A Million Reasons for Wanting to Carry on Living

I've recently joined two establishments, the University Gym and the British Library, for the body and mind, although it might be the other way about what with the steps up to Humanities 2 and the fine motor skills needed to work out the abdominal machine.

I am already much in love with the BL, from its ridiculously un-intuitive book reserving website (an IQ test) to its helfpul staff who call me 'madam' and try to persuade me to re-reserve the book for tomorrow (Hackney library staff literally grunt at me; a librarian at Stamford Hill, who after looking astonished when I handed her a book to check out, shouted noises at me as I forgot to take the receipt: "Ug ngh uh")

It also seems to be the most trusting place in the world - people leave their laptops on their desk as they wander off for a 10 minute fag, loo, cake break (I'd recommend Peyton and Byrne's blueberry muffin) and umbrellas line the locker tops for anyone to pinch. This is London, where I wear my bag across my chest, never leave it under the chair or on the table top, I keep my hand in my pocket on top of my Oyster card when I swipe in or out (having lost 2 to pickpockets), where I secure my bike with three sturdy locks.

And there's the books of course. It's quite astonishing to get anything I want just by asking, although on my first visit, I went a bit over the top and ordered far more books than I could read and felt bad for having made them bring books from Boston Spa, where some of the older tomes are stored.

And I like the modern building - like a new attractive facial piercing on the face of a well-loved friend.

As for the gym, I promised myself that I would join one for my birthday back in May. It shows my talent for procrastination that I've just got about it to it now. I get terribly embarrassed by my body, not in an aesthetic sense, but by its gangliness and predisposition to get tangled up in machinery, as well as the fact that I've never been able to touch my toes. I was terrified of the machines (not in a Terminator way) because I didn't think I'd be able to work out how they worked. But last time I even managed to use something the instructor hasn't inducted me on, for my triceps (bingo wings).

I also like the place because not many women use it. Not because I love muscly gym boys but because the girls use the machines I want to try, whereas the boys do the weights, watch each other do the weights, help each other lift the weighs and talk about how much bench they're pressing. And it's a solitary thing. I always end up feeling sorry for people I am on a team with because I'm so bad at sports, and having, been to the odd yoga class, I find that I'm always lifting my left leg whilst everyone else is lifting their right.

I end the hour not just with an endorphin rush, but the feeling of achievement in having done something that is unnatural for me. Staring at 40 as if down the barrel of a cocked gun means I can no longer pretend that cycling the ten minutes to work or walking to the tube station counts as exercise. My weight has gone from under to normal to pushing the bounds of the BMI index in ten years, I don't want to spend the next ten getting out of breath climbing stairs or looking longingly at mobility scooters, although the depressing thing is that 10 minutes of uphill-yet-static cycling leaves me exhausted but then I find I've only cycled 3 miles and burned off 78 calories (not even enough for a Mars Bar).