Old and bold

After all the excitement of my 44th birthday yesterday (yikes!) it was back down to earth with a splash first thing this morning.

Yes, it was time to return to the pool as my frantic water-based panic preparations for the Skipton Triathlon reach a panicked conclusion.  And, like my first effort on Tuesday morning, things didn't go at all swimmingly.

The manic forward splashing bit went as expected.  Badly.  But it was what happened at the end that hurt most.

I managed 36 lengths in total - 4 fewer than on Tuesday - before running out of time.  However, it was when I attempted to get out of the pool that my true downfall occurred.  Because I couldn't actually manage it.

I was in the middle lane again, meaning no access to the pool steps without going into one of the other lanes.  So I tried to pull myself up onto the side.  The problem was, my arms were so tired that it proved to be impossible.

And making matters considerably worse, several of my well-seasoned fellow swimmers quickly noticed and began to point and snigger and then laugh amongst their ancient selves.  By the time I gave up and ducked under the rope into the fast lane to wade towards the steps, I was getting loud ironic cheers.

I had no option but to laugh along and give a little wave and a bow before traipsing up the steps towards the changing room.  But inside I was dying.

Old people these days clearly have no respect for us middle-agers.  Bullies.      

Lane pain

Three weeks ago I revealed here that Vanessa had selflessly signed me up for my first (and last) triathlon.

I also pledged to get some swimming practice in fairly swiftly as the last time I attempted more than two lengths without stopping was 26 years ago.

Well, prior to this morning, I hadn't managed to fulfil my pledge.  There were all sorts of reasons for this.

For example, where were my swimming shorts?  And being the owner of three pairs, which ones would I wear when I eventually found them?  

I bought some swimming goggles a little while ago.  (I'd ordered Vanessa some new trainers for her birthday by mail order.  But I had to spend another £5 for free delivery - so, knowing I was doing the triathlon, blew £6 on a pair of goggles).   However, where were they?  And would I have to adjust them once they were located?  That would take time too.

And crucially, I don't really like getting into swimming pools - it's the water that puts me off.  How cold would it really be?  Best not to bother.

But then last night, realising that there were just two and a half weeks to go, I suddenly panicked and phoned the local pool to see when the next "lane session" was due.

To my horror, it was between 7 and 9 this morning - and at 8.10am, in I plopped.

I'll give you the good news first.  My task on race day is to swim for 400 metres.  And today I managed 1000 metres, across two stints. So I was pleased with that.

The less good news is that it was torture and I looked utterly ridiculous.

I'd not seen a "lane session" before never mind taken part in one.  What I found when I got there was three separate lanes marked "slow, medium and fast."  And occupying each lane, divided equally, was one third of the cast of Cocoon.

(I even managed to take a picture).

      
And every one of them was a better swimmer than me.

Alongside my weak stamina and my slow speed, my steering also isn't very good. And so the only way I was able to get from one end to the other was to do my version of the breast stroke.  The Barry Stroke, if you will.

It involves lots of frantic splashing, endless blowing and not much in the way of forward propulsion.  Hogging the middle lane, I was overtaken by all and sundry - many tutting as they glided past, their butterfly wings and bald heads cutting through the water.

It was truly disheartening.  My only hope of retribution is if I meet one or two of them competing at the triathlon, when I will then either jog them into a hedge or knock them off their antique bikes.  But, to do either, I'll have to complete the swimming leg first.

I'm due back in Aireborough pool again on Friday morning.  In the slow lane this time.

KAPOW!

Every so often when your kids are growing up, one of them will do or say something which reminds you that they won't be so young and "innocent" for long.

I had one such moment last night when I rushed home with some cut price sleeping attire for him and her.

Charlotte was delighted with her Shopkins nightie, which pleased me greatly.

But Jamie was a touch more standoffish about his Batman pyjamas, complete with Bat Cape.

He wasn't rude, to be fair.  He just seemed a little underwhelmed.

"Do you not like them?" I whimpered.

"Well, yeah," he replied, looking a touch awkward.

"Do you not like the cape?" I ploughed on, with a dollop of desperation.

"Well, the thing is Daddy," he said, "it's not really me."

"Why not?!" I pleaded to know.

"Because I'm almost eight."

And I'm old enough to be Robin's dad.          

True colours

I've missed quite a lot of Aireborough Lions Under 8s tag rugby this year, but thankfully I was able to make the Sandal Festival today when it was well-deserved medals all round.

And other than Jamie's three tries, there was one particular highlight for me.

  
Above you can see a Roundhegians player in a yellow bib with a number 15 on his back.  That's our bib.  He was wearing it because they were a jersey short so he had been wearing a maroon skin skirt.  But because Aireborough were also wearing maroon, something had to be done before their game against our boys could begin.    

The referee said so in the player' huddle, but one of the Roundhegians was confused.

"Why can he not just wear his own shirt?" he gently enquired.

"Because it's the same colour as the other team's," the ref replied.

Our opponent thought about this for a second, before firing back: "But we know who he is!"

That's why getting up early on a Sunday morning tends to be worthwhile.

He's just a big baby

I always admire a man who can walk the walk as well as talk the talk.

But I have particular respect for a man who is prepared to walk the walk through the streets of Guiseley dressed as a big baby.

Meet Jamie and Charlotte's headteacher, Mr Madeley.

I like Mr Madeley.  He's fun (although I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of him).  He's one of those people who leads from the front and, from all I've seen, wouldn't ask anyone to do something he wouldn't do himself.  

And it's become clear that he is also prepared to do things that few others would even consider.

Which brings me to today and the St Oswald's Primary School sponsored walk in aid of Sport Relief and the LGI Neonatal Unit.

Each class is due to walk three miles around town, except for Charlotte's lazy year who have to complete just a mile.

There are 364 children at the school so Mr Madeley set the fundraising target at a modest £1 for every pupil.

And if the £364 target was met, he would complete the sponsored walk dressed as a big baby.  (Feel free to read that sentence again).

A letter sent home earlier in the week indicated that the tight-arsed folk of Yorkshire hadn't quite stumped up enough for Mr Madeley to fulfil his surreal pledge, but there must have been a late and very welcome surge.

Because this was the unforgettable sight which greeted parents and children at the school gates this morning.

It's a long time since I've seen so many smiling faces in one concentrated area.  Indeed, some normally grim-faced mums and dads walked past who I didn't know had teeth until today.

Good old Rupert.

Madferit in Macosquin

Last summer I had a lot of fun doing the PR for and then attending the inaugural Big Marquee Weekend music festival.

It was held in the village of Macosquin where I spent the first 10 years of my life and went to primary school.  The brains behind it were my oldest friend Drew Hutchinson (aka DJ Steady) and his close pals Robert Todd, Elizabeth Todd and Hughie Hamilton from Mary Pat's Bar.

It was a brave venture.  The purpose-built marquee - erected in the car park - cost a few bob to hire.   And so did the acts because they were top quality.

Given the collective efforts that went into putting it together,  the event deserved to be a resounding success. But few people could have predicted just how good it actually was.

There wasn't a low point across all three days.  But, for me, the performance of Ireland's leading Oasis tribute band, Roll With It, stood out above all others.

I was fortunate enough to see the real Oasis play live three times in their heyday, including once in front of 90,000 fans at the old Wembley Stadium.  But, quite honestly, I enjoyed Roll With It every bit as much.

This was a part of their set from that now famous night in Macosquin.  Feel free to be as impressed as I was (and also Vanessa who you might spot dancing around like a loon).

And, if you don't already know, I have some very exciting news to share with you.

Yes, Big Marquee Weekend II is happening and is now only weeks away.  The May Day Bank Holiday weekend to be precise, from Friday 29 April until Sunday 1 May.

As last year, there will be a different theme each day.

Scotland's number one DJ Mallorca Lee will headline a top notch dance night on the Friday, also featuring Craig Dalzell, Tizer and Booshanty.

And singer-songwriter Lee Matthews - with eight Irish download chart toppers to his name - will bring a Sunday afternoon and evening of country music to a toe-tapping crescendo, with support from Ben Currie and JD Country.

But it'll be on the Saturday when my personal excitement inevitably reaches embarrassingly high levels as Macosquin becomes 'Madchester' for the day.

Because alongside local band Cellar Door, Roll With It will be making their triumphant return to the Big Marquee.

And joining them at the top of the bill will be none other than the original Stone Roses tribute band, Resurrection.  Travelling across from Glasgow as part of their UK tour, they have been described by legendary Stone Roses bassist Mani as "the best Roses tribute around." Not a bad endorsement, for those who know about these things.

  

Tickets for Big Marquee Weekend II go on sale at 9am this Friday from Mary Pat’s Bar, Card Land in Coleraine, Lou’s Boutique in Ballymoney, Jingles of Portrush or by calling Tel: 028 7034 4659.

If you're anywhere near the Causeway Coast in the run-up to the May Day Bank Holiday, get yourself along. 

Beer goggles off, swimming goggles on

If you've read this drivel over an extended period of time - particularly back in the days when I used to update it with a bit more frequency - you'll know that I've not been averse to the odd physical challenge.

London Marathon?  Check (almost killed me).

Four Great North Runs? Done (last one almost killed me).

Leeds and Bradford Half-Marathons? Yes to both (didn't die in either).

Other than my first Great North Run - which was only an excuse for a night out in my old Newcastle student stomping ground - all of the other ventures were motivated by a desire to raise a bit of charity cash.

But, as I wrote here, my last Great North Run 18 months ago proved to me that enough was enough. It was time to act my age, drink more beer and eat more fried chicken.  And I've proudly stuck to my new regime. My inner fat man has never been happier.

That was until Vanessa entered me for my first triathlon.  Yup, you read that correctly.

Yes, dear friends, yours truly is down to "compete" at the 2106 Skipton Triathlon.   And it's happening in just five and a half weeks.

Before then I have to prepare myself to swim 10 miles, run 1,000 miles and cycle to Mars and back.  Or that's kind of how it feels to me.

Back on Earth, it's more like swim 400 metres, cycle 12 miles and run 5km.  But still.

As cold reality dawns, I have several key concerns.

Somewhat crucially, I'm not fit.   Indeed, my only form of meaningful exercise over recent months has been attending spin classes twice a week with a load of other big girls.

Second, I haven't ridden a bike on the road for more than two miles since 2005.

Third, I haven't run more than a mile on the road since last summer.

And fourthly - by far my greatest worry - I haven't swum more than 50 metres in a single stint since I left school in 1990.      

All of the above would suggest that I'm not going to win this year's Skipton Triathlon, and I'm reconciled to that.  What I'm less comfortable with is the prospect of sinking and being rescued by a lifeguard on stage one of my challenge.  

In a desperate attempt to avoid such an outcome, I'm hoping to go for a little splash in the gym pool next week.  Or maybe the week after.  Anyway, I'll keep you informed.

And, by the way, I'm doing this for "fun" not charity - so your pennies are safe.

Night of The Jackal

I'd not been to a big world championship boxing match before but, after last night, I can now say  "done that, bought the tee shirt."

And here it is.

Only a fiver from a street spiv.  I'll probably wear it in bed.

As it accurately points out, the main event was Belfast's Carl Frampton against Bury's Scott Quigg for two versions of the World Super-Bantamweight Championship.

But not all of the action was in ring.  Indeed, far from it.

Spot the Northern Ireland theme, which was hardly a surprise given that 90% of the 20,000-strong crowd seemed to be from the wee country.

There was even Ulster Royalty in attendance in the familiar form of His Excellency Liam Beckett, Emperor of Ballymoney.

A fine man.

My equally-esteemed company for the evening were my old school pals, Pete (below left) and Tommy.

We called it a draw at 4am, leaving enough time for four hours' sleep before breakfast and going our separate ways.

But an outstanding night.

And big congratulations to Carl "The Jackal" Frampton MBE, double champion of the world.

Lydiaid

There's a headline in the online edition of our local paper here in Leeds which reads: "Thefts reported after 40-50 teenagers gatecrash party."  

The story goes on: "A party attended by teenagers at a house in the Hall Park area of Horsforth on Saturday ended with reports of several thefts after it was gatecrashed by between 40 to 50 uninvited guests, police tweeted today."

And these words brought back some, well, memories.

 
Above you can see a picture of some Coleraine High School Girls taken in the late 1980s.

That's Karen McLeod on the left and Rhonda-Jayne Bailey second from the right.

And between them - giving what's known in Coleraine as the "reverse f*** off" sign - is Lydia Davidson (now Kerr).

Back in the day, Lydia also threw a party.  She had a free house for the weekend and generously decided to invite a few people over.  I can't remember whether I was one of them, in truth.  But Lydia and I were (and remain) friends, word spread that something was going down at hers and a few of my kin turned up carrying blue offy bags filled with cheap booze.

The only problem was, we weren't alone.  I'd not been to Lydia's house before and feared I might have trouble finding it.  But that proved not to be a problem.

Let me put it this way.  I've not been on a pilgrimage to Mecca.  But it was kind of like that.

          
In fact, the only obvious differences between the scene you can see above and the night in question was that it was dark in Coleraine, and there were a few more people trying to find Lydia's house.

My mates and I thought we'd arrived reasonably early.  But many others had beaten us to it.  So much so that they'd had sufficient time to punch holes in the ceiling, smash the toilet and "hide" Lydia's pet cat in the freezer.

We didn't stay for long, mainly because rumours were already abound that the police were on their way.  Indeed, we left so quickly that I forgot to lift my bottle of lime cordial and was forced to drink my four cans of Tennent's "straight" when we got to wee Colin Andrews' house shortly afterwards.

26 or 27 years have gone by since that fateful night and, since then, the legends surrounding Lydia's party have only continued to grow.

So, in order to assist social historians piece events together and educate generations to come, I have two simple questions for you.

First, were you at Lydia's party?

And second, what do you remember about it?

Do please get in touch with any information you have and I will pass it on to our hostess, to whom so many of us continue to owe so much.

Let's call it Lydiaid.

In the meantime, here's another treat for all you gentlemen in the audience.

Twit twoo.

Ain't No Stopping Them - OW!

Vanessa and I headed off to our normal Thursday morning spin class today.

And please be assured that it's not as sad as it sounds; we always get bikes as far away from each other as possible and personal interaction is never on the cards.

As such, it's likely that few fellow spinners are aware that we even know each other.

I tell you this because, at last week's class, there was a rather surreal little episode.

Our gym has changed hands quite recently and the new owners have a different way of doing things.  One such change includes completing a register of attendees upon arrival.

As I came in, I went up to the instructor, told him my name was Barry White and three ladies standing close by burst into fits of giggles.  I've got used to this down the years and thought no more of it.

That was until the end when I walked towards the exit and some other ladies began to laugh.

It was only on the way home that Vanessa - who'd been on a spin bike next to them all - relayed the back story.

The 'other ladies' had joined the original three before the class began.  And the late-comers had been advised that I bore the name of a famous black American singer and they had to guess which one.

By the end of the class, as well as Barry White, the list included Michael Jackson, Sammy Davis Jnr and - get this - Luther Vandross.

I mean, really.  Do look like a Luther?  And - whilst I stand ready to be corrected - is it really likely that Coleraine is likely to have spawned a family tree of Vandrosses?

Still, at least some fun was had.  And I'm always happy to be the brunt of it.  

Picture exclusive: Yellow fireball spotted over Edinburgh

Well that was fun.

I'm writing this as our train pulls out of Edinburgh Waverley station - and the rain begins to fall.

I don't think I've ever been on a rain-free trip to Scotland; until this one, that is.

To illustrate, here was Edinburgh Castle yesterday morning.

Just like a postcard (with me on it).  Perfect (minus me - I'll save you the trouble).

A particular highlight of our three-day excursion was meeting up on Sunday evening with my old schoolmates (from left to right) Dave, Colin and Rory, together with their families.

With work and school for everyone bar us on Monday morning, we had to get by on just the three gallons of red wine. But it was great fun.

One issue of note was just how much the boys resemble their fathers.

Here's Dave and Huw.

And here's Colin and Milo (adorned with face stickers).

Lucky old Jamie, who continues to look nothing like me.

I haven't been in dear old Edinburgh for far too long and it's good to see that very little has changed.

There's still a bagpiper on every corner.

Most menus still retain a local flavour.

And the fascination with death and illness remains almost on a par with Northern Ireland's.

Of course, it's always important to bring souvenirs back from such family trips.

But Vanessa quickly ruled out my personal favourite.

So instead it was off to the Build-A-Bear Workshop to purchase new outfits for Elsa and Thomas respectively.

Charlotte went for the bling ballerina look.

Whereas Jamie chose the path of radicalisation, transforming poor Thomas into Jihadi John (deceased),

So that was February half-term 2016 in Edinburgh.

Haste us back.

In the name of Gove

Jamie's been having class tests at school and isn't impressed.

What is always helpful on such occasions is to have scapegoat.  So, the other evening, he asked Mummy who was to blame.

"Michael Gove," replied Vanessa, coldly.

"Why?" enquired Jamie.

"He invented exams," she continued.  "Kids used to mainly do coursework.  And then Michael Gove came along and spoilt it all."

Conversation over.

Fast forward to yesterday morning when I was working at home, and found a picture on the dining table drawn by Jamie.

And here it is.

It didn't me long to work it what was going on.

The figure in the middle with glasses is the former Education Secretary, Mr Gove.

In the left speech bubble, he's saying: "I made exams." And in the other, he's declaring: "I am nasty pants."

I'll leave you to work out the nature of the random threats that surround him.

I blame the parents.  Well, parent.        

An ice day birthday treat

One good thing about getting older is increased self-awareness.

That said, before yesterday, I was already fully aware of my inability to ice skate.

What I didn't know was the both Jamie and Charlotte appear to have inherited my balance genes.

It was Vanessa's birthday and, to celebrate, we went on a family trip to the temporary outdoor ice rink in Leeds.

Charlotte started off well, thanks to her supportive penguin.

But after giving up that crutch, she had to commandeer another.

Before Jamie borrowed it, I mean, her.

Still, at least, it.....erm......her.....er......Mummy still had a good day.    

And before you ask, no there aren't any pictures of me on the ice.  I made sure of that.

News you think you'll never hear

I know I'm not alone in wanting to see the back of January.  I feel like that pretty much every year, again, in common with most other people.  But I can't remember another month in my lifetime when so many much-loved public figures have been taken from us.

Lemmy will be missed.  So too Alan Rickman.  And David Bowe's death was a particular low point for his legions of devotees.

I wrote here less than three weeks ago about my personal upset at the passing of Ed "Stewpot" Stewart.  Since then, we've lost Eagles founding member Glenn Frey.  Vanessa and I were hugely fortunate to see the Eagles play live in Leeds 18 months ago.  I've loved the band for years, with Don Henley right up there amongst my favourite ever singers.  But until that night at the First Direct Arena, I didn't fully appreciate just how good Glenn Frey was.  It's now a memory I'll cherish forever.

However, with the greatest possible respect to all of the above, this morning's passing of Sir Terry Wogan has floored me.  I was lucky to once meet and talk to the great man, and recalled it here some years ago.

As so many other people of my generation have said on social media today, Terry's been an ever present and the fact he's gone will take some getting used to.

But, for me, the biggest shock's been the realisation that he was just like the rest of us.  Terry Wogan dying?  Nah!  It'll never happen.  But sadly it has.  And we're all the poorer for it.  

Going the distance

One of the best parts of being a 43-year-old dad to a 7-and-a-half-year-old son is "involving" him in regular metaphoric trips back to your own childhood.  Whether he wants to go there or not.

I say this because, on Saturday morning, Jamie and I are off to the cinema to see Creed.  My idea.

If you don't know, Creed  is the seventh and latest Rocky film.  This time our hero -  finally retired at the age of 81 - returns to boxing to train the son of former heavyweight champ Apollo Creed, who appeared in the first four films before being battered by a big Russian.   And the reviews have been very good, which is an added bonus.

The only thing is, I haven't taken Jamie to a "live action" movie before and I wanted to minimise the risk of him spoiling my day out.  So I made him do his homework.

Rocky fans will know that the original was a bit more adult-orientated than the others.  Plus Rocky loses, which is disappointing - particularly for Yo Adrian.  I therefore didn't force Jamie to sit through that one.

Instead, I started him off last week with the fight scenes at the end of Rocky II when the Italian Stallion first wins the title.  And Jamie took an interest.  Excellent.  Cue Rocky III. 

A much bigger HIT!

Indeed, so much so that Jamie insisted on recreating the training routines.

Genuinely his idea.
     

Rocky IV  was next (you can't fool me), with Jamie claiming this as his favourite thus far.

We're not going to bother watching Rocky V, mainly because it's crap.  Even Sylvester Stallone has admitted that.

So, with Vanessa and Charlotte out tomorrow night, we have Rocky Balboa (aka Rocky VI) lined up to pass our boys' time together, leaving us fully prepped for Creed the following morning.  

And when Saturday comes, Jamie had better be prepared to sit through all 133 minutes of it.

Because as Rocky himself would readily confirm, "it ain't over till it's over."

Mind the gap

Jamie lost his front tooth overnight.  He thought he'd swallowed it but Vanessa found it somewhere near his pillow.

Both developments are certainly positive from Master White's point of view.

First, the tooth's recovery now means the Tooth Fairy has an invoice for whatever she chooses to leave this evening.

And second, the tooth itself was chipped and made him look like Jimmy Tarbuck.

Jamie damaged it quite a while ago when he was propelled off a roundabout.

Walking to the Post Office this morning, I told him that he'd been really unfortunate by what had happened.

"But you're also lucky because kids get a second set of teeth," I patronised.  "If you were a grown-up, you'd have to get it fixed."

He pondered this pearl of wisdom for a couple of seconds, before responding: "But an adult would never fall off a roundabout."

Oh I don't know...

Bye, bye Stewpot

The death of David Bowie is not only dominating news across the world, it is also the talk of outer space with Brit astronaut Tim Peake tweeting about it.

I was never a big fan of Bowie's music, in truth, but he did seem like a good guy and it's sad that he's no longer with us.

I was a lot more upset on Saturday evening when word broke that DJ Ed "Stewpot" Stewart had passed away.

I found out when I checked my phone during the interval of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang at the West Yorkshire Playhouse and it dominated my mind throughout the second half.

Most people my age will best remember Stewpot as the presenter of Crackerjack in the late 1970s.

I still occasionally think about it at five to five on a Friday.  (Fans of the show will know what I mean).

However, it will be Christmas mornings when I'll miss him most.

Readers of a certain age will hopefully recall Ed Stewart's "Family Favourites" afternoon show which went out on Radio 2 in the early 1980s.  I remember listening to it most days after coming home from primary school.

It was resurrected as Junior Choice on Christmas Eve 2007, returning the following year on Christmas morning from 10am-noon. It stayed in that slot for the next seven years with Stewpot broadcasting his final show less than three weeks ago.

And it became a staple of our Christmas.  In fact, in 2014, he even played a request for us Whites after I described the show in an email as my favourite two hours of the year.  "You're a sad man," he told listeners.  How right he was.

But when I tell you that regular tunes he played included Puff the Magic Dragon, A Windmill in Old Amsterdam, Captain Beaky and His Band, Champion the Wonder Horse and - best of all -  Morningtown Ride, you'll hopefully accept that I'm a sad man with fine nostalgic taste.

Poor old Stewpot, Christmas mornings will never be the same.    

Phil Spencer doesn't do irony

I'm writing this because the new series of Location, Location, Location is on the telly and this week it's from Leeds, meaning Vanessa wants to watch it.

I used to be an avid fan but Phil Spencer put me off.

First, his trait of talking like he's got a full Jaffa Cake wedged in his mouth began to get to me.

Then second, I met him.  He and Kirsty (who's much less enormous in real life) were doing a book signing in Leeds.  Vanessa and I were just about to buy our first house and I thought it would be fun to buy their book and get it signed for Mrs W.  What a nice Mr W I am.

So I got in the queue, reached Kirsty who was very charming, before moving on to the next part of the table piloted by her co-presenter.

I was second in line and decided to listen into the conversation Phil was having with the lady in front.  The crux of it was that Phil and his wife had just bought a new house that morning.  What a coincidence, him being a house expert and all that.

Suddenly I was "on" and handed him my book.

"Who is it for?" Phil mumbled, spraying me with pieces of Jaffa Cake.

"My wife, Vanessa.  Please."

"Mumble...chew."

"Errmmm," I piped up, "I heard you say that you'd bought a new house today."

"Yes, that's right," he said, sounding bored.

"Congratulations," I continued, unabated.  Before going in for the killer line.

"Do you take anyone's advice before buying it?!"

"Er, no, I just took my own," he replied, handing me my book.

I took it and headed back to the office for a coffee and a Jaffa Cake  

Gym'll Fix It

It was back to the gym today after two weeks - save for one morning run on Portstewart Strand - of gorging and glugging.  And needless to say I wasn't alone. 

Yes, the great post-Christmas waddle to health and fitness clubs across the country has begun.

For most it started yesterday.  But sadly my local gym had to close early after a particularly large lady got her arse jammed in the main doors.  (OK, I made that bit up).

It was a spin class for me, alongside Maria who hosted us so fabulously (daaahling) on New Year's Day.  Vanessa was actually in the building, but went for facial instead.  Probably to have the remnants of sticky sweets and chocolate sandblasted off.   

But back in Studio 1, my spinning buddies and I sweated and harrumphed until we could do so no more.  Mainly, because another class needed the room.

It was the only time in my almost 18 months of gym membership that a spinning class I'd signed up for was full.  It was the only time that a register was taken in case non-bookers had attempted to sneak in.  (Honestly, a register).  And it was the only time that every one of the windows and the all-important (for some - you know who you are) wall mirrors turned fuzzy because of condensation.  

Michelle was the trainer in charge.  I like Michelle.  She's smiley and fun and goes like a steam piston.  On her bike.  She's also around about my age, I think, which is reassuring in an "if she can do it, I can do it" kind of way.   (It makes sense to me, which is all that matters).   

The only problem is that she's really small and, when you're at the back of the class (as I tend to be), she's hard to see and therefore follow.  When she's standing up on her pedals, I'm often down,  And when I stand up to see if she's down, she does go down and immediately disappears.  Still, it breaks the tedium.

But we all got through it, Maria and me on our bikes and Vanessa in her face machine.  We're all due to return on Thursday when I suspect the gym will already be less busy.