I’ve bought two tracksuit bottoms on the advice of the rehab team.  A friend and I went on a special trackie-buying trip to town.  It felt like a rite of passage.  I’ve yet to try them on, fearing that the lure of the sofa, Jeremy Kyle and a tube of Pringles will be impossible to resist and that, if I put them on, I might never take them off.  The very kind physiotherapist who described the immediate post-operative phase of the amputation seemed slightly taken aback at my expression of horror. I’d been looking forward to catching up with the 4751 songs on my i-pod, the box set of Glee and the complete Sex in the City, not struggling to the gym. It’ll be worth it in the end, she says. Yeah, right.