Babes at the gym and lucozade bombers.
To the gym and after four weeks of nothing more strenuous than typing I enter the Free Weights room and pick up the 50kgs dumb bells. Flys (or is it flies, plural?) Cold. Asking for an injury? Perhaps for a lesser lifter. Clare's sister is there and starts perving over my arms. Glancing at the clock it is nearly time for the aerobics class. Mondays turn out is passable, the babeometer reaches 70%. Marianne avoids eye contact, she faffs about for half the class before leaving and taking the boys hearts with her. She smiles at me. I am in a pool of sweat and grunt farewell. What is all this tosh about airport bombers using contact lense solution and lipstick to explode aircraft? The chemistry does not add up - it is just an Orwellian method of prolonging the "war on terror". Did expert witnesses testify that for a reaction to take place one would need a small laboratory. God knows the police are stupid but even they may notice someone sitting with a bunsen burner muttering about the caliphate. Half an hour ago I bumped into Davy. Ruth is back in Northern Ireland and is now divorced. Oooh Matron.
Off to an art exhibition later. Perhaps a cultural blog tomorrow? As I have reached 10,000 readers last month, in 150 countries I am proud, nay, confident that things are looking up.
Off to an art exhibition later. Perhaps a cultural blog tomorrow? As I have reached 10,000 readers last month, in 150 countries I am proud, nay, confident that things are looking up.