The first rule about men's gym...

I currently have the mobility of a recovering heart attack victim - yesterday evening I engaged in what can only be described as exercise, although not having done it in so long I'm not entirely confident in the expression. This little session greatly comprised my human rights, not to mention my fundamental dignity, and stopped just short of water-boarding on the scale of good torture versus the bad kind which you're not allowed to do. Anymore.

I took part in "men's gym", a new initiative at church. It's a peculiarly Christian thing - basically you put 'men's' in front of anything and it suddenly becomes a good thing. All the chaps can come along and be spiritual and manly and talk about stuff. You have men's days, men's breakfasts and men's crafts.

Actually that last one I made up, although it would be nice for us all to get together occasionally to make cards and suchlike.

At any rate, in Bangor we had breakfasts, which were only traumatic in as much as you had to get up early. In London it's much more hardcore - circuits and weights and punchbags and running and screaming and crunching and pain. So much pain.

I could barely walk this morning, I had to crawl up the stairs to bed last night. I'm going again Monday if I can do it.