The Magic Gym
The nice young man who showed us around the gym was called Paul Daniels. I resisted the temptation to say things like "that's magic!" or "I like it...not a lot, but I do like it." Mrs Z. was very proud of me and we both retired to the coffee lounge to decide whether or not we should sell some heirlooms to afford the year's family membership. The ample helping of chocolate flakes on the cappuccino clinched it for me, as well as the gym's proximity to the fish 'n' chip restaurant and the video shop.
I signalled to Paul that we were ready to cough up the fee. I fished around in my wallet for a credit card which seemed to have vanished. Paul looked a bit concerned, but then I produced the plastic with a flourish.
"Abracadabra, " I said, avoiding Mrs. Z's steely glare.
Of course, all of this happened last week and was the easy part. Tonight I went along for my first induction session where a bloke called Dave demonstrated the various bits of equipment. I was especially taken by the treadmill which had a little console where you could choose to watch T.V or listen to the radio. Then Dave pressed a button on the contraption and I was almost hurled backwards through a plate glass window.
"So you've never been in a gym before?" he asked me.
"Unless you count school," I told him, recalling all those afternoons when I would turn up with a note from my Mum explaining that I couldn't participate in football/rugby/cross country/scuba diving because of a sore toe.
Dave handed me a strap-on heart monitor and put me through my paces on various weight-training devices. He then filled out a training chart which suggested I should visit the gym two or three times a week. I was amazed the heart monitor didn't explode at that point
"Or you can come more often than that if you get to like it," he said.
I'm sure I will. But not a lot.
Sorry.
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