Fitness

Brian has taken up boxing.

When we went to the cinema last night I ate tons of popcorn and I drank most of a huge glass of cola and then I woke up this morning feeling like I should do something about the fact that somebody has stapled cold blancmange around my bellybutton. Brian looks fitter than a butcher’s dog. I’m not sure if I’m cut out for boxing. But…

I drove through exploding roads out of London this evening. Three hours from mine to Lou’s, and sirens and trails of smashed up bumpers and broken glass and people standing in lay-bys blankly looking at fucked up cars just sitting where they stopped, waiting for the ambulance or the fire truck or whatever happens to you after you total yourself. Is it the heat? Who knows? It’s hotter at night than it usually is in the daytime at this time of year. It all felt a bit Mad Max as I drove to Brighton. Maybe that’s why I want to get myself fighting fit. I’ll have to defend myself with nothing but a claw hammer and a bit of perspex once the Brexit Water War commences.

Horse riding? I’ll need access to a horse that can carry me. And it’s not very cardiovascular. And it’s expensive. I could go do a ski season somewhere but… acting and money… Too much time. Plus I could tear my leg off. Fencing? There are no adult fencing classes in Chelsea and anyway it’s mostly detailed wrist movement and lunging. Besides I always found fencing classes catastrophically boring at school as everybody wanted so desperately to divorce it from violence that it just became about talking and safety equipment and you never learnt technique. Judo? Hmm. Ow.

I’m not running. I hate running and my ankles are pronated. Maybe climbing, but my beautiful hands will be ruined. Gyms need you to have a 9 to 5 job and charge as if everybody is on 60k a year. Then you come out of the pool smelling of sick and immediately get a cold. I’ve often thought of trying to crew a tall ship round the world. I’d come back ripped, grounded, zen and better at the accordion. But time…

Or I need to get a job where they make me dance every day. Even just a decent hard hit of the Shakespeare. Outdoor summer Shakespeare is the ultimate accidental fitness job. I suppose I’ll lose a bit of weight Scrooging it but that’s just December and I’ll put it back in with post show audience wine : “Oh really there’s no need, but if you must then a glass of red wine. What? Well, large I suppose. The bottle? Oh go on. So long as we share it. I’ll pour.”

Maybe I should just start doing press-ups. Go to my friends online barre class. Hang upside down from a bar above the door by my boots like dad used to. I could join the Territorial Army. The Foreign Legion.

I’m writing this in bed. Today I walked up some stairs and changed the sheets on this bed. Apart from that it was just driving and pottering. I’ll sleep on it. Anyone for tennis?