Gym

You know, I never thought I would say this, quite this blatantly. But gorram it to hell. I am actually enjoying gym.

Barring the posers who are hilarious to surreptitiously watch and then snort at, most of the people there actually go to zone out either on the treadmills or cycle machines. I did that today for over half an hour - plugged myself into my mp3 player, stuck on Iron Maiden and various other mullet rock favourites and even some Disturbed, spinkled it with some Metallica, Linkin Park and Marilyn Manson and hey presto, Demon Cycling Liz.

It was fab. I cooled off by pumping some iron for the flabby bits, did some hip reducing thinghies (very technical descriptions approved of by several of the instructors), some more iron pumping for the flabby bits then absconded downstairs to the sauna for a few minutes, then into an incredibly long and hot shower in which I almost managed to drown (I am not good in showers, thank you Mr. Bates) and almost lost a contact lens. Thrilling stuff. Hair dripping, with flung on clothes I staggered onto Charing Cross station's concourse, only to discover I had one minute to heave my shaking self to the platform on the other side of the friggin station, which I did (if anyone finds that old lady's walker, I'll happily for the repairs) and got myself a seat too. Which is the most impressive part of running for a Southeastern trains as all trains are running reduced carriages.

So.

Check out these guns baby!