Offspring

I am constantly amazed by my offspring.  At the risk of sounding like a Jewish mother fawning over her pride and joy I am going to say it:  I have three high achieving children:  A rugby player who played for three years in the Swiss National Junior Team; a dancer who is currently auditioning for the top London dance schools; and a kid who gets out of bed every Saturday and Sunday to look after her horse and competes most weekends.

And this from a mother who thinks that unfurling her arm to turn off the alarm in the morning is exercise.  Ever since I watched that recent BBC Horizon documentary on exercise which proved that 20% of humans are non-responders, it all became clear why Mr. Jules can go to one session at the gym and return looking like Arnie the Filandering Austrian and I come back exhausted and flabby.  It is very unfair and disheartening to be married to a super-responder parading his toned body fresh from the shower  and droning on and on about the benefits of exercise.  He poo-poos the Horizon documentary so in desperation I shout “I’m an estrogen bomb okay?!” (That old chestnut).  I don’t care, I’m just happy that someone has finally recognized us 20 percent-ers.  I now know why I have never, ever, in all my years of jogging, experienced a runners high and why after a year of intensive yoga teacher training I did not get a much wished for six pack or even a one pack.

My idea of a great day is spent in bed with my laptop doing a spot of writing, then perhaps some light reading followed by a doze.

Alexia and Ronnie