I was plonked on that machine where you lift weights by repeatedly opening and closing your lallies in a somewhat louche fashion, when I suddenly focused on who was toiling away on the machine right opposite. A decorously glowing younger Alan Rickman type with excellent taste in workout gear (not poncey, but not manky and downmarket either...) and exceedingly fine trainers. Nearly swooned, which put me right off me stroke. I much prefer it when there are only fellow uglies huffing and puffing around. To top it off, one of my incredibly ancient slip-on shoes that I use for trainers when it's hot literally fell apart as I dismounted, with the cutie still sitting there apparently looking at me (actually, he was probably just staring blankly as you do while exercising...) I had to hobble home with the sole of my foot actually touching feelthy South London pavement.