Memorial Workout

For the last few weeks the volume of my alarm clock has been carefully set: not too undemonstrative that I fail to wake from my Jake Gyllenhaal dream, but also not too loud that my Muslim neighbours start arriving for their call to prayer.
Getting everything right at the moment is important because I’ve just begun a new exercise regime that requires me to go to the gym before I’ve had my morning coffee.
Don’t ask me who came up with this new fad, but I know at least one fitness magazine this month with the cover blurb “discover your inner cappuccino”.
Needless to say they recommend I unearth this mystical brew at five-thirty in the morning while executing ten thousand salutes to the sun.
Namaste, bitches.



















The delicate calibration of my morning alarm is supposed to reduce any crankiness that may affect my training. Other adjustments to help facilitate this dawn regime include Arctic face splashing (think Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest) and jettisoning the sexy, teddy bear boyfriend who provided little incentive to leave the bed. Also the purchase of fluorescent running shoes which the hot sales guy assured me were aerogaynamic.
“The ground will feel like cashmere, not asphalt.”
Sold.
In summary my new fitness plan was executed to perfection except for one small incident that my Gen Y acquaintances refer to as WTFOMGFMLROFL.
It began after my regular morning workout when I noticed that the gym had erected a shrine near the water cooler to one of their dearly departed employees. It was quite the production: scented religious candle, glass photo frame, metre-high bouquet and leather-bound condolence book.
I made a cursory sad face on my way out since I barely knew the guy, but somehow in my caffeine deficient state I also managed to snag my iPod on the fancy fabric covering the shrine, which would have been okay if I was one of those tablecloth magicians who was able to whisk a McQueen scarf from beneath a Royal Doulton set.
But I’m no Houdini so you can probably guess what happened. And I must say I’ve never heard a sound quite like it: prayer candle smashed on the tiled floor, glass photo frame shattering the deceased’s face, vase and flowers upended like a gypsy wedding and the condolence book splattered with Jesus wax.
At this point you might consider my mortification to be complete, but it gets worse. Standing next to the shrine at that very moment was the deceased’s family who’d just arrived from Bavaria to do a memorial workout in their son’s honour.
Bratwurst, anyone?
I felt so bad for the mother that even though I didn’t know the guy I presented her with one of the flotsam flowers and started telling her what a remarkable, inspirational, awe-inspiring and generous soul her son Victor was.
“You mean Tomas,” she said bluntly.
“Yes,” I said with a tear in my eye, “that’s who I mean. He liked to sneak caffeine in my protein shake and that’s what I’ll miss about him most.”