for rent: turkish villa (no fat kids)

All I am saying is, I'm an almost psychic judge of character.

So today I went to the gym for the first time in about two weeks. I hate the gym. I hate not being able to stuff my face with brownies and bread and honey nut cornflakes at every hour of the day and night. Metabolism is the reason I don't believe in god. But I'm going on holiday at some point this year and as far as I can tell from Company magazine, no-one above a size eight is granted a visa for Spanish beaches. Plus the more unhealthily gaunt I get now, the better I'll look when I come back tanned and five stone heavier from the all-inclusive drinking.

My attitude to the gym is very much like my attitude to life. Get on the treadmill, hammer it for six and a half minutes, have a stroke because I'm doing too much too fast, falter, have to tone it down for my own good. Repeat for bike machine, rowing machine, sit-up machine etc etc. At the end of it I know I should go and do thirty lengths in the pool but all I really want is to go home and discuss with my housemates what sort of biscuits we'll get at the weekend.