I have bought a Vibration Plate Exercise Machine from Amazon.
(Pause for sharp intakes of breath)
Suffice to say, my expectations for this machine cannot possibly be met. I expect rock hard abs in a distinctly unreasonable time frame…not that I have ever EVER had rock hard abs, you understand. I hate exercise. Even as quite a fit 16 year old (up to an hour a day walking places), I was a wheezing pastiche of a robust Lake District teenager, almost everyone fitter than me, seemingly gifted with innate knowledge of team game-rules and an ability to not throw up on cross-country runs.
As soon as I could, I would opt to play table tennis on the games rotation, which involved sitting in window seats eating verboten pick n’ mix which my partner in crime kept cave to our mutual benefit.
Paul told me that in a similar move, he told the two games masters at his school that he was in the other’s group and spent the resulting free periods smoking behind the cricket pavilion.
Inspired. Only Paul would get away with this because he is utterly trustworthy and good- but his deception, though out of character, I’m guessing was quite a conscious act of defiance.
Not the exertion itself, I don’t think, but of the wanker culture of it all- competitiveness, mud, shin guards, team spirit and pats on the back. He, like me, just doesn’t get sport…that is, of course, the act of participation- not the watching of it on telly, obviously.
As the nation is spoon-fed habit-forming daily doses of potential Olympic glory by the BBC, we too are swept along, albeit eating Bournville and criticising the participating nations team leotards. Daisy even bellowed ‘Pathetic!’ at the TV today, she’d obviously heard me berating the Japanese male gymnastics team’s performance on the pummel horse.
My reason for purchasing the aforementioned exercise equipment was because, most improbably, it promises toned up muscles and weight-loss in 10 minutes a day, and crucially these can be spent standing inert on a wobbly plate. Bonus.
Olympic spirit lives in our end terrace, July 2012. Happy and Glorious, I say. Pass the snacks, would you, P?