Lied to

I've been lied to. Regularly, without the merest hint that I was being deceived.

Other people might tell me that inanimate objects are incapable of lying, that a treadmill cannot dissemble, any more than you could have an argument with a chair. But speaking as a man who once got in a fight with his own sofa, I just can't accept that. With a consistency that smacks of wilfulness, the treadmills at the gym have been telling me I've burned far more calories than I really have. Only now I have my Garmin and its HRM working, I've been able to spot the exaggerations.

Now, you might suggest that this is a victimless crime: at the most, all this over-inflation of calories burned has done is contribute to an extra bit of head-swellage on my part. But that's just not true. I've been carefully recording how many calories I've burned at the gym, and then eaten the equivalent amount of chocolate eclairs, to ensure I didn't get too thin.

Or so I thought. No wonder I was getting fatter, on an excess of filou pastry and sweet, delicious cream. Damn you!

"Hoist on your own petard" I hear you say. Anyone who lives their life according to a spreadsheet and the contents of the cake counter deserves to have this happen to them. Well, I'm not from a generation that thinks it's right to accept responsibility for your own actions.

J'accuse, California Fitness!

J'accuse, Nike!

J'accuse, Joel Robouchon and your exceedingly good cakes!

In fact, sod it, I'm going to put my boot through my laptop and send Bill Gates the bill. Or maybe just some highly reliable diet pills from an anonymous internet retailer.