I’ve been thinking recently about PE, and how it has affected the rest of my life. When I was at school, I despised PE. A weekly ritual humiliation. Aside from the group showers, guaranteed to batter the self confidence of a skinny autistic 12 year old, there was the [1/5]

... ignominy of always being chosen last. The look on team captain’s faces when they were saddled with me. Being picked on because I couldn’t catch or kick a ball straight. This also factored into quitting of the school production of Gregory’s Girl, when other cast members [2/5]

... tease me for botching football scenes. The Head of Drama never forgave me and it meant I couldn’t study drama for GCSE. I remember being thrown across a rugby pitch by someone twice my size, because I stood in the wrong place. I was cold, muddy, ashamed, exhausted.. [3/5]

... week after week after week. It instilled in my a deep dislike and distrust of physical activity, and I have sought to avoid it ever since. I’m now in my early 40s, and increasingly aware of being very out of shape. Every so often, I’ve joined a gym, or taken up [4/5]

...or walking, or running, or climbing, or *something*. It never lasts, because every time it brings back those same insecurities, those same feelings of humiliation and judgement, which 30 years ago were indelibly associated with any sort of physical exertion. [5/5]