Netball brings out the wind in me. I don’t know what it is, but as soon as I get that bib on, I start evacuating, top and bottom. It doesn’t happen during Pilates, which is odd when you consider that Pilates is all about sucking in hard the vagazzle – a bit like you do when you need a wee on a train but daren’t go in the toilet in case you spontaneously combust, like that women on a train recently. Actually, I may have made the spontaneous combustion bit up but there was a woman who burnt to death in a Gatwick Express toilet recently, wasn’t there? Anyway, back to the programme. ¬†Last Monday, during a particularly complex Pilates manoeuver involving me lying spreadeagled on my stomach while arms and legs flapped about in a sort of dry breaststroke, I thrashed out, fingering the lady with the big bunions several times. My problem is that I have a ‘long span’, as my Australian netball coach likes to call it (she is too polite to call me a freak) which is why, when I’m marking an attacker and they’re trying to get the ball past me, I can bat it back into their face and make their nose bleed.