Never see your personal trainer drunk.
When I woke up this morning (after a charming evening with Bradley, the young man from Ladies' Accessories) I felt brilliant. Of course, it wasn't until I jumped on my bike, wobbled towards an oncoming lorry and started giggling that I began to suspect that I was still trolleyed.
And so it proved. The only thing actually keeping me on my feet and functioning was the Red Bull still marching around my system and issuing orders like an over-practical lesbian at a picnic.
Tom the trainer was his usual sympathetic self when I sashayed happily into the gym.
"Y'aright?" he asked.
"I'm pissed, bless you for asking!" I announced, swaying.
"Fine. Let's go for a really nasty run and then some sit ups."
He clapped me on the shoulder. "Don't worry! I was joking. We'll leave out the sit ups."
*** YEARS OF AGONY LATER ***
I was lying down on a bench to do a bench press. Feeling comfortable.
Tom was talking.
I shut my eyes.
Tom's voice got gentler and gentler, fading slowly away.
I opened an eye and glared at Tom.
"Were you doing that deliberately?"
"No! Why would I do....that?"
*** FIFTEEN MORE YEARS OF AGONY ***
"James, stop turning your head."
"I was looking to you for reassurance."
"James - you can feel my reassurance. Waves of it washing over you. Now, stop moving your head. The sooner we do this, the sooner we can do some more sit ups."