After the Fag Hag waved goodbye to someone this weekend and her upper arms were still performing a mexican wave some 20 minutes later she decided, like Barbra and Donna, that Enough is Enough is Enough is Enough is Enough (pause and raise hand in air) is Enough. It was time to head for the gym and build some bridges (with those arms you better make it the Sydney Harbour Bridge, I hear you cry).
It wasn’t just the Christina Onassis triceps that had done it. I’d been mistaken for some Korean girl’s friend whilst standing in the queue at Zara the other day and turned round to discover my doppelganger looked like Nancy Lam.
So up I pitched for my workout, Stan Smith fashion trainers still caked in mud from my last bit of exercise – a country walk in 1985. Problem was it had been so long since I’d hit those treadmills they’d gone all state of the art and you now needed a physics degree to operate them.
‘Are you new?’ smiled a cute fitness trainer with buns of steel. I wasn’t about to let on my shameful non-attendance secret so went for the sympathy lie. ‘I split up with my boyfriend so have been living in a different neighbourhood’. He grinned. ‘His loss is our gain. Great to have you back’. With a wink he was gone. Think I might book in for a few of those ball exercises…