Moving internationally may indeed be hazardous to one’s health. Ideally my relocation should have come with a health warning, which I naturally would have ignored at my leisure. The round of leaving drinks, lunches, dinners, parties, ‘need to see you one last time’ get-togethers, took up a sizable chunk of my last few months in Illinois.

Just when I thought I might have got towards the bottom of the list, up would pop the first round of pals, wondering if I had time to squeeze in another little soiree. Partied out and with our worldly belongings setting sail for pastures new, alternative accommodations had to be secured for the duration of the transit time. No bed, sheets, towels or pots and pans can cramp any home’s style. This meant living out of a suitcase and sporting an ‘I’m on holiday’ mentality for the many weeks that followed.

This is a perfectly acceptable frame of mind for your annual fortnight away from the stresses and strains of the daily grind. It only becomes hazardous when applied to most, if not all, healthy living decisions over an extended period of time. ‘One more drink?’ ‘Why not, I’m on holiday’. ‘Dinner out tonight?’ ‘Why not I’m on holiday’. ‘Gym?’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’m on holiday’. ‘A Run?’ ‘ Far too hot to run in that weather’ ‘Another drink then?’ ‘Perfect’. Repeat for weeks and weeks and you see the problem.

When I eventually got a membership to my new local gym, a whole quarter of the year had ticked by. Not to be recommended, especially if you think all will be fine and you attempt to start off at your previous intensity.

My gym attendance has largely been initiated and nurtured during my time Stateside. I had previously been allergic to sweating and generally moving anywhere too quickly. I didn’t really see the point. The point became more apparent as the birthdays clocked up on the calendar and it was no longer quite so easy to eat what you like, whenever you like and not have to be at all concerned about it. I stepped onto the treadmill and entered my usual running pace, ‘Not too bad’ I thought to myself, ‘this doesn’t feel half as hard as I thought it would’. It was a cruel realisation that I was now in the land of kilometres rather than miles per hour and my ‘not too bad’ really was.

After a warm up, it was time to hit the weights. Picking up a middle of the road pair of tens, I thought all my strength must have drained away over the three-month hiatus. I had to enquire of a fellow gym goer what the weight actually was after attempting to perform a very poor set of bicep curls. Ah, kilogrammes not pounds, I slinked back to the weight rack and gingerly replaced them.

Fast-forward to the very best part of my workout, each and every time without fail, the steam room. A perfect way to end any vigorous exercise session. At times, it has also proved to be a rather enlightening spot. It usually goes one of three ways. It is either extremely steamy when you cannot see your neighbours and you can then be a ‘fly on the wall’ while others discuss their innermost thoughts on the hot topic of the day or it’s not so steamy and your neighbours can see you and engage you in conversation. Finally, my preferred scenario: you get the place all to yourself to think whatever you like without interruption.

The steam room is located next to the pool, home to Aqua Aerobics sessions a number of mornings per week.

Aqua, as it’s commonly referred to, is loved and loathed in equal measures. Loved by its loyal following and hated by pool goers who like to have more than one small single file lane in which to freestyle. With many things in life, timing is everything. I love timing my changing room visits to coincide with Aqua. That way I get a peaceful spacious area, ‘my’ locker, ‘my’ shower, ‘my’ hairdryer and not another soul in a state of undress with whom to avoid eye contact. Attending the gym is also teaching me a little about human behaviour. I wondered whether the fact that I tended to be a creature of habit was purely one of my own little quirks. It appears that it is not. Once again in the changing room, I overheard two girls squabbling over the lockers. ‘You can’t use that one, it’s mine’ complained one. ‘Don’t be silly, I can use whatever one I want’ reasoned the other. ‘But I ALWAYS use 629’ pleaded the first. I smiled inwardly. I am actually very happy to be back in a gym in England. The majority of the beautiful people in the locker rooms of the States enjoy parading around showing off their surgeon’s latest handiwork. Here is it all much more modest, more real and that is more perfect to me.

It is now mid October and that spells HALLOWEEN season in capital letters Stateside. My renewed love affair with Waitrose was only slightly marred with the replacement of BBQ charcoal (on my shopping list in October given the global warming effect) with a discreet Halloween sweet section. I will forgive them. I am delighted to walk along my street and not be bombarded with ghouls, makeshift front lawn cemeteries and blinking orange outdoor lights. I am also delighted with this autumn weather and can predict that as winter arrives and lingers in Illinois, that feeling will only compound. “You can only look forward to a South Dakota winter if, as with childbirth, remodelling a house, or writing a novel, you’re able to forget how bad it was the last time.” writes Dan O’Brien. Never a truer word spoken Dan and it rings true for every one of the dozen Mid West States.

The Old Farmer’s Almanac predicts a nasty 2014-2015 arctic blast winter with below-normal temperatures for about three quarters of the nation. The most frigid temperatures will be found from the Northern Plains into the Great Lakes. Returning to a small island –- there’s no place I’d rather be.