company’s original borrowings at the time of our management buyout. A premium of £40 a month for a nonsmoking female my age more than doubles once they know how fat I am – and then, horror of horrors, someone tells them that I fly planes. At this point the premiums pretty well double again. Of course, given how tough my last Civil Aviation Authority medical examiner was about my body mass index, I may end up with the two elements cancelling each other out – ie I won’t be allowed to fly a plane because I am too fat.

I agreed to the health check-in and went off to start the programmes that HFG had booked for us. My schedule meant that I ran, swam and had an hour of personal weight training every day. Hers meant that she had an endless procession of wraps and facials and nail treatments that ensured her hands were immaculate when she lifted a glass of wine in the evening. She even had a “Blitz” treatment that was, she told me, excellent for overcoming water retention, which can pile on the weight. She certainly spent the next 24 hours visiting the loo a lot. Try it, she said, you never know. So I found myself standing at the end of a corridor with no clothes on while some poor girl sprayed me with a fire hose for 10 minutes. I didn’t have to go to the loo for even one extra visit – I am afraid it is not water, it is all fat.

I eventually underwent the health check-in a few days later, but only when I realised what the flashing light on my phone meant. There were no instructions by the phone, and no one had mentioned how to retrieve messages when I was shown to my room. After my irritation levels with the flashing light finally spurred me into action I consulted the lengthy in-room booklet under M for Messages. Messages, it said, will be delivered to the room. So, not a message then. After another day I consulted T for Telephone. Messages can be retrieved by dialling *1222. It was indeed the health check appointment.

Once there, I was informed that my blood pressure was higher than they would like. I pointed out that it was not surprising, given that (a) they had just weighed me, which always makes me stressed, and (b) I had spent three days trying to work out what the flashing light on my phone was.

HFG had left me to it after two days – it was all too healthy for her and besides she had exhausted every body treatment on offer. I have decided that a dressing gown as daily attire is not a good look if you are male and over 60 (although Bob Hoskins is an exception – 20 years older than me and in much better nick). I still don’t like Pilates, especially when taught in a freezing studio. But I had a great rest, and a lot of time to reflect on my height/weight ratio. Was that really what I wished for?

mrsmoneypenny@ft.com