Actually, I prefer the term 'bat wings'. In the days when I groomed ponies, played netball and rode bikes (so many decades ago that I've lost count), I was proud of my rock-hard biceps. I never thought that one day they would melt and migrate to hang like soggy dough under my arms, swinging when I moved. Neither did I think the day would come when I'd have to chuck out all my strappy t-shirts and sleeveless dresses for fear of causing members of the public to part company with their breakfast.
But alas, it has happened, so last Monday I went off to the gym to get some advice and was told the best thing I could do was sit on something firm, lower myself over the edge and do backwards press-ups. I found the bath was the ideal piece of equipment for this, as there was no chance of it suddenly skittering backwards and depositing me on the floor. But, in my enthusiasm to melt my too, too solid flesh, I have wrecked my wrists. Not only can I hardly type, I can hardly raise knife and fork to mouth (maybe this was a hidden aspect of the exercise, less food = less flab). As for a full wineglass... forget it. I fear my batwings are here to stay and I may as well practise my nocturnal flying.
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