I am sitting in my living room having returned from the gym. I had a swim today. It was nice. No I did not use inflatable arm bands. I am furnished with a membership card and everything now, although I still haven't signed any bits of paper to say if I suffer a heart attack or manage to mangle my hand in a rowing machine then it's all my fault because I'm a big silly and not in any way the fault of the lovely gym owners.
Placed on the table before me is a sheet of A4 paper that also came home with me from the gym. At the top of this piece of paper is the word 'timetable'. That is about the only word I understand.
Body pump clinic - a jolly session to help clear out the systrems of those who have overdosed on muscle building powders and potions.
Dynamic yoga - meditation and stretching exercises for the upwardly mobile.
Total body conditioning - Timotei for yas pubes.
Mega-Hula - one big hoop, spun by a group of thirty. Bit boring for those in the middle.
Body balance - Balance corpses on bits on a selection of gym equipment. The winner is the one whose cadaver wilts last.
Group cycling - pedalling round France with The Beatles.
The Rock Star Workout - tone and build muscle by bashing up some music equipment with an air guitar. Followed up by the Rock Star Diet (biting the heads off whippets).
You know, this gym thing is a whole new world...