There's no escape

This week, sick and tired of being surrounded by Chinese stick insects who trough on fried rice but remain rake-thin, reminding me all the while of the devastating effects that joining them in their carb-intensive diet has had on me, I became the reluctant member of a gym.

I am actually quite pleased to have access to the Yoga classes, if only for relaxation purposes (although this is a bit of a factory gym, with relaxation becoming a communal project undertaken by at least 40 people per class...), but I had no idea that this is where all of the models hang out. So while I, scarlet-faced and sweat-drenched, am trying to ignore the pain the last sets of abs caused me, these mostly Eastern European clothes hangers are standing around, posing in their tiny shorts and lifting nothing heavier than their mini Evian bottles. I wouldn't mind if they were actually doing any exercise, but having a bag of bones just standing next to my running machine is far from comforting.

Although instead of the urge to become like them that most other ladies there probably have, it does fill me with so much rage that my rpm increases dramatically. Making my heart beat as fast as possible is the only way I can quieten the urge to scream 'Just Eat Something'!

And there are some other interesting things to look at, like the hilarious body builders kissing their biceps with each weight lifted, the strange older men with their city shoes and out-of-date eyewear and the girls like me, who have just had one too many cocktails...

Oh well, Pilates tonight, let's see how that goes.