As the Sun comes up, early morn, over a mirror still, mist shrouded Deben estuary, one has to wonder just how many less than attractive, dark blonde, pony-tailed, thirty something, fat-arsed females can be mustered to action in a small Suffolk town better known for its boutiques and coffee shops. Hordes of these almost clonelike, sometimes reluctant looking, sometimes just plain knackered looking victims of fitness fashion came by at around 7 in the morning. Bright, but chilly was the day. They, almost all in tip to toe black relieved by trendy shades of grey on the leggings, hauled over lumpy shapes were universally unsmiling. Some with heads back so far they must at some point bump in to things. Arms studiously cranked into their sides. But some appeared to have legs which had no need of knees, so stiff were the strides. Some must have watched old films with matrons yelling "high knees rising" as they dashed along like dressage horses on acid. All of them, sporty-looking, reluctant-looking or just plain bloody laughable were, it seems, engaged in laps of some unknown circuit of pain and discomfort. Maybe they go out so early, so that can still get out to Sainsburys in their BMW Bird Boxes later, while their spawn are at dance/Judo/horsey/Rugby lessons. Maybe their (obviously forlorn) hope is that they will improve their appearance to keep hubby away from secretaries. No chance. Does that backside come with running or is it the main reason FOR the running? They all have one. Large and lardy, it really should be hidden from view, not squeezed into unflatteringly tight black (why, always, damnable black?) gym clobber. Oddly they will also then be seen with David Beckham-style gold trainers or whatever the latest term for their footwear is. I notice ancient cyclists wear shoes so odd they appear to be plaster casts of someone else's feet!
In Tesco's, where there is, horror of horrors, a gym, a 24 hour gym (can it get any worse?), while decent folk shop, a steady stream of fat, ugly, sweaty women clutching a bottle of water in one hand and mobile 'phone in the other, slop through the shop, leaving a foul mistral of unnecessary effort in their wake as they don't shower till they get home, so their Bird boxes must be rank by now. Why, if you are that podgy and that well, just simply ugly are you wasting money joining a gym? Nobody's looking, love. Get showered, get changed and get out so that ordinary unshowy folks can fill the pantry. Unnoticed, not in anyone's way and not, above all, waving some slab of envy around with a selfy of their fat backsides installed as the latest wallpaper. How I wish some jester would have injected their precious water bottle with a powerful laxative or nemetic, just to teach them a lesson. Something to smear on the leather seats of their Beemer Bird Box, efficiently spread about by two large cheeks of flesh, barely constricted by acres of Lycra.
If you want to shop, woman, SHOWER in the gym first! Don't push your way between nice folks with your Klevafone waving before you. NOBODY WANTS TO KNOW!!!