Gym Bunny

Anybody who knows me or, indeed, anybody who has read this blog for any length of time, will know I’m not exactly keen on strenuous physical activity. In fact, I have a theory. I reckon every creature on this planet has a set amount of heart beats. Those whose normal heart rate is rapid tend to have short life spans while the opposite is also true. It follows, therefore, that you shouldn’t use your allocation up on pointless activities like treadmills and going nowhere on exercise bikes.

OK, so there is a a certain logic in the “use it or lose it” theory. I know people who climb hills, swim long distances and spend their days happily jumping in and out of dinghies (an activity I never really mastered) who are much older than me (a rapidly shrinking age gap). I don’t, however, know of anyone in their 80’s who spends long periods every day in a gym. Life is too short.

So it may come as a surprise that I have been spending a regular portion of my day since arriving in Abu Dhabi in a gym. The iftar buffets and the inability to walk more than a couple of hundred yards outside without turning into a quivering pile of sweaty blubber have had a combined effect. The scales provided so kindly by the hotel have left me with no illusions. Something has to be done.

I could swim. The pool is inviting and I can usually find a time when it is not too busy, empty even. The trouble is my hair. Any humidity or hint of moisture turns me into Crystal Tipps. You don’t remember Crystal Tipps? Here’s a reminder:

This is not my preferred look.

So the gym it is. I don’t go mad, of course, but I try to find half an hour and a few extra heart beats. That’s me in the fetching robe taking the picture. Go on, look closer.