I put on my Yoko Ono shades and crept to the gym. 'Ainsley' was ill, and we had a guy who had us doing proper circuits. There was only me, and two other semi-crip geriatric hags there. Must be discouraging for the trainers, but I don't mind; the fewer people gazing upon me the better. Afterwards, I went into the gym proper, which was also deserted, and tranced out on the cycle under the TV for a while, with the MTV rappers blinging and pelvic-thrusting away. That's a good cycle, too, 'cos cool air from the vent behind blows onto your neck.
I'm desperate to venture out properly,and hope to make it to Islington tomorrow, for the Art Brut exhibit, flakyfaced or not.