So this is 30.

Yesterday morning, for some reason that I still can't fathom, I decided to get out of bed half an hour earlier than usual and do sit-ups. On a Monday, no less.

I set myself a target of 50. "How hard can that be?", I thought - a sentiment that seemed justified after the first 12 as I breezed into this challenge like the Superman that I didn't realise I was.

At 18, things were getting a bit harder. By 24, I reconsidered my target. And at 30, I stopped, reasonably satisfied that I was able to achieve as many sit-ups as years I am old.

And then I got back into bed.

Lying there, my stomach screaming at me for having had such a daft idea, I realised that my housemate Richard was still in the bathroom, and that I therefore had a bit more time to kill before I could treat my beard to the post-weekend trim it required. I could've gone to the kitchen and ironed a shirt for work. I could've stayed in bed as an ironic reward for actually waking up early. But instead - and this decision defies belief, given what I had just subjected myself to - I chose to do some push-ups.

I did 10.

Now, I've never been a particularly fit guy, but I've always been slim, I've cycled and played squash in the past, and I still play football once a week, so I'd like to think I'm not completely unfit, either. For this reason, I'm going to solely and unfairly blame my age for why I'm still feeling the effects 40 hours on from my initial enthusiasm. Nobody told me in the weeks leading up to my birthday that all my best-laid plans for getting my 30-year-old life in order would ultimately be let down by a 30-year-old body that wasn't going to comply. I feel cheated.

My plan was, when leaping out of bed so bright-eyed yesterday morning, that these sit-ups and push-ups could become a daily routine, or at the very least a course of action for every other morning. Nothing serious, but something to keep my oar in, to reduce the beer belly an inch and thus make myself 0.5% more attractive to the opposite sex.

But tomorrow is Wednesday, and I still feel so weary from yesterday's 'work-out' (if it can even be called that) that I'm sure as hell not going to be bounding out of bed in eight hours' time. In fact, tomorrow is our monthly 'breakfast meeting' at work, at which I'm expected to fill my plate with fried bacon, sausages, eggs, and the rest, whilst we discuss the latest Playout Planning issues that face us in our daily routines.

I have to say, that plate sounds 30 times more appealing than sit-ups.