There's only one thing worse than Neil Haverson's hi-tech steps counter: Mrs H.

I do believe Mrs H has discovered the value of having me at home since I retired. My availability to be summoned for all sorts of tasks at almost any time of day has clearly eased her burden.

I say this because for Christmas she gave me a Fitbit. If you haven't come across these, they are worn on the wrist and not only tell the time but monitor how much you exercise, your heart rate, calories burnt and a few other things, depending on which model you have. You link it to your phone or computer where you can track how well you are performing.

My conclusion is that Mrs H is taking steps to make sure I remain fit, healthy and in good working order. Talking of steps, according to the American Heart Association, I should take 10,000 steps a day. I've only achieved this once so far but Mrs H is making a sustained effort to help me reach my target.

'Just go upstairs and open the bedroom window. And could you just get the washing in?'

Off I go like a Labrador after a stick. Steaming to the linen line to pile on the steps and up my calorie-burning count.

Both Mrs H and the Fitbit have their own style of motivating me.

The Fitbit vibrates regularly displaying messages such as 'Up and at 'em!'

If I'm lagging behind my hourly steps target it urges me on with 'Feed me 106 steps' or 'It's step o'clock.'

And contrast this polite message: 'Do you want to take me for a walk?' with Mrs H's more direct approach.

'Do you realise you've been watching television for two hours? You'll have all sorts of problems if you sit there for that long without moving.'

The day I did hit my target of 10,000 steps the Fitbit really went crackers. There was such a sustained bout of vibrating I thought my wrist had gone into spasm. In the display were starbursts and congratulatory messages.

Mrs H was nonplussed. In fact, she is a bit sceptical of the accuracy of the tracker. She believes her observations are nearer the mark.

'Look at your stomach! You need to lose weight.'

This she maintains is far more effective than Fitbit praising me for burning ten calories when I went to the loo.

There's no escape from the Fitbit. It's big brother on your wrist. You even wear it in bed, and in the morning it tells you how you slept; how long you were awake, how long you were dreaming and how much deep sleep you got.

This is in contrast to my human monitor whose analysis of my sleep is slightly more succinct.

'Cor you were restless last night! Kept me awake, I got hardly any sleep.'

The gadget awards me 'badges' as I achieve my goals. More wrist spasms and the app on my phone tells me: 'Terrific! You've earned your Penguin March Badge.'

Apparently this means I have covered 70 miles, the same distance as the emperor penguins march during their annual trip to their breeding grounds.

Mrs H doesn't award badges. No accolade from her to celebrate that fact that I have lost weight since I retired. Unfortunately I choose to make the announcement when Brat Major and Bond were over for lunch.

'Shows how many trips you made to the canteen for snacks when you were at work,' said Brat Major loyally. Mrs H dived in, pointing out that I haven't completely broken the grazing habit.

'I find bits of crisp on the living room carpet and peanuts between the cushions on the sofa,' she said, with that look of triumph I have grown to know and love.

With Mrs H and the Fitbit on my case, this year should see me fitter, thinner and generally healthier.

There is one big difference between Mrs H and the Fitbit: I can turn the Fitbit off.