Having “outed” myself as a metrosexual, I’ve done very little to maintain a lifestyle in keeping with the culture. If I were a homosexual it’d be like not liking musicals or not having a small dog. As it goes I’m not. And I really ought not make such sweeping – and possibly offensive – generalisations.

The fact of the matter is, I make a terrible metrosexual. Sure, I moisturise. I use a range of hair products. But my sexuality, my…metrosity is tepid, to say the least.

I’m terribly out of shape, I eat crap and I shop at Topman – almost exclusively. I’ve never bought an Armani suit, I don’t care for fruit and I wouldn’t know my yoga pilates from my yoga flames.

I’ve decided, if I’m going to do this properly, if I’m going to write the “true story of a single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male,” I’m going to have to shape up or ship out. (Besides, I figure I can’t do much about my being twentysomething or British Indian.)

So tomorrow I’m going for a run.

It’s either that or Annie Get Your Gun, a Chihuahua and another closet from which to emerge. But I’m pretty sure it’s easier to turn a fat boy slim than a straight guy queer.