A COUPLE of weekends ago, we spent a most pleasurable evening in the company of the brilliant Manfreds at the Hall For Cornwall. The house was packed with blues lovers and baby boomers reliving the 1960s.

Daughter was quite possibly the youngest person there, but that didn’t stop her joining in lustily with the call-and-response of Do Wah Diddy Diddy, and her personal favourite: The Mighty Quinn. I, meanwhile, relived my own childhood with the Earth Band numbers (sample: Blinded By The Light), delivered with aplomb by the magnificent Noel McCalla.

As you might imagine, the original band members are getting on a bit. Singer Paul Jones is 83, no less, but he can still hit the high notes, and deliver a lengthy harmonica riff without taking a breath or breaking a sweat.

When the lyrics indicated that he was on his knees, imploring a disgruntled sweetheart to take him back, he duly obliged, getting down and back up again with the spring of someone 60 years younger. I’m sure there were many in the audience who wished they could do the same.

Indeed, I can only hope to be as fit as Jones when I reach his age. Sadly, the signs are not especially promising without a few committed lifestyle changes.

Earlier this month, I found myself contemplating my blood pressure. I’d done a DIY test at the doctor’s surgery, and upon seeing figures higher than those depicted as normal on all the posters, convinced myself I was going to suffer a cardiac arrest and drop dead on the spot.

The GP reassured me that this was not the case – yet – but that measures need to be taken to ensure I wasn’t on a cocktail of heart-regulating pills in 10 years’ time, and for the rest of my life.

This came as no big surprise to me. For starters, I’m a menopausal woman of the sandwich generation with a teenage daughter and an ailing parent. Pass me the stress relief manual.

I’ve never been sporty, and my fitness regime was previously driven by must-do pursuits including walking Daughter to school and hiking across town to the office, both of which went out of the window during the pandemic.

These days, Daughter is big and ugly enough to walk herself to school, and some days I could get away without leaving the house at all (especially tempting when the weather is cold and wet).

So I was perfectly aware I needed to work on my health, and in all honesty had been dodging the issue for some time. The question was, could I change things without taking up an arduous club activity (admission: I was always the last one to be picked at school team sports).

GP proposed scheduling brisk walks into my timetable – diarising them like meetings, immutable in my calendar. “Nope, sorry, can’t speak at 11am, I’m doing three laps of the park.” Said park is across the road, which would make this easy.

Should I take up running? GP signposted me to the Couch to 5k initiative, which builds one up slowly to avoid the kind of disheartenment that leads to inevitable failure.

I had a birthday coming up, and tentatively suggested a Fitbit – like a smart watch geared specifically towards health. “They’re not bad if you like stats and data,” GP replied.

As it turns out, I like stats and data very much. I love a target – it’s a bit like a newspaper deadline. No deadline, and my motivation is dead in the water.

My first goal was the recommended 10,000 steps daily. No more jumping in the car to Waitrose, a mere 15 minutes’ walk away. I even walked to The Alverton in the rain for my birthday lunch.

I was surprised to find that even just walking around the house delivers a decent step count (even if these are to the biscuit tin). The Fitbit reminds me to get off my posterior and walk 250 steps an hour; this is especially welcome earlier in the day, when I have my head down writing and forget the world exists. I’ve taken to walking a circuit round the back of the house to break the monotony.

A single trip downtown does much to get my tally up, and when I walk back up the hill, I get extra cardio points. Winner!

The device also tracks my sleep, showing the split between deep, light and REM, and how my weekend lie-ins are compromised by a half-hour of lying awake from my weekday alarm time of 7am.

As you can probably tell, I’m a bit hooked. In fact, the Other Half and Daughter are already griping about how much extra time I’m sitting on my backside, checking my stats on my phone app, biscuit in hand.

Well, nobody’s perfect.