Friday, November 23, 2012
belgium, gym & tourettes hoarder
Some things I never thought I'd say this week:
"Dude, I went to gym three times this week...and really enjoyed it."
Those of you who actually know me probably wonder whether I've been sprinkling my cornflakes with crack.
I use our work gym, but every part of going to this place is still really foreign to me. Even the fact that I walk past this gym en route to my desk everyday.
The whole towel around-the-neck, clutching-a-waterbottle, fiddling with buttons and dials to make the machine go faster, is very novel. There's a whole sect of people that attend gym. Who knew dude? That guy from marketing; that other bird from sales. There's a whole HIVE of activity happening in this room filled with weights, sweat and people like me desperate to reduce the size of their buttocks.
In essence, it's actually a criminal offense that I haven't been before. For two reasons. It's free, and this is my view when I am on the cross-trainer:
So yes. [Guilt-ridden face]...that is testament to how much I have hated the gym in the past. It can be free and overlook central London, and that's still not enough to get me there.
Until now. Hoorah! And I'm going with the girls at work, which makes it much more fun.
"Hello sir...are you alright?"
The past week has been fraught with fruitless attempts at getting social services round to investigate our Tourettes hording neighbour.
I've called the council and various charities. They can all help, provided I get prior permission from the neighbour himself.
As much as I argue to the point that I'd like to remain anonymous, but really fear for his life and health, their hands are tied. They will not investigate unless they're allowed to.
I don't know whether to be upset with the Nanny State right now, or still be grateful that there is one in place at the very least.
Getting permission is proving almost impossible. He's a bit scary, and while I've been working up the courage to knock on his front door and ask him if he'll allow me to get someone to come round to "help," we both semi shit ourselves whenever we are about to do it.
Yesterday, he was particularly on form, now stretching his casual use of the world's most trecherous obscenities to full on screaming.
So yesterday, after one of his rants, I decided to go for it and just open our door straight onto his rant. I asked, "Is everything OK sir?"
by then he'd stopped ranting, and had clicked back into Normal Person mode. And with a very clipped "I'm fine thank you," very coolly stroll past me. Does this sound like the kind of guy who thinks he needs help?
The thing is, I'm scared. So I will ask again. And again.
I'm going to Belgium today.
Our Bruges trip has arrived! Tonight a friend and I are hopping onto the wonderful Eurostar, that marvellous piece of engineering that goes underneath the Channel, and takes us to Brussels. From there, we get a connection to Bruges.
Where frites, waffles, gingerbread and mulled wine await our arrival. going to run at gym this afternoon before my body is subjected to wonderful, hot, warm Belgian stodge and beer all weekend.
Bon weekend tout le monde.
PS: Have finally updated my '100 COUNTRIES BEFORE I DIE' page. Do pop in!