Mental Times

This week, it’s mental health awareness week. Given the brain is the Mothership, it’s quite shocking we don’t give it as much attention as the rest of our body. If the Mothership fails, we are just a walking sack of human disappointment really. You could have a smokin’ hot body and a brain composed of too many thoughts and shmush, and just be a walking Barbie doll. All t*ts and no function. Think Britney circa 2008.


BalletFit has had personal experiences of an eating disorder (anorexia - the hardcore stuff); and addiction (and no, it wasn’t meth). This tells us that even the *most perfect* of the species can be affected.


No-one is immune to mental illness. And I love that. It’s a great leveller. I once dated an Oxford educated doctor, who was an absolute ass-clown when it came to mental illness; he asserted (nasally, of course, they teach you that at Oxbridge), that it was self inflicted and victim-ey. So imagine my delight when I saw him with crippling anxiety; you know, the kind your £50k a year education can’t prevent.


Back in the day when I had a bit of compassion for poor people, I used to run group classes. I found out recently that Claire, a lady from my class, committed suicide 7 months after having her first son. A good friend of Claire’s told me she came to my classes, and others, to keep her bipolar in check. Having physical control of your body is a magnificent tool for your brain’s wellbeing.


So, on Saturday 29th June, BalletFit is joining up with Ride and Raise, for a 6hr spinathon in aid of Free Space Project Mental Health Program. BalletFit is of course not spinning. She’d rather chew her own arm off. BalletFit is doing all important stretching in between spins for anyone who decides to sign up.


If you want to prevent imminent insanity, sign up for your Ride and Raise spinathon spot here and get some free BalletFit action thrown in.


There’s only one way to sign off this week:

Claire, this is dedicated to you and your memory. Wherever you are, keep dancing. We’re all dancing with you.

My London Legacy

Sometimes, the thoughts in my head get so bored, they stroll right out of my mouth. Like when I write to you each week.

Maxwell, le chien saucisse, is a very tolerant audience. He’s the perfect man really. All cute face and no back chat. I ONCE caught him talking back to Alexa, my sinister little robotic home help. I switched her off immediately, the little bitch.


A few weeks ago, a company called Your London Legacy approached me to do a podcast. Their strap line is “London’s timeless personalities.” I wouldn’t say I was timeless. I’d say there’s been loads of people like me over time. Just with a lot less to say. And a less finely-sculpted arse.

My interview lasted 48 minutes. Who knew I could talk for 48 minutes straight without using words such as ‘f**k’, ‘ass clown’ or ‘tw*t’?

Anyhow, I’m now out there, not just in print, but in a *podcast all of my own*. A delectable feast for your senses; your earballs filled with BalletFit wisdom.

And yes, you will listen. It’s Easter/Pesach. How else are you going to avoid spending meaningful time with your family?

Anyone who shares this link on social media (and proves it - this ain’t my first rodeo), gets a free session from your truly.

Happy fucken Holidays all.

BalletFit x

Plant Power

This week, I turned 30 something. No one is sure of the actual number, because whatever comes out of my mouth will almost certainly be a lie when it comes to my age.

In a world where:

Young+Hot = money+(success x2)

You can kiss my pixie valve if you think I’m going to admit my actual age and lose my fan base to a number.

Lying about age isn’t easy. Well, the lying bit is. Getting people to believe you is not. However, BalletFit has been doing this since she turned 30 (that’s the age at which men don’t want casual sex with you in case you’re an infant manufacturing plant disguised as a shag); and has found implementing the following controls help the age fictionalisation process beautifully:

  1. Stretching. No woman who could wrap her leg around her head looked old. Ever. Also, stretching increases collagen production, hence, magical youthful skin ensues.
  2. Muscle tone. Keeping your tush round and plump; avoiding your arse plummeting down to the back of your knees, *absolutely* takes years off.
  3. Pain free. Nothing screams age like involuntary old person grunting noises when you get out of the racing seats of a Porsche GT3 RS 4 litre. Or moaning about your sciatica *yet again.*

Luckily for you, BalletFit can solve ALL OF THE ABOVE. And shave years off.

BalletFit’s elite team of clinical exercise and massage specialists, combined with our unique connection with MariPharm, the worlds largest distributor of the purest CBD oil available, gives YOU access to a flexible, strong, pain free body. All without even leaving your prime postcode pile.

Anyone who renews their package (or signs up for a package) in the month of April will be given TWO COMPLIMENTARY TICKETS to hear Prof Dedi Meiri of Technion university speak about his groundbreaking cannabinoid research for pain relief.

Contact me here if you need help lying about your age. BalletFit cannot help you fictionalise any other area of your shitty life.


They say a problem shared is a problem halved. I don’t like sharing. Because it means I have less than I started with and I like to have lots of everything. Shoes. Puppies. Snacks. Cars. Shoes.... (I’m saving my ankles from a lifetime of boredom here).

What we could all do with having less of, however, is aches and pains. And fat. So I’ve decided to be *totally selfless* and share my services with you AND your friends. For HALF THE PRICE.

For one week only, if you share your secret weapon (me), with your friends and refer them to me, I will give them a 30min complimentary session (30mins is all it takes to fall in love with me. Or kill me. Promise). If they sign up for a block of sessions, your next block is HALF PRICE. FIFTY PER CENT CHEAPER. SIX HUNDRED QUID TO SPEND ON MORE SHOES.


If any of you don’t talk about me to everyone you meet in the next week, I will reconsider our relationship entirely. And probably still work for you cos I always need the money.

If you’re in need of half price blocks and friends who think you’re awesome for having BalletFit’s following in home services:

Clinical Pilates

Cardiac Rehab

Clinical Massage




then contact me here.


This offer IS NOT the never ending DFS sale. So your referral offer ends 29/3/19. Your mate needs to sign up for 20 sessions @£1250, you get your block for £625. Win/win. For you. 




So I’m dating REG (Real Estate Guy) again. A late night convo about ABBA and Dirty John on Netflix reignited the flame that I pissed on when I threw a Rhiann-sized tantrum over not getting laid one night. Turns out men don’t call after you send them a Whatsapp in error, meant for your best friend, calling them a knob.

REG made a cute comment about my food “cravings.” The craving he was referring to was actually my lunch - M+S EXTREMELY Chocolatey Orange Biscuits (the Orange counts as one of my five-a-day almost certainly). I was surprised one evening at dinner with him that I had stomach cramps. After eating an airport-sized Toblerone and a packet of original Oreos as a pre-snack, before my chicken and chips.

I’m not going to lie, I’m one of those hideous women who doesn’t gain weight. I’m a fat bird in a skinny lass’s body. And I’m not even sorry. If I looked like a TurboPig, I’d rein it in. But I don’t. So I won’t.


For any of you fatties out there who don’t possess the Barbie gene to override the Fillet Tower Burgers you’re troughing, I’m launching 10<IN>14. And no, it’s not 10 Big Macs in 14 minutes. It’s TEN workouts in FOURTEEN DAYS.

Got a holiday coming up where a fat hiding burka just won’t do? Got your son’s Bar Mitzvah and just can’t let *ANY OTHER WOMAN THERE* upstage you? Then 10<IN>14 is your saviour. And the best bit? It’s only £395. That’s less than 40 quid a day to not cross a line into being a monster. Bargain.

There’s no real catch to this one. I just make you work your oversized arse off for 10 hours in two weeks. Welcome.

Email to book. Obviously there’s not many slots available, so I can’t SQUEEZE everyone in.... too much...?

See you at the Barre.

Love, BalletFit.


St Valentine was imprisoned, beheaded and buried on Feb 14, 269 AD. And I can see why. Rome was going about it’s daily life, all happy and single and wearing togas; and along comes this ass clown Valentine, encouraging them all to get married. Making the rest of humanity unhappy (and poorer) ever since. Thanks, pr*ck. You can still find his skull in Rome, apparently. Presumably as a relic reminder of what happens to men who believe in marriage.

Why am I so bitter about marriage? Because I’ve dated two divorcees in the last year. I’ve experienced marriage at it’s worst. Here’s a list of reasons not to get married. Or divorced:

You are poorer

Your children hate you

You are poorer

You are poorer

You are poorer


And there you have it. And if your ex and your kids can’t love you any more, how can you love yourself? Oh, you can’t, because you ran out of money to spend on bespoke personal training from BalletFit and her team, so now you are single, poor, AND fat. And that tattoo you got on your arse with your ex when you were 20 and believed love was forever?? It’s SAGGING with the rest of your ass, you ageing moron.

So now’s the time to do something about it. I can’t rescue your failing marriage, but I can make you BOTH look hotter (therefore more acceptable) to each other. Assuming you haven’t pissed all the money away on a divorce lawyer called Simon that is.

Contact me here if anything is worth rescuing and you have cash.

Oh, and Valentine? They made him the patron saint of epilepsy in the end.


In 2006, Pluto was declassified as a planet. The International Astronomical Union (IAU) downgraded Pluto’s status to that of “Dwarf Planet.” Presumably this was down to its lack of size; a presence just too insignificant to be considered a real player in the Solar System.


I got to wondering why we don’t have a similar declassification procedure for men. A brief assessment using simple questions such as:

  • Are you in gainful employment?
  • Do you own a car?
  • Do you have your own place (not purchased by Mummy and Daddy)?
  • Did you manage to tell your current girlfriend it’s over before sleeping with your ex?

If you answered “No” to the first 3 questions, you get Plutoed. If you answered “No” to question 4, you are TWM (Tiny White Man) and also get Plutoed. TWM made a brief cameo in The Rhiann Show again last week, and is the best example yet in support of the argument for male declassification. TWM got pre-excited and booked a couple of budget flights with current GF, then endured an Arabian Adventure with her, despite wanting to break up with her. Cut to last week, and he still hasn’t grown a pair big enough to tell her it’s over. So he just had sex with his ex instead.


It’s this kind of cowardly micro-behaviour that justifies masculine declassification. We could send the Plutonians to a military style camp where they have a finite amount of time to grow a pair and reclaim their male classification status, or labelled Pluto forever.



The other thing in my life I declassified this week is cannabis. Well, sort of. The declassified version being CBD oil. The ongoing clinical trials involving CBD are producing mountains of evidence that CBD’s capacity to heal and relieve pain are enormous. Technically it is sold as a food supplement, because it is plant based. The THC (the psychedelic compound) is removed, leaving only the natural healing properties of CBD. There are no known side effects to using CBD oil. It can be used topically to heal skin lesions or wounds or taken orally as an immune boosting supplement. I had the onset of a sore throat/virus this week. Two days of administering CBD orally and no further symptoms developed. So the world gets to enjoy my dulcet tones uninterrupted. Hashtag winning.

BalletFit has officially partnered up with MariPharm UK, the worlds largest distributor of the purest CBD oil available. CBD is the future of pain relief, and as yet it’s power to heal medical pathologies have yet to be officially proven. But we all know if I’m taking it first, you’re onto a good thing.

Because I’m such a good person, and a MariPharm partner, I can offer 10% off all MariPharm products for BalletFit readers. Simply click here and use discount code RK10. Or copy and paste this link

If you have any questions regarding CBD use, or need a male declassification assessment, click here.

Letter Of Complaint


Dear Santa,

Before I explain, how much do you know already you fat, judgemental b**tard?

I am writing to request a formal explanation as to why I didn’t get a pony this year. This is the 30th year I’ve been patiently waiting for my equine gift to arrive, and, frankly, my patience is wearing thin.

I would like to know what scale/formula you are using to assess how good a Good Girl is. I will acknowledge that for the previous 29 years, my annual behaviour chart hasn’t displayed sufficient Good Girl results to justify a pony. But in 2018 I worked my arse off, and gave up two of my favourite hobbies - playing with my MenToys AND buying fast cars.

Since Jan 1st I didn’t play with a single (or married) man until the beginning of December. Admittedly, I decided to treat myself to an early me-to-me Christmas gift of a boy, after being SO good all year long. I chose REG (Real Estate Guy). Turns out he was an undersized f*ckboy like the rest of them. So far this delayed gratification business isn’t proving at all worthwhile.

I didn’t buy a single sports car until the end of November. That’s ELEVEN WHOLE MONTHS between SexWagon purchases. How did you credit me on the Good Girl Scale for that?

You know what I got sent in lieu of my pony? A f*cking stuffed unicorn the size of my sausage dog, that scares the living daylights out of me should I wake up in the night and find its unilateral demonic eyeball staring at me whilst I’m sleeping. If I wanted overnight surveillance I would have got back together with my ex, CityBoy.

So, Santa, I will need you to revert back before Jan 1st (or maybe the 2nd - I can’t amend my bad behaviour from NYE the day after with a hangover).


Just to give you an idea of how good a Good Girl I plan to be next year, BalletFit promises to:


Employ a third person (the lovely Ketan Mistry) from the beginning of 2019 extending our services to include at-home clinical massage;


Continue to offer a 7 day a week bespoke service including clinical pilates, osteopathy, personal training, guided yoga and meditation;


Offer year round support to our clients even over Skype whilst they are away;


Reward our clients generously with free sessions if they recommend us to a friend;


And, of course, myself and my team will continue to bring all kinds of fun and joy into our clients homes, 7am-10pm, Mon-Sun.

Our prices will increase slightly (in case I have to pay for my own pony) from Jan 2nd:

Single session - £75

20 sessions: £1250

10 sessions no longer available because let’s face it, you’re not going to look smoking hot after ten hours.

Anyone who wants to bank another block at their current rate before end of Dec please feel free. Contact me here if you wish to do so. 

Lots of Love,

BalletFit xxx

Charity Incoming

I’m not a sharer. I don’t like stuff that isn’t about me. I certainly don’t like giving away my money when I could be spending it on or Net-a-Porter. Why would I want the responsibility of keeping a child alive in Africa as well as myself this week? Someone mentioned the tax breaks on charity donations. You know what’s better than a tax break? Keeping your money.

What I do offer though, is my time, and skills set. Far more valuable to any charity (as long as it’s not a Donkey Sanctuary - they can’t do Pilates) than the 50 quid a month I have spare after rent, bills, cars, drinks, shoes, Milky Bars, flights and sweaters for Max.


This month I’m Mother f***ing Theresa, helping out both Mitzvah Day and The Rugby Portobello Trust.

Mitzvah Day I’ve been doing for years and I love it. It’s a charity day based in the Jewish faith, meaning good deed. Generally we stand outside Waitrose, bullying middle class tired mothers into buying some tinned food and tampons for those in need. The bit I love though is dragging all the other religions along too, whether they like each other or not. Yeah, that’s right God Squad, you’re all gonna have to stand together here and feed the hungry. Max the sausage dog comes too; he adds a threatening presence to anyone daring not to purchase some extra Frosties.

The other thing I’m doing this year is for RPT; by donating a load of sessions with me for their annual charity auction. We all know RPT for the amazing work they did post Grenfell, and they continue to do some awesome stuff in West London every day. I’ll be at said auction; I’m quite interested to know how much I sell for.



So, if you have some cans of lentils you’ve had in the cupboard for a decade and are certain you still don’t like pulses, come give them to me on Nov 18th, 1200 onwards outside Waitrose West End Lane NW6. Then go into Waitrose and buy something that even homeless people want to eat cos lentils won’t cut it.

If you want to come support the RPT with me, I will be doing what I do best - eating canapés and drinking Möet on Nov 13th 6-9pm. Tickets are £20 and can be purchased here.

If you want to buy six hours with me at a much higher price than usual, click here. Proceeds aren’t for me obvs.

Once Charity November is out the way, I can’t wait to get back to spending all my money on myself until Christmas.

Barbie Bashing

I blame Barbie. It’s 2018 and I’ve spent the last decade overcoming obstacles that apparently are unique to women. After 34 years on this earth I’ve decided Barbie has a lot to answer for this.


The average annual income for a female in the UK is £25,336. The price of a Ferrari 488 spyder (used, low mileage), is approximately £260,000. Anyone, even a woman, looking to finance said car, can calculate that these two figures are unworkable. But Barbie’s daily driver was a Ferrari (spyder, natch; a coupé would have been cheaper and covered her pretty face and impossibly perky tits). No 1.2 litre Vauxhall Corsa starter car for Barbie. Mattel never disclosed her annual car insurance premium. Probably because Ken paid for it.


Barbie had many incarnations: Caribbean Beach Barbie; Superyacht Barbie; Pedigree Pony Barbie. There was never a Barbie MBChB (that’s Dr Barbie to the underachievers out there). We can assume Babs never even went to uni given the absence of weight gain and tattoos of regret. 

Barbie owned her own property - Barbie Beach House of course. The only way we can get on the property ladder, is to get an actual ladder and use it to climb into someone else’s house.

Barbie never got sick or upset or accidentally pregnant. We know this because her hair was always immaculately blow dried and she had time to accessorise. Nor did she go home to take a symphony of antidepressants each day. 

Barbie’s optional add on accessories didn’t include a rape alarm or CS spray, or a spare pair of flat shoes to wear on the way home from a party in case she needed to run from a potential sex pest.


Now I’m not saying boys weren’t exposed to unrealistic ideals too: Superman, Batman, Power Rangers.... even terrifying shoe-wearing turtles armed with swords. But they were all clearly fictional. Boys weren’t misguided about life as an adult male, because Mattel didn’t create a male doll called Bobbie who lived in a penthouse in NYC and spent his time playing golf and avoiding marriage.

There’s not much we can do about the fact Mattel f**ked women globally with these ludicrous unattainable Barbie ideals. Except look at what IS attainable and ideal. Something like, I dunno, working out regularly with BalletFit to get super kick-ass strong, so the next time a sex predator comes at you, you can kick them square in the nuts and get them on the offenders register for life. Or something like that.

The point is, when you’re strong, you’re better. Sh*t happens to everyone. But when you’re physically strong, you are mentally stronger too. Plus, if you look hot, the price of the Fezza might just come down if you don’t look like a TurboPig.

Now THAT’S worth investing time in.

If you don’t look like Barbie and need to, contact me here.

Salad Swervers

This week, I can’t sit back and shush after seeing Tess Holliday, a morbidly obese model, generously taking up the entire front cover of Cosmopolitan magazine. Her thighs alone consumed half the page.

*sits back and waits for public outrage*


Now half my readership are out the way, I’ll continue my fat bashing rant to the few of you remaining. I’m guessing you guys have a BMI that hasn’t rocketed into outer space. Tess is a human, of course; but she won’t be one for much longer, because she’ll be a corpse. You can celebrate being fat all you want, but nobody will be RSVPing to the party if you’re dead. Fat dead people throw the worst parties.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but the organised public whining against runway models is that they are unhealthy, not ugly. And Tess is…. An image of lifelong wellness and optimum health? No. Let’s make a little risk assessment comparison: 


Conclusion: both fat and thin people are screwed if they want kids.

On a serious note, my job is to care for the physical wellbeing of you lot. And charge loads of money for it. Anyone who sees a picture of lifelong self neglect and thinks it’s reasonable, you should be sent back to science lessons in school where you’re taught what fat cells look like under a microscope. Tess, sadly, doesn’t need a microscope any longer. She’s magnified herself through a life of salad dodging and sofa sitting.


Being trained in Cardiac Rehab, we have an understanding of clinical “illness behaviour.” That is a daily behaviour that is damaging and essentially, terminal; unless addressed and reformed. Tess is engaging in illness behaviour by being of a size that invites multiple pathologies that could kill her. Her daily food intake has crossed a line; instead of being the fuel to keep her alive, consumed to excess it’s deadly. I refuse to celebrate this. Soz Tess.


If you want to not look like Tess, and live beyond next week, contact me here. If you are Tess, and want to be less Tess, also contact me ASAP.



My name is Rhiann, and I am a traitor.

This week, I bet against England in the World Cup. Of course, after over 50 years of suffering mediocre English footballers with a penchant for doner kebabs and rape; they won. And just when I thought I had enough evidence for a profitable wager (slightly overweight, substandard stamina, exponential decrease in dynamic performance in second half, Oscar-worthy toddler tantrums when tackled).


Footballers are altogether unlikeable. Neymar is one of the best players on the planet; yet someone sent me a video the other day of him rolling on the pitch, and then all the way down the M6 into Wales, before rolling into outer space itself.  Ronaldo has basted himself in so much tanning oil I suspect if you went to tackle him you’d just slide right down his lubricated leg.

I flew all the way to Miami last week to avoid the World Cup Horror Show and was horrified to see even Americans, given their lives as they know it are over thanks to Trump, found joy in watching some sh*t football. Maybe because the only thing worse than their own existence right now is Croatia’s World Cup outfit. Eventually I found an Argentinian international rugby player to play with, reminding me that real men aren’t dressage ponies.


The worst bit about the World Cup is it eclipses Wimbledon. Nobody turns up at Wimbledon with their face painted with crayons, wearing a novelty hat with flaps on. Nobody watches a centre court match on TV in the pub and thinks the perfect accoûtrements would be 3 pints of Carlsberg quickly followed by Jäger chasers. On a Wednesday.


Me on one of three rocks that isn’t showing the World Cup

Me on one of three rocks that isn’t showing the World Cup



So, this week, I am celebrating the elegance of Wimbledon, the kind of tasteful event that is enjoyed by discerning clientele like my own (that’s you lot), who expect bespoke service and quality beverages. Here comes the winning bit. And you don’t even need to gamble.

I am introducing annual health packages. This is a gold standard UNLIMITED SESSIONS PACKAGE; with access to clinical pilates, personal training, osteopathy, yoga, guided meditation, nutrition advice and cardiac rehab. The annual subscription runs for 364 days after date of purchase and costs £6995. BUT - the first annual subscription purchase comes with this exclusive Wimbledon Package FOR FREE:

Day six at Wimbledon, witnessing the action on Centre Court, Saturday 7th July 2018.

Your seats will be well located, ensuring a fantastic vantage point to enjoy the match and soak up the atmosphere. Full hospitality within the LTA Presidents Suite is included, with access to the open bar and catering. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to see one of the past Wimbledon players, who regularly grace the Suite. The package also includes private executive transfers to and from Wimbledon, within the M25 radius.

Wimbledon, Saturday 7th July 2018: You ticket allocation is: Gangway 307, Row S, Seats 188 & 189 and you have a private table for 2 reserved in the LTA Presidents Suite.

  • Gates Open: 10:30
  • Presidents Suite Hospitality located at Court One Opens: 11:00
  • Outer Court Play Starts: 12:00
  • Lunch with the Presidents Suite Served from: 11:30 until 14:00
  • Centre Court Play Starts: 13:00
  • Presidents Suite Closes: 30 Minutes after end of play or 21:00, whichever is sooner
  • Photo ID will be required by the main ticket holder
  • Dress code is smart casual. Jeans are not permitted, however tailored shorts with suitable shoes and a tailored shirt are acceptable.

You know what to do. Email by Friday 6th June to secure your chances of avoiding the World Cup this weekend, and enjoying Wimbledon instead.




Serendipity is when the lovely folk at SixtyNinety send me some free bikinis to tart around on Instagram, one day before I leave for Miami. Serendipity is when a client of mine tells me the Tiny White Man I’ve been seeing is actually seeing someone else, on the same day a taller, black man leaves his phone number on my car. And drives an F-Type R. Clearly the Gods of Swimwear and ManToys are in my Zodiac this week.

When someone mugs you off, make like Max and kick some grass over that sh*t.

When someone mugs you off, make like Max and kick some grass over that sh*t.



Being mugged off by TWM isn’t so bad. He’s had regular appearances on the Rhiann Show for over 3 years now. A sort of local provider of snacks, if you will. Who also happens to deal with my printing needs from his local office when I have an unresolved parking fine to deal with. He’s all penis measurement and big hair anyway. And I can’t date someone who brings back an airport shaped gift with the words “I Love You” where the word “Toblerone” should be.


What we must be grateful to TWM for, however, is introducing me to the consultant Cardiologist who is now referring patients to me for Cardiac Rehab. No relationship is a total waste if the result is a steady stream of business sent my way.


SO, ladies and gents, this is the week (well, next week actually as I’m in Miami with a gin the size of my head as I write this), that you can access bespoke Cardiac Rehab services from This means, in your own home, with 100% of my attention solely on you NOT having a heart attack, and not surrounded by 40 other peasants (sorry *patients*) in an NHS community services facility.


Those who engage in cardiac rehab post myocardial infarction have a 60% better chance of survival. That’s better odds than TWM has of surviving the shame of this blog.

If you need life saving by me, as per usual email me at

Beach Body Bootcamp

Remember that campaign years ago on London Underground, with the hot woman in the yellow bikini, stating "I am beach body ready. ARE YOU?" The one where we all thought, yeah, she looks smokin'. Until all the TurboPigs came out with their skinny bashing, saying how unfair it was to suggest 'beach body ready' was anything other than putting on a Primark swimsuit and shaving your legs. No b**ches, no-one wants to see the chafing between your inner thighs or the salad dodging midriff. Sort it out. If for no other reason than to save my eyeballs on the beach. If you're offended by this, then you're probably fat and should be upset. Which is why I'm here to help. Enter my summer bootcamp. You're welcome.


Along with the super hot Tamir (ladies if you're contemplating an affair but the divorce settlement won't keep you in the shoes you're accustomed to, Tamir is the eye candy you're missing in life); we are offering a twice weekly bootcamp of personal training and pilates over the summer weeks.


Deets as follows:

Mondays 1745-1845 Weight Training/Cardio

Thursdays 1800-1900 Dynamic Pilates

Weeks 1-4   25/6/18 - 19/7/18

Weeks 5-8   6/8/18 - 30/8/18

Regents Park

£195 for 4 week course, £300 for both courses.

Email to book (only 6 places per course I'm afraid so step on it).


I'm also now legally obligated to point out you can opt out of my fun-filled spam at any point by clicking unsubscribe. Don't.

Budget Bank Holiday

I am writing to you after my third consecutive win over the MET police, this time appearing in the historic (communist) building that is Harrow Crown Court. It is a spectacular sh**hole to say the least, even on a beautiful day like today, when the sun is shining, and I am winning at the police game. Unless you like council estates, stay outside of a two mile radius of Harrow. If you want your car nicked, there is free parking at the back of the court building itself; although do be sure to get there early as there is a veritable feast of sh*twagons waiting to be stolen from about 0900hrs onwards.


Anyhow, all this winning at Game Of Police is costing me the same as Spain's national debt. £2k got me legal counsel today who was so far up the duff that when asked "Why are you requesting the Court remove these 6 penalty points from Miss Keys's licence?" She may as well have screamed "Because she wants you to and if you don't, I'll start my maternity leave now and give birth in this court room a***hole." So they did exactly as pregnant woman asked (demanded).

Now all my money is gone on solicitors fees, I'll be spending my bank holiday in Verbena's adult paddling pool, waiting for some more cash to roll in to fund the rest of 2018's police activity and drinking offences.



The Pool

The Pool


On the plus side, you lot get to benefit. I am offering blocks of 20 bespoke lessons for 900 quid instead of the usual £1200 as a bank holiday present to those I like the most (people with money). There are only 10 of these gold ticket presents up for grabs, and only for the duration of the bank hol (that's til Monday to you underachievers out there). So email me back ASAP to stockpile your sessions so you don't look like a monster in your bikini.


If it's before Monday 7th May and you have £900, click here. If neither applies to you you can go away now.


Happy bank holiday b***ches.

Cardiac Arrest

My business, my life even, is mostly about isolating muscles, rehabbing them, toning them to look super hot.... but where does this girl get her cardio from? I hear you cry. Well, like any other busy girl about town with loads of wine drinking to do, I have to find ways of fitting it in wherever I can. So I made a shortlist of heart-raisers for you:


Shopping is my main source of cardio. Handing over a credit card for a Givenchy jumpsuit that costs more than your rent is a guaranteed heart racer. Online shopping will soon be the main cause of heart failure in the UK. Nobody's BPM increases sat on the settee scanning bargains on ASOS. The true test of heart strength is wondering if your bank will actually decline your card at any point during a shopping bender. Lastly, as a fan of "friends with benefits," it's important I don't look like a friend ON benefits. So overspending is essential in my case.

Fast Cars (also buying them)

See point (1) re purchasing cars. Secondary to this is what you can get away with in a car too fast for any normal road. Some see traffic lights as the law. I see them more as a guideline. Green = go. Amber = go. Red = go on, three more cars then. This textbook Rhi scenario was proven beautifully last week when giving my friend a lift home. As she watched me sail through a red light (I would of course argue amber), and the camera flashed, she simply sat there and said "I always wondered how that happens. But it's just you do actually ignore the rules don't you?" Yes Kim, yes I do. Another adrenaline fuelled heart pumper right there.


Marathon du Medoc

Now this is unexplored territory. Two of my very adventurous (and trusting) clients have agreed to enter the Marathon du Medoc with me in September. It is a marathon pub crawl between vineyards. They feed you a pasta feast the night before, accompanied by vat of wine, before sending you off with a clanging hangover to drink 26 miles of wine in under 6 hours. Tres bon. Clearly I won't be commanding sponsorship money for an organised pub crawl. But I will report back the results of a galactic hangover on my cardiac health.

Cardiac Rehabilitation

Ah this one is an actual form of medical treatment. As of end of April, thanks to the lovely peeps at University College Hospital, I will be officially qualified in Cardiac Rehab and licensed to treat heart attack patients. I promise it won't involve being a passenger in my new Scirocco R, or using your AMEX to buy my next holiday.

If its before April 27th and you want to go shopping, contact me here. If it's after April 27th and you don't want another heart attack, contact me here.

Birthday Blog

This week will be my thirty-faux birthday. You know, one of those numbers that you really shouldn't have to disclose to anyone apart from your bank and HMRC. I've even casually lied to my GP. But only on the grounds it's easier to access hormone based contraception a few years before where I'm actually at now. And we don't want me becoming just another statistic on the single mother register. I wouldn't have anything funny to write to you about with a sprog and no household staff.


Then last night, after one too many Sancerres on a Monday with Verbena (all names have been changed to protect the identities of those women who drink on a Monday too), I got to thinking actually we don't need to hide our ages. Most people *read - women* I know, myself included obvs, are pretty f***ing fierce in life. Ok, one or two married a douchebag and got shafted for all their money, but on the whole, among them are: women at the top of their game in finance with global roles; serial entrepreneurs; women representing women in the UN; senior women in tech; and one who heads up a little company we know called Facebook. And me. I'm not changing the lives of women globally or running a billion dollar fund within a bank, but you know what? I wanted to be a ballerina. I made myself a ballerina. I wanted my own company? Had it up and running at 24. Which then got me thinking.... this isn't just my birthday.... this is my 10th year in business as BalletFit. And yes fact finders, if you add up the sums here you will have calculated I am 34. And still hot. So f**k it.

34 and still incapable of being sensible     

34 and still incapable of being sensible  


So, 10 years in and I couldn't be happier with my little enterprise. I'm not loaded enough yet, of course, so do continue all the good word of mouth recommendations. I'm quite ready for my own plane soon I think. Scheduled airlines just aren't what they used to be. That's you, BA, by the way. Anyhow, I digress.

So for BalletFit's 10th birthday, I am increasing our services on offer to include online mindfulness packages with the gorgeous Claire Karitzis. Via Skype, Claire can offer bespoke packages to include: 


45 min consultation

daily yoga based exercises

morning and evening meditations

movement meditations

weekly review and evaluation

If you are ageing quicker than you'd like, I'd recommend Claire highly. If you want to look super hot, and stare at someone hot, you can train with Tamir. Or, if you want pilates at home with an ageing ex ballerina followed by nightly wine, you can, of course, still book me. Contact me here for any of the aforementioned services.

NB - Saturday sessions this week are of course cancelled. I will be colossally hungover in the foetal position watching back to back box sets, face down in a Mcnuggets sharebox after my birthday party on Friday. Normal service resumes once daylight no longer hurts my brain.

MiuMiu No-No

They say you shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket. This week, I learned not to put all my make-up in one handbag. Years ago in 2013, back when the economy was good, CityBoys were loaded, and £1500 was an acceptable price tag for a handbag; my CityBoy ex bought me a MiuMiu handbag for no reason other than I clapped my hands hard enough at it in the shop. Fast forward to end of 2017 and it looks like it just came back from a holiday in Aleppo. I used that baby every day. My right arm is permanently stronger and bigger than the left after spending four years with the bag swinging off my right forearm with a travelling cappuccino perched delicately in the same hand. But it looks like crap. 

When Max was a puppy, his mouth got so bored of eating my shoes that one day, he chewed the strap off the handbag. After nearly calling the RSPCA, I instead called MiuMiu, who were more than happy to make me a new strap. Yes, make me one. Because the dog ate the last one. Obviously I wasn't the only customer with a bag-eating sausage dog. I thought nothing then, of toting the shabby-chic remains of the bag into the Bond Street store, along with Max, now rehabbed from his £1500/day snack habit, to request they send it off for a refurb job. She said they could TRY, but first I needed to address the "Bag Hygiene." That wasn't a typo. BAG. HYGIENE. I was confused - was that thin layer of bronzer in the bottom of the bag actually Hep C? Is AIDS now transmitted via overpriced luggage? "No", she smiled, "We can't risk the health of our workshop staff with questionable bag hygiene." I didn't even have any poo bags in there FFS. I challenged her to go get me a cloth, thinking she'd realise how ridiculous she sounded and instead ask an intern to give it a wipe. She strutted out the from the back, arm extended, clutching baby wipes. And yes, I did. I sat down on the plush white couch next to a busy Bond Street window, and used one baby wipe for every wipe of the bag. Once enough of an atmosphere had been caused in the store, I crumpled all the NARS Laguna-hued wipes together and handed them to her, proclaiming "FINISHED!" much like a two year old would upon completing their veg.


Anyhow, they sent the bag back last week in the exact same state; like it just got back from it's stag do in Magaluf. Needless to say, I've learned my lesson now. One bag just isn't enough to sustain years of use. We need to combine a selection of designer handbags each week to extend their shelf life.

In this same way, I'm doing the same for your bodies. Enter Tamir Grant; Osteopath and Personal Trainer. Together we are offering you a complete holistic approach to your health, along with Claire Meehan who has already been taking care of the mindfulness bit of you. Keep subscribed to keep updated with more services to follow this year so is your go-to shop for compete whole body wellness.
If you need more than one handbag, or, you need pilates and resistance training, contact me here.



This week, I got to thinking about the value of things. Since my mechanic told me I drove my car like I stole it, and I need to buy a new one, I tried compiling a list of cars I might want. And then quickly vetoed them with reasons they are not worth it. Some of the highlights include:  

BMW M3: Since no BMW ever knowingly used their indicators, I feel this is an unnecessary cost in the building of a BMW. 

Fiat 500 Abarth: “Oh look at that cinquecento in that lovely cappuccino colour” SAID NO ONE EVER

Range Rover/X5/Cayman etc:  “For someone who needs such a large car, she sure has no problem sausage stuffing herself into leggings every morning” Is a phrase never to be used against me. So I won’t buy a Chelsea tractor.

Mercedes SLK AMG: Because I’m not a hairdresser. Or an estate agent. And because the moron at Mercedes brought out the AMG LINE for me to test drive “because I was a girl and he assumed that’s what I meant.” D**k.

Audi A3: Because I’m not wearing orthopaedic shoes or sticking to the speed limit anywhere. The RS3 I will however consider.

Lotus Elise: Because I don’t want to be going up in a ball of flames wrapped around a tree next week.

Alfa 4C: Oh yeah. That’s what I want. That’s £40k well spent if you ask me.

That’s that then. Decision made. Make sure you beep when you see me driving by in my new SexWagon.


Now, the one thing I’m going to need to do this (aside from a load of cash), is strong arms. Yes, ignoramuses, the Alfa 4C has NO POWER STEERING. Which of course makes me want it more. Much like when an ex Boyf gets a new girlfriend: then I want him. But never at any other time. Only when it’s impossible. So the impossible car is catnip to me. How will I do this? Strong arms. That’s how.

We need resistance for this; a theraband. Stand on one end of the band, hold the other in one hand. Extend the arm above the head, so the band is taught and behind you, then flex only from the elbow and drop the hand behind your head. Extend and repeat as many things as you can. This is your TRICEPS.

Then we stand with both feet in the middle of the band, holding each end in either hand. Glue your elbows to your waist then flex from the elbows again, bringing your fists up to your shoulders, then lower with control. Keep your shoulders back and down throughout. This is your BICEPS.

Voila. Now I’m strong enough (and single enough) to buy a 4C. If you need stronger arms for your next SexWagon contact me here.

Foundation for 2018

Happy belated 2018. I’ve deliberately left a couple of weeks for the inevitable ‘New Year New You BS’ to fall by the wayside as you crash off the wagon spectacularly with a bottle of Beaujolais in one hand and a cheeseburger in the other. The smug minority that this doesn’t apply to, well. Dry January? Are you kidding me? Damp January would be less miserable surely? Or, choose a shorter month, like February.

Personally, since my addiction to beige food shows no signs of subsiding, I’ve chosen to purge other bad habits from my life. Namely people. Someone very wise once said to me: “Rhiann, if you spent as much time on your business as you do chasing boys, your company would be the first pilates studio on the Fortune 500.” She was right. Since culling several members of the lesser sex from my life (Facebook), I’ve gained three new clients and employed two members of staff. Funny that. Since I need a new car this year, and I’ve got my eyes on the delicious Alfa 4C, this new LBMW (Less Boys More Work) attitude is the way forwards. Either that or I marry rich.


I believe if you want to build on something, you start from the ground up. Anatomically speaking, that’s your feet. If you caught the Xmas edition of the Rhiann Show, you’ll know that @RK_balletfit is where it’s at on Instagram for daily exercises. It’s also where the lovely Stacey is being coached on how to get onto pointe before the end of the year. Hence a lot of foot exercises. Lower limb exercise doesn’t just apply to ballerinas. It’s for all of us. Most back problems I see come from lower leg pathologies that have gone untreated.


The best way to strengthen ankle and calf muscles is by rising up onto your toes. Not just any old way though: with your legs and feet pressed together, butt squeezed, inner thighs pulled in and knees locked tight. Then you rise up onto the balls of the feet as high as you can. Repeat as many times as you can until your cankles start to shrink.


For videos of the above, follow @RK_BalletFit on Instagram. If your cankles have gotten out of control and you think I can help, contact me here.