I really really really want a treadmill. I want one so I don’t have to go outside to exercise (I don’t ‘do’ sun). I want one so that I can watch tv and exercise at the same time, maybe even whilst watching Dr Phil, which goes for a whole hour – five times a week -that’s all the exercise I need! I’ll be buff – if only I had a treadmill.

My dear husband however, won’t allow to get me a treadmill. In fact, he forbids it. ‘You won’t use it’ he says. ‘It’s a Fat Tax Machine’.

A Fat Tax, by expert definition, is a tax placed on fattening food, beverages or individuals. A Fat Tax Machine, as defined by my husband, is something I insist on buying to get fit, then deliberately do not utilise for its desired function.

You see, I have purchased a treadmill before. I used it for precisely 3 minutes and 30 seconds before it graced my laundry for the next five years, those things make the best clothes hangers!

I then begged for a rowing machine. ‘I’ll have abs of steel’ I told my husband. ‘A sixpack!’ I promised him. So $800 poorer we had a rowing machine. I think I used it about twice before it was reincarnated in the toy room as, well, a rowing machine toy.

Next I pleaded for an elliptical trainer. ‘It’s an all round fitness machine’ I told him. I begged, pleaded and stamped my feet before hubby relented after I bought it on Ebay anyway. After a week he asked me how it was going ‘It hurts my hips too much’ I said. It’s been in the corner of my lounge room since then. I like to think of it as exercise chic decor, and that my friends think I’m some kind of elliptical goddess when they see it in full view when they come for coffee.

But I really really really want a treadmill. Although I’m not really sure what happened to the first one, I know things will be different this time around. Mind you, I can’t help but logically reason with myself that maybe, just maybe, I may not really need another Fat Tax Machine; but who actually buys those things to be anything other than false indicators of well intentions, or an ironing rack, anyway!?!

By Jody Allen