Ruth Walker: He had me lifting such heavy weights I walked out of the gym with monkey arms

IN THE event of any embarrassing spelling mistakes or strange and misplaced punctuation, I feel I should get my excuses in early. You see, I am typing this week's column with my nose. You would be forgiven for asking why, since the ability to use one's fingers would ordinarily be considered a fairly essential skill in the jobbing journalist. But since Wednesday, I have been robbed of all power in my upper arms.

Even the most basic of household tasks has become a feat of Herculean proportions. Washing the dishes is tricky, scrubbing the bath impossible, and you can forget changing the duvet cover (which I find traumatic enough even when I'm not suffering from temporary muscular atrophy).

As for personal hygiene, plucking my eyebrows and brushing my hair render me a trembling wreck. I've been sleeping in my clothes for three days, simply because I have been unable to dress myself and couldn't bear the ignominy of having to ask the children to do it for me. You might not think it to look at me, but I still have my pride.

The culprit for my current state of feebleness is Fit Guy, who I now suspect may be a sadist (though I may very well be a masochist for allowing him to put me through such a gruelling regime in the first place). For those who are not avid readers (and I'm not vain enough to presume anyone other than Mother and the Suitor are – and even he only reads it so he can offer "constructive criticism"), FG is my new personal trainer.

On our first encounter, I nearly passed out. He advised me to have a carb-heavy snack before our next meeting to ensure I wasn't running on empty, so I took him at his word. I suspect he intended me to munch on a "cheeky wee banana" rather than an insolent little Bounty bar. But it did the trick and, on this occasion, I managed to stay conscious throughout the proceedings. However, he had me lifting such heavy weights that I walked out of the gym with monkey arms – and all that dragging of fingers on Edinburgh's streets does nothing for the manicure.

I'm also struggling with his no-carbs-after-lunch-unless-I'm-working-out rule. It all seemed so simple to start with. I can handle not gorging on toast and cereal when I get home. I know to avoid lots of mashed potato, pasta and pizza in the evening. But the more I investigate food groups (okay, this is starting to verge on obsession, but if a job's worth doing…), the more I discover that my favourite snacks are actually carbohydrates in disguise. Cunning.

So, for instance, I can't nibble on a carrot or chop up some dried fruit. Carbs. I can't dip oatcakes in hummus or munch a handful of nuts. Carbs too. What on earth can I eat?

FG suggested quinoa. He didn't seem to grasp the fact that my aversion to cooking extends to boiling tasteless grain for 15 minutes as a "reward" for a full day's work. And anyway, it's not that easy to come by. When I asked the spotty 12-year-old in Asda where I might find such a thing, he looked at me as if I had just sneezed on him. A big, wet, flu-ridden sneeze. He squeaked that he would have to ask his superior, backed off and was never seen again.

Of course, in the end I've resorted to eating the carbohydrates anyway. It's either that or die of starvation and abject misery. In the meantime, the sensation is slowly but surely returning to my arms. Baby steps, I know, but by this time next week I should be able to drink a glass of wine without the aid of a straw.

This article was originally published in Scotland on Sunday on 21 February 2010