Oh! With the exception of Christmas where it's allowed to do so (snow) for a couple of days; big flakes drifting dreamingly down but not so heavy as to crush our flowering bushes or take whole branches off our trees like it did last year. Oh, and please can we have no ice, 'cos I went down like sack of Sicilian potatoes last winter on my way to my Pilates class. (This is beginning to sound like a Christmas prayer to Baby Jesus. It can be, it can be...being as it's nearly his birthday and all)
And, talking about my Pilates class, I must say that I was quite put out last evening.
Usually as you know it's just me and twenty ladies. Now after two years, some of them have begun to speak to me. You know, the odd word here and there. like 'Ciao' and 'Buonanotte' Sometimes I even get two or three words or even six put together, such as .'It's chilly tonight, or even 'Can you move your car please' So, in short you see I'm pretty well accepted into the group.
Imagine my horror then, when two minutes into the class, this big hairy brute of a guy barges in and takes a place next to me. Next to me? And really close too. This is a spot I've cultivated as my own for two whole years, just to the left of the orange pillar. OK, I know it's a quarter of the entire space but it's how women are with men. Well it is! Like when they always give up the front seat of a car to a man.
The last remaining vestige of past supremacies you might mumble (but not too loud, especially if Lili is in earshot because she has actually eliminated this last remaining vestige much to the physical and psychological discomfort of male friends who might be visiting).
Where was I ?
Ah yes, this bloke!
So, he comes in late, disrupts the class and then? He starts talking collectively to all the women!! And what's worse they all start giggling and answering back!
And it puts me right off my 'one-legged butterfly' position. In fact my legs have turned to jelly and I'm fiercly inwardly debating whether or not to just walk out of the gym.
And it gets worse! Within minutes he's huffing and puffing and gasping and sweating and clunking me every time we get the 'arms stretch' order Robbie the Pilates teacher turns the music up (I imagine to muffle the gasping next to me) and it's Tom Jones singing 'Sex Bomb' This is too much, I've really gotta talk to him about this, I mean not just the music but allowing other men into the class. By this time my mind and body have lost control completely and I'm competing with him to stretch further and touch my toes for longer, in fact my whole foot!
And he can't. He can't! He can't touch his toes!!
I mean what sort of man is this?
A wimp obviously.
I might have known.
When I get back home and walk into the kitchen, Lili asks 'Why the smug smile on your face?'
Nothing, I say, just a man thing. I was thinking about taking up a manly sport, like darts.
'Oh' she says ' Is it like archery? And can I do it too'
Bad day, bad day!
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