Last night, I rocked up to the gym for my usual Monday night run. Things initially appeared to be going to plan: the boys were down below flexing their muscles and were looking their usual cute, masculine selves; the ladies were sweating it out on the various machines; my iPod shuffle - the size of my fingernail and packing more pop music than an MTV office - was charged; I was kitted out in Lorna Jane and I was sure nothing could thwart my next 45 minutes of walking/running pleasure.
I was wrong.
I forgot the headcold which knocked me for 6 most of last week was still lingering, and was determined to interfere with any form of exercise that involved much effort. Next my iPod spazzed out and refused to allow me to turn up the volume, change songs or anything else of much use. Worse, the fallback plug-in to the TV was redundant due to an uncharacteristically lacklustre offering on Channel V. Neighbours just isn't an option these days... I mean please: how many more evil Paul Robinson storylines can they write? It's a loud, pounding beat that gets me through, and there was no noise from the iPod, limited pounding and only a mouse's heartbeat to power my run from V.
So, what's a girl to do but go home, find some chocolate and read up on cement shoes - the supposedly mythical gangland vengeance of choice.
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