Chemical Brothers

I’ve started going to the gym again – hurrah. Note my enthusiasm. The gym is one of those things I usually have to force myself to do – I never seem to have the time. I always feel there are so many other things I should be doing instead … and then I don’t do those things either, I sit and watch CSI and say “Idiots! Where is your laminar flow cabinet?” (I think I take TV a bit too literally. And I don’t think laminar flow cabinets, although sterile, make very good TV.)

The previous gym I went to was just down the road from our old place, and it was a gay gym. It was fantastic. All they had were free weights, ab machines and full length mirrors, all in one giant room. There would have only been about a dozen girls who went there. And we were universally ignored. I loved it. Mr T got picked up more than I did. However, as we were moving out of that house and into this one, the gym underwent extensive renovations and a concurrent huge price increase. They advertised and the place quickly turned into your normal gym, full of posers and oglers. My membership lapsed and I never bothered to renew it. Paradise lost.

But this new gym. Not gay, but promising. At the moment I am concentrating on the pool, as a) It is a novelty; and b) It is summer and extremely hot. Unfortunately the pool seems to be very heavily chlorinated. And I mean REALLY heavily. It doesn’t sting my eyes, as due to contact lenses I can’t open my eyes underwater anyway. But after two showers I still get the occasional chemical whiff coming from … where? My hair? My skin? Lodged in my sinuses? I feel like a weapon of chemical warfare. Unclean! Unclean!