A parade of strangeness lined up for inspection this morning as – in no particular order – I was confusingly confronted by a pink folder, a coat hanger and a set of weighing scales.
Last year about this time a whirling dervish, defined by big hair and powerful limbs, speeded a crinkly facsimile of a proper bicycle leaving me worsted at the end of a three mile race through the centre of London. So imagine my delight when, earlier today, the pink persecutor flexed its way into Hyde park, travelling slowly on silly wheels and making the same kind of pointless fashion statement as puff ball skirts.
Eagerly I chased down my nemesis ready for another battle of the sexes, only this time with even less fitness but even more cheating. But the only person cheated was me since – amazingly – some other asylum escapee had purchased the pointless pivoter in a garish shade of pink. Nevertheless, this was too good an opportunity for revenge and in barely an irregular heartbeat, she was consigned to the bin of the bested.
I’m pretty sure she was impressed, I know I was.
Still whistling a happy tune, my mood was further enhanced by someone having else having a crap day. An angry post-it note traded as a modern day thrown gauntlet – hung as it was to a damp towel – and promising any philanderer making wet and merry with said drying garment a set of broken legs.
I love this kind of machismo nonsense and, finding myself alone in the shower room, sorted myself out with a vigorous rub down using his non consensual communal towel, making sure it was properly damp even at the corners. Don’t look at me like that; after suffering the heinous theft of two shower gels and a underarm smelly, the gloves (or possibly gauntlets) are well and truly off.
And because everyone knows good things come in threes, I approached – still with some trepidation – the weighing scales of fearful truth. However, having already passed the qualifying ‘third hole in the trouser belt’, I was insanely confident that the fat burning combination of a bit of cycling and a lot of beer would reap the benefits of reduced poundage.
Although I’ve yet to fully research the weight loss properties of a daily dose of half a tube of Pringles and a man sized Yorkie. That’s the chocolate bar not the small dog in case you were confused.
But that research has been canned in a celebrity lager as – and I’ve absolutely no idea how this could have happened – half a stone of AL has left the building since Christmas.
Being an eternal optimist, I can only assume that I have contracted some wasting disease.