YEAH BUT NO BUT

As an addition to my fitness accoutrements, I bought an "mp3 player", I think they call them, to relieve the tedium of marching, cycling and moonwalking. There's only so much ambient techno a girl can take. It took about six weeks to find out the difference between an iPod and a mp3 (price, it appears) and much quizzing of McChe, who knows about these modern contraptions. It's all changed since I had a walkman, Detailed perusing of technical manuals and several visits to Media Markt later, I finally came out with a pretty fuchsia pink one to match my hoodie. Then I had to figure out how it worked and put some music on it. Finally I was ready to pump. I think that's the expression.

Fantastic! I currently have 405 tracks on it and it's still only half full. Just think how many walkmans - walkmen - you'd have needed to have that much music at your fingertips. I find the Stones are very good for workouts, as long as you don't get carried away and start impersonating Jagger. I have to FF on Sympathy for the Devil and Brown Sugar now, since the manager came and told me off for doing the "woo-woos" too loud. 'YMCA' is also off the menu for similar reasons. The woman on the next treadmill says the eyepatch will be off next week, and is not going to press charges.

The biggest problem was getting the ear pieces to stay in. My earholes must be malformed, as no matter how hard I screwed them in, they fell out again within seconds. I eventually gave up and at the risk of looking like Lt Uhura from Star Trek, (although not a lot) used my Skype headset. Fully equipped for another hour of cardiovascular stimulation, I hit the gym again yesterday after work.

Friday afternoons are a good time, as many Brussels workers clear off for the weekend and you can get on all the machines straight away. I was delighted to find a near empty row of treadmills. I fired one up and stomped away through Jumping Jack Flash, Satisfaction and Tumbling Dice, and was just stepping up a gear for Midnight Rambler, when I noticed one of the trainers jumping up and down in front of me. A bit of one-to-one is always welcome, so I nodded cheerily and gave him the thumbs-up. He was doing a strange sort of routine, which involved making throat-cutting gestures, cupping his hands over his ears and pointing towards the exit. I tried my best to copy the choreography but he kept changing the moves, putting his hands on his head and looking increasingly red in the face. Eventually he jumped up and hit the emergency stop button.

Suffice it to say that standing out on the main road in one's sweaty pink tracksuit is not how I wish to be seen by my co-workers, some of whom were just making their way towards the metro. I did not wish to be mistaken for Miss Vicky Pollard innit. So I had no choice but to gently jog in a homeward direction, doing the woo-woos as loud as I could.