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uncomfortable situations, heaving heavy tree logs and scaling mountains with large backpacks on, while the pages talked of the hard work and long hours involved in making the transition from civilian to soldier.
    These sweaty and out-of-breath people were also accompanied by threatening words of the need to be in ‘top physical shape’ for the ‘very physical demands’ of the course and to assist with this physical preparation there was an enclosed video, Fit For the Best. Thankful that I hadn’t disposed of my redundant video-player when DVDs caught on a decade earlier, waiting for a moment like this when an outmodish organization like the army might necessitate it, I invited Deborah around and we watched intently over a bottle of wine as muscle-sculpted men in tight white T-shirts demonstrated techniques to improve ‘stamina and strength’. Probably not the sort of viewing set-up the Army had intended it for, but the video had the desired effect as I was motivated to join a gym while Deborah went home having borrowed it and my video-player.
    With £250 joining fees and £70 monthly membership, I have always thought membership at one of London’s pretentious City gyms a ridiculous expense for something I’d probably visit once. I preferred to be outside, gulping fresh air, running up and down the Thames towpath to keep the calorific effects of client dinners andhappy hour cocktails at bay. However, this alone was not going to ready me for Sandhurst. I was fit by civilian standards, and had even recently run a few half-marathons, but the Army wanted more than that. Much more.
    Before Westbury I had never done a press-up. Never. Not one. And attempts at heaves involved me dangling from a pole by my pathetic chicken-wing arms and flailing helplessly in the air. So to build up a bit of muscle and upper-body punch I enlisted the services of a personal trainer at my local gym to instruct me on how to develop biceps, without turning my size 8 frame into that of a shot-putter’s.
    I joined my local Fulham branch of Holmes Place Fitness Centre, where before work fellow gym-goers could be found on the reclining bike reading the Financial Times , while stylish women in the latest coordinated Stella McCartney gym fashions walked on the treadmills gossiping into mobile phones and yummy mummies dropped off young Harrys for swimming lessons. To boost motivation there were music videos of the Pussycat Dolls prancing about on the bank of enormous flat-screen televisions, to remind me how tight and small my bottom could never be if I was committed enough and ignored the ice-cream counter by the exit. I worked through my training programme, progressively lifting heavier weights with my gnat’s limbs until I could execute press-ups without collapsing to my knees. And as the months before Sandhurst turned to weeks and days I ran further and further, regularly completing over forty miles a week. By Christmas I was pretty fit, the fittest I’ve ever been, but no amount of time in Fulham’s Holmes Place would fully prepare me for the ‘physical demands’ of the commissioning course, as I was soon to find out.
    My arrival date at Sandhurst was now looming large and I was still remarkably naive about the place. Unlike school and university where I had been with my parents to look prior to applying, Sandhurst continued to be a mystery. My only knowledge camefrom the glossy brochures I had been given and stories in the press about Princes William and Harry who were both there.
    So, with a month to go before I was due to start my new life, I was invited, along with some of the other new recruits, to attend a familiarization visit to the Academy. After my brief exposure into army establishment at Westbury this presented another opportunity for me to experience army food, scratchy blankets and unnecessary shouting whilst also being sized up for the new uniform. Whilst there I was also issued with a new pair of military black leather boots to