I’m back in the gym. I put it down to the lighter evenings and the rising sap. It’s been so long since I last worked out that I had forgotten what the gym card in my wallet looked like. ‘Sorry, sir, we don’t take library cards,’ said the woman on the reception desk. ‘Where’ve you been, anyway?’
Looking around the gym I wasn’t the only returning penitent. Bikes, treadmills, steppers, rowers and cross-country ski machines were all occupied and flat out and there were loads of unfamiliar backsides. The combined noise from the treadmills and rowers was deafening.
Someone I hadn’t seen there before was a pal called Dave. Dave is a drug dealer (est. 1999) and a heavy drinker and smoker. He was the last person I expected to see in a place dedicated to improving one’s health.
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