My latest attempt to de-jiggle comes in the form of a pint-sized pocket rocket who claims to be a personal trainer but, in my opinion, is actually a highly qualified practitioner of jedi mind tricks. You see, not only has she managed to get my wobbly butt and withering calves (not being able to run or wear heels will do that to a girl) to the gym bright and early on a Monday morning but she has managed to make me see wine o' clock as the enemy (Re-read that last sentence if you think you imagined it...) Basically, I'm starting to equate my favourite Sauvignon Blanc with lunges, squats and other forms of legal torture required to undo the calorie consumption. Bearing in mind that I gave my partner in crime at the gym the nickname of 'The Drill Sergeant' a while back (courtesy of the fact that she single-handedly managed to take me from a coughing, spluttering, sweaty mess who couldn't run 3km's to a half-marathon enthusiast in just six mon