I’ve done my usual Monday morning trick; It’s just after nine in the morning and somehow I’ve managed to make it into work. The sleep driving wouldn’t concern me quite as much if I wasn’t doing a 50 mile commute across the Pennines; still I’ve got here intact.
I throw the car door open and it suddenly dawns on me that my legs appear to have stopped working. They are usually quite dependable things and get me around with limited need for servicing and repairs but this morning nothing.
I’m beginning to suspect that I may just have done something rather foolish the previous evening. What was it – oh yes Claire had visited and somehow persuaded me to accompany her to a pole dancing class. I have to admit that it was quite fun – despite being the only male in the class and feeling rather like a stripper at a particularly raucous hen night. Luckily for me a friend runs the class and she had shielded me from the worst of the excesses so I made it out of the studio with my honour, if not my dignity, intact.
Now I just had to face the horror of getting out of the car and waddling across the car park with all the grace of an arthritic hippo. Several deep breaths and I make it out my seat, but somehow the car park has stretched from a parking lot to a marathon race track.
Geography was obviously malfunctioning almost as much as my limbs.
Still I made it to the doors with only one stop to take on water and a sponge. Then the true extent of my situation dawned on me. Not only was the office I worked in up two flights of stairs I would also be face with explaining to my co-workers why I was wearing a pained expression and was moving like I had been recently castrated.
Dear god there was no way I would live down this foray into the world of fitness classes.
Was it too late to turn round and call in sick or had I been spotted?