Entry for 29th July, 2008

I was at the gym yesterday, as part of my drive to stave off the early scythe of the Grim Reaper. I did my usual session which lasts about an hour of exercised followed by about ninety minutes of lying prone in the changing room, clutching my palpitating heart and wheezing: "If I make it out of here I am going to Africa to help sick children."
As I eased myself out of the recovery position so that i could vomit copiously, I became vaguely aware of another guy in the changing room. Things were hazy, but he seemed to be talking to me. This is suspicious. Men do not, as a rule talk to other men in changing rooms. Generally we entirely avoid eye contact, and we certainly do not allow our gazes to drift any lower than shoulder level. Any other behaviour is unacceptable.
However, I was definitley being talked to. By a rather odd bespectacled man, who was a shade of what I can only describe as puce.
"Oh man!!! I just did two and a half hours on the rowing machine man!"
I paused for a moment groping for the correct reply. "Well done," I ventured.
"Two an a half hours!"
"You must feel great."
"No way man. I'm in agony. My arse is gowping. That seat's like a razor."