by: Wyness, Lys
A summer that isnae summer; I mean, rain stottin doon, stair rods. An aa ye can dae is look oot the windae. The gairden wi drookit flooers, sappy dubs, dreepin washin hingin on the whirlie.
‘Look,wi aa this weather I ken we canna ging oot, even for a walkie roon aboot, bit we shouldnae let it get us doon. Maybe we could try some ither form o exercise?’ I speir frae the intimmers o the sofa. ‘An mebbe a bittie licht entertainin?’ I add, getting cairriet awa, a hale new lifestyle is pannin oot afore my een.
The new exercise bike is like, weel, a statement- it says: we’re nae past it jist yet. I mean, it’s aa richt pedallin awa, leggies gaun like clappers, bit aifter a mile, well it gies ye a helluva sair bum. Bit the sweemin noo, that’s a great success, twenty meenits or thereaboots o the breist stroke an dinna get ma hair weet- nae splashin- nae jumpin - nae spikkin fan I’m sweemin- an aabody get oot my road- then five meenits in the bubbles (jacuzzi)- a shower, dressed an aff hame an I’m fair taen wi masel. Bit of course I couldnae stop there, could I? Oh no, an fan I saw on the boord ‘Aerobics all levels, Tuesday night’, I wis signin on like a shot.
Leggins, t-shirt an tastefu white jimmies didnae quite come up tae snuff as far as gear wis concerned, but I hiv tae say the twa piece day glow Lycra ootfits an big bouncy trainers lookit jist smashin on the young quines. Jump an stamp an flingin airms aboot tae music wis the warm up routine an I wis jist aboot managin ae stamp and an airm-twirl tae their ten. Five meenits intae the session an I wis wishin that I’d jist stuck wi the sweemin; back, knees, legs an pride were hurtin.
‘On the fleer noo for press-ups’ the trainer yells- an that wis me, oot the door.
So there are some things mebbe it’s jist ower late in life tae jyne or try. Ye see ye’ve tae takk intae conseederation maturity noo that it comes wi sair knees, stiff jynts as weel as bad backs an foonert feet. Faain asleep readin the paper, or a book, or watchin tv, or at the drap o a bunnet. An spikkin aboot drappin, hiv ye noticed that flesh draps wi maturity?
Soothwards an ootwards an it’s sometimes a blessin that the eesicht is nae sae guid as it wis, bit it’s a dampt pest fan you’re gaun a bitty deef.
It wis wi the entertainin, which by the wye gaed aff jist fine, that deefness wis an issue. Here wis I clearin up efter the veesitors hid gaen awa hame an I got a bit o a fleg an shouted frae the scullery, an he shouts back ‘Na, na, it’s only half past ten.’
‘Fit ye spikkin aboot,’ says I, ‘I’m needin a haun wi this here.’
‘Och,’ he says, ‘I thocht ye said ‘It’s later than ye think.’
‘Weel,’ says I ,’I didna say that, an furthermair I think yer gaun deef. Fit I said wis, ‘There’s a slater in the sink!’