Most exercise aimed at women, chiefly yoga and Pilates, aims at attaining calm through control. Light that scented candle, switch on the pan-pipes, hold that bizarre posture and breathe . . .

But along with a growing number of women, I don’t want to contain my inner angst. I want to expiate it from my system by pummelling an old leather bag or hitting pads held by a firm young man as hard as I can.

Boxing is sweaty, grunty, physical, occasionally humiliating: everything women are supposed to hate. Which is why I love it. It makes you feel strong, powerful, it frees your rage, you can shout out your exhusband’s name with every punch, it unloads mental toxic waste. You forget yourself.

I go to a gym run by the former British champ Clinton McKenzie, an old-school gent, at one of only two rings left above London boozers. It is no-contact, except that Clinton, during my two rounds in the ring, will occasionally biff me lightly around the head to get my blood up. And boy these are the longest three minutes of my life. But as Clinton says – and I’d take it only from him – “The ladies have all this pent-up anger. They scream and they nag, because they never let it out.”

I certainly leave that ring a slightly nicer person.

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