IT sat winking at me from its shiny packaging all through January, shelved along with the New Year resolutions.

Come February, the existence of the smartwatch had to be acknowledged. That was a loaded gift if ever there was one. Obviously the Quarter Master’s burpee regime was not cutting the mustard. It was time for closer monitoring of the fitness routine … or lack thereof.

I have to admit, it’s a very clever gadget. It tells me my heart rate and shows how it speeds up when my PC crashes or we’re on deadline. Funnily enough, I kinda knew that already. It tots up calories burned, the results looking impressive … until you realise that many of them are calculated on the strength of just being alive and breathing.

Then there’s the counting of my steps. This can result in very unimpressive results when your daily commute involves little more than swapping rooms. The smart gizmo cottoned on to this very quickly and stalks me on an hourly basis to remind me with a buzz of how many steps I have left to generate before the next hour wipes the slate clean. It’s a bit like wearing a cattle prod up your sleeve.

This digital harassment is all well and good when you’re in a position to up sticks from your desk and go for a power walk round the block. Alas, news deadlines seldom allow for this. I am exploring methods to get FitGit to measure my typing instead.

My new smarty-pants watch has, however, served to motivate and the recent good weather has allowed for some lovely long walks. There we were, enjoying the peacefulness of the crisp, bright countryside in the snowy sunshine when a party started on my wrist. There was much buzzing and flashing of lights. At last my watch was pleased with me. I’d walked 10,000 steps. I can’t imagine the levels of celebration should I ever achieve 20,000. Perhaps there is a built-in Prosecco dispenser, a marching band or maybe chocolate cake. I suspect I’ll never find out, but I think I know the answer – a higher steps target.

It reminds me of the Tamagotchi our son had when he was wee. As with many of these childhood crazes, his digital pet was the centre of his universe … for about three weeks. We were all quite distraught when lack of feeding and exercise led to Tamagotchi’s untimely death. Perhaps this should serve as a salutary lesson to me.

But at least I can sleep easy, knowing FitGit is watching over me as I slumber.

Fascinating as my morning readings are, however, I can’t help but worry over my “sleep score” – always under 70 – and the ratio of REM, deep and light sleep. And all those red bits when I’m awake. Really? What on earth do I get up to? Am I sleepwalking through extra cups of tea? Extra hoovering (unlikely)? Illicit toast-eating (highly possible).

So I’m beginning to lie awake at night worrying about what Mr Smartphone is going to tell me in the morning.

Apparently, I’m not alone. There is actually a smart new sleep disorder called orthosomnia – with “ortho” meaning straight or correct and “somnia” meaning sleep” – which affects people who obsess over the results of their sleep and fitness trackers.

Hmm. Perhaps I could spend those extra waking hours clocking up more steps.

In the meantime, I’m happy to report that my new smartwatch has one fantastic function I couldn’t live without. It tells the time!