This morning saw my first gym circuit session since an over-indulgent weekend celebrating a mates retirement in Bedfordshire. An exercise class my three nights of decadence turned into a GJ Strachan perspire-fest.
My avariciousness within the shadows of the Chiltern Hills coming back to haunt me in the shape of the little known medical affliction called waterfall forehead. Its aesthetically displeasing symptoms including a sufferers hairline producing a Niagara Fallsesque flow of water.
Anyhow, despite my perspiration show which led to environmental agency warnings of localised flooding, I completed the hour without a requirement for my donor card being utilised…… Or indeed my Donner card***
*** – I’ve promised to posthumously donate my liver to the local kebab shop owner Akal.
On walking out of Garforth Leisure Centre I felt infinitely less lethargic than during my entrance sixty plus minutes earlier. With my endorphins flowing like a school of skipjack, and a exercise infused buoyancy within my strut, I took my perspiration sodden ass towards my motor in the car park.
On this short stroll I bumped into a old acquaintance called Kelvin, who I’d not seen for many months. Kel’s a nice enough guy, but sadly his company is less sought by peers since donating his personality to Oxfam in 2017. It was heartening to hear of his cat Oscar’s recent serendipity – The moggy last week in receipt of news he’d been accepted for an audition on 2020’s Britain Got Talent.
The Crossgates’ man clearly delighted his gifted feline will have an opportunity to show off his party piece on prime time TV. Suitably unimpressed and indifferent to learning further detail about the novelty act, I purposely didn’t ask Kelvin to elaborate. In my minds eye, though, I’m picturing a pet moggy wearing a tight white t-shirt who struts around his neighbourhood patronising lower belted feline friends.
I’m sitting in an east Leeds coffee house as I pen this narrative. Thankfully the flow of Strachan forehead waterfall has long since abated, otherwise I’d dread to think of my current dehydration levels as I perch sofa in situ with my iced latte.
As I wait for my daughter Rachel to return from her opticians appointment, I gaze gormlessly across the shopping precinct. The visions opposite retail premises housing a travel agency, a currency exchange and the lurid facade of a mobile phone shop.
Outside of the cell phone shop (as our American cousins dub mobile telecommunication phone devices) a man in his dotage appears to be having a conversation with his shop window reflection. As the old guy gets ever more agitated and confrontational, the owner appears to move him and his ‘shadow’ from the proximity of his shop front.
A couple of retail units away, inside the travel shop a young blond lady discusses her travel aspirations with the agent.
From my erratic lip-reading skills it appears like this fragrant female is asking the travel salesperson if she can have a 7-night all-inclusive break at Barnsley Metrodome, in south Yorkshire. Although, as they appear to be looking at a brochure advertising vacations in Venice, I could be wrong.
At the currency exchange, a young man appears to be trying to barter his holdall bag for a few coins of the English realm….. Hold on a minute!!!!……. That’s my bloody laptop bag!!!
