Unmitigated meanness

The prize spots in the womens gym I frequent are the pieces of apparatus that sit beneath the air conditioning vents. I hang back, waiting for someone to clear and then scoot for the machines where the air will blow over me as I notreallyrun, kinda-cycle or pseudoski my way to health, fitness and an admirable bottom.

Because for the last month my days have been all dawn-slanted, Ive had to go gymming in the evenings, when the place fills up sweatily, Amazon women glare-tussle over favourite lockers and the whole place hums with a estrogenic determination. I cant remember who said Horses sweat, men perspire – women glow, but its a barefaced lie.

So Id forgotten what it was like in the morning. Its quiet. I swan from high powered equipment to high powered equipment, from floor to weights, bike to treadmill, rowingthing to crossingtrainerything, from all to shower, from shower to train and from train to work.

I dont know if its always been this way, but

This morning, scooting-on-the-spot in various ways, I slowly became overpowered by the smell of fresh baking. Next door, or downstairs, or somewhere – wherever the damn air vent sucks in – they were baking bread. And doughnuts. And, from the smell of it, Pain au Chocolate.

As I exercised, the rich smell of croissant and melted chocolate ran over me, sticking to my muscles and running its slightly sticky fingers through my slightly stinky hair.

Either there really is a bakery in the vicinity of the aircon shaft, or the pouffy-haired stick on reception has a very odd idea of a joke.

If this was a joke, then let me tell you: Youre sick, Stick. Sick.