Feeling the burn (that's the burn of disappointment actually. So it's more of a sting).

So the other night the phone rang, and it was a woman from Sport England who was trying to find out what exercise I did in order to 'plan services in my area'. She had come upon my phone number by getting a computer to choose a random set of digits. This represents the strongest argument I have ever heard for the existence of Artificial Intelligence. The computer, you see, was having a larf.

She kept her identity a secret till the end. On and on she went, asking if I was on any sporting committees and how often I found myself panting. I spent most of the conversation trying to work out what special kind of identity thief would require information on how many children I regularly drove to sporting activities.

When I found out the research was being carried out by Sport England, it all made sense. Her attitude. The way she'd said "Nothing else?" at the end of each question with a mounting despair. Her spluttered "Only two!" when I answered how many continual walks of 30 minutes or more I had taken in the last month. She didn't care about my taking two 15 minute walks a day. She made it very plain that she believed she was talking to the least energetic woman on the planet.

She seemed slightly cheered by the yoga. But then she found out it didn't make my heart rate rise or cause me to pant, and she slid once more into her chasm of despair. At that point I had begun to deeply dislike her, and answered the heart rate question with an incredibly sarcastic "It's yoga."

Did I cycle? Well, I would, but see, my brave green steed has developed squeaky brakes and dodgy tyres and I haven't found the cash to get them desqueaked and undodgied. What would I like to do? I reeled off a list of impressive pursuits including energetic cycling and regular swimming, which I can't even do properly. It didn't take into account at all time or money. It was one of those lists that would find its equivalent in my five-year-old writing the first draft of her letter to Santa: "And twenty Hello Kitty toys, and a DS, and a television in my bedroom and a camera..."

On my desk right now I have a copy of a rather alarming exercise DVD bought in a charity shop, where a camp ice skater in a dance studio full of pot plants springs about whilst holding tins of beans in his hands. This may all work okay in a professional studio with a sprung floor - me doing it at home makes it sound like the whole house is going to fall down.

Despite all my good intentions, I actually could be the least energetic woman on the planet. How about you? How would you fare if the Sport England woman rang?