I didn't like my new personal trainer.
His name was Nick, and the second thing he said to me when I first met him was "So, what did you think of the match this weekend?"
From thereon in, I knew I was doomed. Nick was one of those beefy, piggy men who looks rather as though he may have stolen lunchmoney from the small kids at school, and probably had "Bruiser" as a nickname. Or "Knuckles".
But, we managed to struggle through two sessions. He announced once "I've always liked knowing about how the human body works, ever since I took my Biology A Level. Only took it for a few weeks, but the interest remains..."
On the second session he actually managed to hurt me (weird leg exercise that ended in a sharp snapping pain and me limping for a week). He only stopped the crippling work when the gym manager was alerted by my agonised whimpering.
So I binned him - which felt a bit weird, but exhilarating. After all, why should a large fraction of my disposable income go on something I don't enjoy.
I'm now seeing a trainer called Sam. He's tall, has lots of muscles, and is very handsome without being attractive. He also has a wicked sense of humour, a killer grin, and doesn't insist on using rubbish latin terms for bits of the human body.