Meet the Nag. Last year's directed birthday gift.
It looks innocent, like a watch waiting to wake, but it's not.
It's that whisper in the ear, that shaking head, that look of puzzled disapproval from someone older or wiser, that feeling of unease, that tutting.
Only I can feel it vibrating on my arm.
There's just a hint of a buzz.
'Time to step. Only 249 to go.'
And then, if I'm lucky, by 5pm the tyrant is finished. '9 out of 9', '10,000 steps'. Electronic fireworks exploding on my arm.
Then I'm allowed to sit on my couch again just moving my toes.