Thursday, 26 January 2017

Splish splash...

The husband has been back at school this week, reminding himself how to be a gas engineer.  It's been lovely seeing him skip out to his car in his grey shorts, gaily swinging his satchel and holding a polished apple for the teacher.  OK, back to reality.  He's headed off each morning this week muttering about the 'bloody London traffic' under his breath, and something about teaching your grandmother how to suck eggs. Coming home each evening, he's not been much better, still moaning about the traffic and the pedantic teacher.  By the sounds of it, the apple should be replaced with half a pale ale, bag of pork scratchings and a magazine subscription to Pomposity Weekly.

So for the last few nights he has been squirrelled away in his office studying, desperate to show the aforementioned teacher how good he is.  This has been accompanied with a few bottles of beer each night, which is most out of character for the husband who rarely drinks Monday to Friday.  As long as he's not 'drinking to forget' he should be alright. It's the big exam today, so fingers crossed...

You will be pleased to know that I am persevering with the Pilates on a Tuesday night.  I have learned lots of new moves over the last three weeks.  These include:

'Going up the steps sideways as your legs don't bend in the middle'

'Lying on my back to pull my trousers on as I can't reach down to my feet without crying'

'Shallow breathing to avoid any stress on the stomach muscles'

Seriously though, I am really enjoying it, and will be buying my own punctured ball this weekend, so that I can do some of the easier exercises at home. But the next stage of my fitness challenge is to start swimming on a Thursday evening with Mrs S from work.

Tonight is our first session, and I have everything laid out ready for later on.  I have my favourite one piece (the one which takes no prisoners and needs a shoe horn and a tub of Vaseline to get on), a very large towel and some change for the lockers.  It's always one of life's big dilemmas for me, public changing rooms.  If there is no where I can disrobe in privacy, I'll just have to hope that the lockers are big enough for me to get into and change.  I can't be doing with all that flesh on show. Fine if you look like Elle McPherson or the like, but if you are more like Nellie the Elephant as I am, then who wants to see that? Certainly not poor Mrs S who would probably never be able to look me in the eye again at work.

Hopefully, we're going to thrash out enough lengths over the next few months to improve our overall sleekness. 

And then Fat Friday can come back....can't it?

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