Unfully armed


I have been underground for a long time, buried under work, escaping only to pull some muscles at pilates. One way, incidentally, to spoil a pilates class, is to dig out two compost bins the day before. Not only will you give yourself a nasty scare by revealing the end of some glistening, greyish and white worm thing the size of your thumb, which you won’t be able to describe more fully because by the time you’ve ascertained even those meagre facts you’ll be on the other side of the garden, back pressed to the fence, gulping hard, but because the intervening 24 hours will guarantee the return of the lactic acid cycling shorts of pain.

One more thing I have discovered, thanks to pilates and a boisterous friend who gripped my upper arm and said eurgh: I have got zero strength in my arms. I thought swimming and lugging shopping would be enough, but one attempt at a planky push-up suggested grievously misplaced smugness. So it’s dumbbells for me. Not to look ripped – lawks-a-mercy no – just so that I can lift a hairbrush to my scalp without help. Pathetic.


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