Ah gym, how do I love thee, let me count the ways... None.
For reasons too boring even for me to explain, I am back in the gym and spending a disturbing amount of time perched stork-like atop the only Wattbike in the place, pedalling away while sandwiched between the Stairmaster and some medieval torture device called ‘Ski Attack’.
From my vantage point at the back of thegoers, I while away the agonising time watching - and judging - all the other people unlucky enough to be there at the same time. They could be judging me, too, of course, but it’s unlikely as I’m so unmemorable nowadays that my passport photo might as well be the curtains behind my head.
