The path to a portly tummy is paved with good intentions: empty promises of pre-work yoga, lunchtime running, evening gym sessions. Our homes are riddled with twice-worn swimming costumes, barely broken-in trainers and sports bras greying glumly at the bottom of the knicker drawer. We are united by its abandoned sportswear, common ambition to make it to the gym, and a collective excuse: “I didn’t have time.”