On Saturday morning Melanie wandered out of the dressing room carrying a pile of dirty washing.

‘I’ll just pop these in the washer before I make a cuppa,’ she said, closing the bedroom door behind her.

This, lengthier than usual, absence gave me the opportunity I’d been waiting for. Without delay I jumped out of bed and pulled the bathroom scales out from under the shoe cupboard. Some time ago, we’d invested in a set of digital scales. The old ones were hopeless.

Fearing the worst, I’d decided that a private weigh-in was preferable to public humiliation. I tapped the top of the scales with my toe and waited for the digital display to show three zeros. Nervously, I stepped on. The display jumped slightly before coming to a halt.

That can’t be right, I thought to myself.

I stepped off quickly; waited for the display to go blank and tapped the top once more. Three zeros appeared. Carefully, I stepped back on.

Surely not, I thought, perhaps there’s a bit of fluff under the pads.

I stepped back off and picked them up. The only points of contact with the floor are four small rubber pads: one on each corner. All had a little fluff stuck to the rubber. I brushed it off with my finger and set the scales back down.

Confident of a better result, I tapped the top of the scales and stepped on. I couldn’t believe it, not the slightest change. I even tried removing my glasses to see if that would make a difference; but then I couldn’t see the dam display. Save for amputation, there was only one solution. Just then I heard the kitchen door close and the tinkle of a tea spoon. Quickly, I pushed the scales back under the shoe cupboard and jumped into bed.

There’s only one thing for it, I thought to myself, it’s out with the bike. Surely a bit of physical exercise will rectify the situation.

Later that morning I broached the subject.

‘I think I’ll go for a ride on my bike this afternoon,’ I said nonchalantly.

‘O.K.’ replied Melanie, oblivious to my secret weigh-in.

Both our bikes are stored down the side of the house, resting comfortably on their stand. With the cobwebs brushed away, I pressed my thumb into the tyres. Unsurprisingly, they both felt a little spongy. From that point on, things went decidedly downhill: just using the foot-pump to inflate them put me out of breath. Twice around the patio, to test the brakes, and I was ready for off: full of enthusiasm, if a little low energy.

The lane in front of the house is on a slight incline. Determined to burn-off some calories I set off up the lane. As I neared the brow of the hill my leg muscles felt like they were about to explode.

About halfway through my fat-fighting challenge, the cheeks of my bum began to complain. I little further and my, ‘gentlemen’s bits’ felt like they’d fallen off. A quick check put my mind at ease but did nothing for the blood circulation. By the time I’d completed the 10 kilometre ride my backside felt like the flesh had rubbed away and my bones were grating on the so called gel-filled saddle.

Gasping for air I pushed open the gate and parked the bike. Gently, I lowered myself into a cushioned garden chair and contemplated the summer ahead.

Why is it that most things that are bad for you taste good and most that are good for you feel bad? Someone somewhere has a cruel sense of humour.

Copyright © 2014 Craig Briggs

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Craig and Melanie own and operate a luxury farmhouse rental property called Campo Verde. To find out more about a stay at Campo Verde and Galicia in general, visit their website getaway-galicia

Craig’s book, Journey To A Dream, is available exclusively from Amazon, to purchase your copy click here for your national Amazon store.

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