Fitness first. Get me back on that treadmill. Well, maybe let’s wait until after conference

It was one of the most meaningful relationships of my thirties. It was based on honesty, mutual respect and a lot of laughter — mainly at me. He made me want to be a better person and he helped me achieve that. And then, cruelly, he was gone. He moved on, moved away and had a child. I was bereft. That was two years ago. And it’s time. I’m ready to get back out there again. I’m ready for a new personal trainer.

My fitness and health trajectory is a somewhat moveable feast — or an all- you-can-eat buffet. I was so good about going to the gym when I worked in the House of Commons. I found it a soothing escape from the pressure of politics and a quick visit during a long and stressful day would revive and restore me. Or maybe it was the lure of seeing Jack Straw in the spinning class resplendent in Lycra. I kid you not.

But having left the structure of having a “proper” job and swapping it for a “portfolio” career, I have found that health and self-care has gone a bit Theresa May and taken a back seat. I’ll say yes to work, hitting deadlines, working long hours, travelling the length of the country with my stand-up tour, but making it to the gym feels more challenging than Brexit negotiations.

I might have a bit of an issue with my gym. It’s OK, but there are a lot of very hairy men making birth-giving noises pumping iron and other things. There’s a lot of low-level grunting going on which competes with nose-bleed house music, which really distracts me when I’m trying to listen to the PM programme. I don’t think I’m their target market, to be honest. I also have a bit of a situation with an ex-personal trainer who I saw years ago but he then had a stroke (which was NOTHING to do with me, OK?) It was lovely to see him again but then we fell out over Jeremy Corbyn — and there’s only so much grief a girl can take in the cool-down zone.

Then there was this yoga class where a somewhat portly instructor would sit cross-legged at the front in a Zen-like state giving us instructions — while snacking. He was known as the Biscuit Buddha and he never shared. The only good thing that ever happened to me there was bumping into an old mate and we went to the pub. My visits to the gym are so infrequent that they work out at £276 a pop.

But I’m ready to get back on that treadmill again. Carpe diem. Bring. It. On! At least that’s what I said on the phone to my new personal trainer. “Great,” she replied. “I’m free tomorrow?” “Whoah, lady! One step at a time… maybe let’s begin in a bit… after party conference season?… say late October?...” It’s not going so well.

Revenge is sweet for Susanna Reid

Susanna Reid deserves a Damehood for services to womankind and long sufferance for sitting next to Piers Morgan on Good Morning Britain. Queen of the eye-roll, I loved her take-down of Morgan the Organ when he had an irony-free rant about people dishing out their unwanted political views on social media… But revenge was sweet when she bagged two individual prizes — best TV presenter and best celebrity personality at the National Reality TV Awards.

Piers responded in his usual calm non-Trump-like manner. “I’m seething,” he tweeted. “You beat me???? How the hell did that happen? I feel like Hillary Clinton. #robbed.”

But it’s not all bad news for Piers. He did appear on a Radio Times television power list. He was number 94 out of 100.

Must democracy be this tortuous?

I wasn’t surprised that Labour’s National Executive Committee voted to reduce the support a future leadership candidate needed to get on the ballot paper after 2019.

Team Corbyn has always been clear about wanting to change the rules to give members a greater say over how the party is run, but having seen it myself just last week I’m nervous on a practical level. I went to a meeting to choose a new councillor. Instead of talking about the big issues we had two hours of comedy rowing over different people’s “interpretation” of the rules, poring over some “flow-chart” like it was the gospel, and ended up having endless votes about how to organise the main vote and the font of the minutes.

Such was the level of suspicion that we had to elect two tellers from each faction to count the votes in the disabled loo so that no one could corrupt the process. And that was only for the shortlist. The hustings and vote takes place this evening.

Sometimes, too much of a good thing can be a bad thing.