Saturday, 11 August 2007

Flex My Pex

I guess, if I was into Blog name abuse, I could refer to this post as Flex My Pex. Actually, that’s not a bad title, abuse or not, so in it goes…

Once upon a time, before I saw the light and decided that I couldn’t care less about having arms like Madonna, legs like Catherine Zeta Jones and a backside like Jennifer Lopez, I used to attend the gym on a very regular basis.

By regular, I mean every day, even when on holiday – the hotel’s facilities must include a gym, I used to bleat to the (then) husband. He didn’t care. As long as he could sit by the pool watching the top totty slathering sun cream on themselves (A Hex On Thee!).

One particular morning, having dropped the wee babes at school, I tootled off to the gym to commence my thigh-jittering work-out. It was a jolly good one, I can tell you and I went ‘for the burn’ as they say…Although, I must confess, it never burned me, it just reduced me to tears on the odd occasion and made me shout curses which should never be repeated in a public place or whilst sober.

As I staggered out of the gym and hauled myself into my Jeep, I flopped like a lump of lard on the seat and lit up a cigarette as quickly as my shaking fingers would allow…yes, yes, I know that defeated the whole object, but I do enjoy my smokes!

Without due care or consideration, I swung the Jeep from the parking bay and heard an almighty can opener ripping into its side. Concomitantly, the Jeep’s bonnet went upwards, as did my eyebrows and I took my foot off the accelerator, pretty damned quick!

Being a bit of a muppet where cars are concerned, I decided that the best thing to do would be to reverse and attempt to rectify the initial manoeuvre. The can-opening sound intensified, but at least the car came back to level ground.

I hauled myself out, and stared at the side of the car. The Municipality, in all its infinite wisdom, had decided to leave a concrete lamp-post base, sans lamp, in the middle of the parking area, and my car had decided to have a fight with it…Indeed, I was not the first, judging by the veritable rainbow of stripes across this lump of sadistic tendencies. The poor Jeep looked like it had gone in for open heart surgery and the surgeon had nipped off for a coffee and a fag…

As I stood there, askance, wearing clothes which were illegal in a Middle Eastern country, a local chap pulled up and asked if I wanted some help. He kindly called the police for me…called them again…then again…and finally, an officer pitched up, rattled something off to me and told me to get out of the way. The young chap told me his name was A.D…or at least, that is what I thought he said, but he was actually saying Eddie. As he looked like Eddie Murphy…ahem…Well, if that’s the case, then I look like Nicole Kidman, despite being less than stick-thin, dark and definitely under 6 feet tall…He did invite me for dinner at his mother’s, though, as they were slaughtering a goat for National Day…I politely declined.

I got very little help from the insurers. Their main concern was if the concrete base was OK, which left my mouth somewhat slack in gob-smackedness.

I did get my lovely car repaired…eventually…and then the (then) husband decided we should sell it and get a new one…

Well, I did – I bought a Jeep Grand Cherokee, which was just bloody marvellous, even though it was automatic, which I don’t particularly like, and even though the (then) husband used to commandeer it whenever possible, even causing a veritable bash on the bonce one day as I leaned into the rear seats to sort out the ensuing WW3 between the children and he took off when the lights went green so I was flung at the windscreen much to the other drivers’ amusements.

I sold the Grand just before I left Oman to return to a life of strife, corruption, world famous psychiatry and crime in the UK. I still miss it to this day.

I now drive a Toyota Yaris…It has only one wheel trim; the bumper hangs off it; every single cup holder has crap in it: from coins to earrings, to fag-packet wrappers…But it goes…and it will do…

But at least, whilst getting rid of the Grand, I also got rid of the husband! HexMyEx!

3 comments:

thewishfulwriter said...

well, i can tell you I LOVE my madonna arms, catherine zeta jones legs and Jessica Alba butt...

shit. who am i kidding. i'm more along the lines of Rosanne Barr everything. Sigh.

Your first mistake was going to the gym. see, you were asking for it. :)

and how much did i love the line: "cursing as one never should whilst sober." story of my life.

Great post. Great blog.

I WILL be doing my own glowing review!

Agnes Mildew said...

Thank you. That is most appreciated.

Anyway, who wants arms like Madonna? She'd be able arm wrestle any bloke and win, any day. I bet her husband is terrified of her, despite the 'well'ard' films he makes occasionally...

Guy Ritchie, if you ever stumble across this blog, don't set your Mrs on me, please...

Agnes Mildew said...

By the way...I haven't returned to the gym since...I have the copyright on flabby bits...