IT IS not given to all of us women of a certain age to be as agile as Madonna. The alarming fanaticism for toning-up and working-out shows a lack of intolerance to those of us of a different persuasion.

There's surely nothing worse than being confronted by the reformed curry 'n' chips eater who insists that you can be born again with the body of Elle McPherson if only you'd take up Ashtanga yoga or extreme tango-ing. And it's all going to get a whole lot worse.

1 January is the unofficial feast day for the pious fitness fundamentalist, the day when an indolent nation will be urged to get out and about, power walking in that new tracksuit, Nordic walking with those funny looking sticks from Lidl, or . . . horror of horrors . . .

consider renewing the gym membership in ubiquitous 'new year, new you' fashion.

Given that some of us, when 2007 struck only hours earlier, will be providing younger family members with rich comic material by tipsily shimmying in our 9 Penneys sequinned tops to Jools's New Year's Eve Hootenanny, the mere suggestion of doing anything more strenuous than lying on the sofa tomorrow, clutching the paracetamol, is an outrage.

The average gym is where that phrase "pointless exercise" originates. Filled with people sweating in torturous lycra while staring blankly at a giant screen and running on the spot has all the allure of yesterday's Brussels sprouts.

Which sounds defensive, but the evangelical zeal of the deeply fit is unsettling. In his hilarious and rebellious new book, How To Be Free, editor of The Idler, Tom Hodgkinson, relates his hatred for these temples of self-inflicted torture.

"Gyms are all mixed up with vanity and money, with the absurd quest for perfection. They are the consumer ethic transferred to the body. They are antithought, and their giant screens blot our minds and divert us from ourselves. Sometimes I think that life is becoming no more than staring at a screen."

Which is where the erstwhile Mrs Ritchie, mother of three, comes in. Last month, while slouched in front of the television, carefully balancing remote control, cat and Terry's chocolate orange on my lap, I inadvertently happened upon Madonna's Confessions Tour Live from London. And it was pretty inflammatory stuff for the resolutely lazy viewer.

Resplendent and unrestrained as she was in tights, boots and a jacket with only one sleeve, she gyrated, at one point, up onto a bucking bronco apparatus on a pole while continuing with her signature, vigorous thrusting moves. I was so transfixed, I nearly dropped my fag.

It's easy to confuse not wanting to do something and being just plain lazy . . . and that's because they are basically the same thing. One of my favourite relatives is the very wise brother-in-law who doesn't believe in the concept of laziness . . . he says it's just that whatever it is that someone's urging you to do is deeply uninteresting to you personally.

Mid-winter is a time for hibernation, in between making merry with friends, attempting to eat your own weight in mince pies and reading glossy magazines without being preached to with boring sermons on diet and exercise. The messianic zeal of keep-fit fortyand fifty-something celebrities in particular has to be curbed. They are making life difficult for the minority.

Remember what happened to the Jane-go-for-the-burn-Fonda and where all those aerobics tapes got her? A heart attack and brief marriage to Ted Turner, that's what. Us oldies are not meant to be like coiled springs ready to spring to life at 6am for a jog, or dawn appointment (good grief) with a personal trainer. No, our duty is grumpily to impart unwanted wisdom on the deaf ears of the young, telling them to enjoy life and to hell with the dumb bells.

That's despite some of our number who are letting the side down.

There's the normally wise, fortysomething Emma Thompson in the January issue of Easy Living, saying that she exercises every day, adding, by the way, that three times a week she also does 60 press-ups.

Magazines scream at us from newsagents' shelves with headlines "I lost 40lbs in seven days by just walking fast" or features telling us all about celebrity fitness routines. Angelina Jolie once numbered kick boxing, streetfighting and 'bungee ballet' among some of her more alarming activities. The most strenuous activity I'm planning for the rest of the holiday amounts to nothing more than stretching out a toe to poke the tinsel Crunchie wrapper in that discarded Selection Box . . . just in case there's a chunk of chocolate left. That, and maybe just staring at the fire, daydreaming, or wondering which of the Christmas DVD pressies I might take a look at. One sure thing, Madonna's frighteningly energetic concerts are not among their number. Give it up, Madge. Embrace leisure.

Release your inner Waynetta Slob.

Change into one of Guy's old baggy track suits and break open the box of Celebrations. Ashtanga yoga and gruelling dance won't stop the hands of time wreaking their havoc. After all, remember what cheeky chappie Robbie Williams said at the MTV Awards?

"Madonna looks amazing: I can't believe she's 89 and looks like that."