I was woken up at stupid o' clock this morning, not by something out of Revelation on this occasion, but by Ronnie the cat. At present we are leaving our bedroom door open at night due to the warm temperatures and the fact that we can't open our bedroom window. Thanks a bunch to whichever lazy, knob head painter and decorator thought it would be a great idea to paint the windows whilst they were shut. The upshot is that Ronnie gets bored around 5.30, saunters in and jumps on my head; and so my day begins.
So, having been awake so early I have already been to the gym and am currently sitting with damp, straggly hair plastered to my face writing this. I never look good at the gym unlike some of the dolly birds I see there and this reminded me of a story a friend once told me.
She was a regular at a local gym going there as often as she could after work. Her grown-up daughter discovered that a friend of hers worked at the same leisure centre and was trying to describe her mum to him.
"She'll be the one on the tread-mill wearing the cheap ASDA track suit, looking red and sweaty with hair dye running down her face.", was the flattering thumb-nail she provided. Bad enough, you may think, but then the gym instructor replied, "Oh yes, I know the one"!
I don't think she goes any more.
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