I wouldn't mind, but ....

..... I've stopped going to the gym.  Now there's a sentence I've used in my life more than 'pass me a doughnut' - and believe me, that's on the tip of my tongue most days.  Three things helped me reach my decision.

1.  As I kitted and booted ready for each class, I found there was no escape from the instructor 'Mr Dull'. A man whose head was rendered miniature by his overly muscular arms and legs.  A man who, even if there were only two people in the class, still donned headset and microphone for the primary school mantra 1, 2 3, 3, 2, 1.  All played out against a background of hardcore hip hop music, under-appreciated by the over-45s busy upgrading their BUPA memberships to cover them for certain death. A man who turned out to be the manager of the gym.  And there you have it.  This omnipresent 13-stone walking muscle was in charge! 

2.  The other deterrent was the undersized towel handed to members each time they arrived. I enjoy access to a large bath towel at home and it gives me great enjoyment to be properly covered.  Alas, such pleasure was not available to me at the gym as I struggled to protect my modesty with a piece of cloth the size of a standard post-it note. In fact, I felt it necessary to avoid any stationary poses in the changing room in case someone wrote a message on me - probably "remember to lose weight".

3.  On one occasion in the small swimming pool, which found me enjoying exclusive use of the facility, I was joined by a young gentleman carrying a toothbrush.  He proceded to enter the pool and start brushing the uppermost tiles as if they were teeth.  I asked him if he wanted me to get out of the pool, to which he replied 'no'.  I continued swimming for a while, but the noise of the toothbrush and the abundance of water, led me to imagine I was immersed in mouthwash.  I made a hasty retreat, suitably bacteria-free.

So, yet again, the gym is not for me.  But I've recently seen an advertisement for the jumpsnap rope - a skipping rope without any rope.  Could we be just one star jump away from the perfect gym without any exercise?

I wouldn't mind, but ....

I wouldn't mind, but ..... when Northerners are on the London tube why do they always want a conversation?  There was one next to me today.  Chirpy as the magpie that poops on my windowsill every morning.  I swear that bird is the reincarnation of Le Petomane, the French Flatulist. 

Anyway, back to Chirpy.  Sat there, legs astride, as if to say, "I've paid for my ticket and I'm gonna own this carriage" and wearing diamond-encrusted jeans (he was over 40 and the rocks weren't real).  Opposite him was his son - I know this because in the 20 minutes it took to get from Oxford Circus to Walthamstow Central, I became familiar with his family lineage back to William the Conquerer.  The son was 14 and holding a long, thin case, which held securely a snooker cue. This was an instrument of great excitement to the child.  Clearly a tourist from Sheffield as I think they all carry one now, having become the home of televised snooker. 

Anyway, I took all this in during the five seconds I had my eyes open, assessed boredom on the horizon, and hastily closed them.  I feigned a couple of yawns as well, just to emphasise that I was a typical Londoner and well versed in the unfriendly, stoic ways of tube travel.  Undeterred, the child kept asking if anyone would adopt him. It became evident very soon that my total withdrawal from any interest in adopting him, made me the very person he wanted to be adopted by.  My eyes remained closed.  But, in the same way we try to ignore a fly fizzing round the living room, I eventually had to give in and swatted him with an abrupt opening of the eyes and a look so condescending, a more socially, city-centric youth would have immediately withdrawn into the hip hop on his ipod.  Alas, not Chirpy or Snooker Boy.  The latter asked me directly if I'd like to adopt him.  "No", was my answer.  "Why Not?"  I resisted the urge to say "because I couldn't afford the mushy peas", and instead said "Because I think you'd get on my nerves".  While he was digesting this rejection, I added: "But maybe in a couple of years we could have an affair".  Chirpy worried that this might be child abuse, but I reassured him that Snooker Boy would probably be considered a late starter where I came from.  Sadly, Walthamstow Central arrived and I didn't get Snooker Boy's address, so I currently have an affair scheduled for 2013 somewhere in Sheffield.