Valley of the Trolley Dollies

Where were we? Oh, yes, last week…

Friday evening, after a gym workout with Udo, the not-hot-but-thats-ok personal trainer that involved kettlebells, bruised wrists, sweating, heart racing and a pounding thump-thump-thump that turned out to be my heart, rather than the latest club tracks, was a quiet and civilised evening that began at the Mucky Duck with a glass or two of Champagne to celebrate the upcoming new beginning, moved on to a fab Belgian Beer place that sold Strawberry flavoured beer (less cloying than, say, Pear Cider, but still not something you want to drink all night), and where we (a few founder members of the BTS, and a couple of newbies) stood outside in the deepening early autumn night talking shit, laughing, and badly hiding our fears for the future. At least three of us - yours truly included - are about to embark on major life changes. All of us have elected to make the changes; still, none of us can pretend that the decision comes with absolutely no qualms whatsoever.

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I have a new personal trainer. His name’s Bruno. He’s late twenties, South African Italian, and, like the best of PT’s, not really my type.

Well, I say ‘like the best of.’ It’s not like I’ve had years of experience. But, for me, the perfect PT needs to have things I can aspire to (in Bruno’s case, the pecs of a twenty-two year old Jordan Katie Price and the Arms of a twenty-two year old Governator Arnold Alois Schwarzenegger), without, neccessarily, being something I desire (He’s a bit too, well, squat, for my fantasies tastes). I need to want to do the crunches and planks without being entirely focussed on how I can possibly arrange it so I get to jump his bones.

But, as part of our project, Bruno has me keeping a food diary.

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