Greetings dear pals! Do gather round as I have a most surprising tale of unexpected happenings to tell you all.

It had been one of those strange one off configurations of Mars squatting in Jupiter’s sports hatch or whatever they say, but the planets awkwardly aligned, and middle age began to make itself known to muvver in an annoying, squidgy way. She was bemoaning the disappointment of not being able to eat or drink whatever she wanted and still have the ability to stay the same sort of configuration she had been content with. Time was cruelly marching downwards towards the Sloggi’s of destiny (other pants are available). 

We were sat around the kitchen table, discussing this and other village gossip, yes pals, I am afraid Mr Pendlebury had been at it again. Anyway, we were enjoying a pot of Earl Grey and her favourite treat of Pastel de Nata (warm from the oven, whiskers twitch in anticipation) when she put her cup of tea down with unexpected force and declared that she, unaccustomed as she was, was going to join the gym. 

* The tumbleweed of shocked silence rolled through the kitchen, bounced off the skirting board and piloted itself out of the door.

We both looked at each other in alarm as her words sunk in. She nodded once as if to confirm this reckless statement and scuttled off to forage for something resembling lycra – which as we all know can be dreadfully unforgiving. 

Well not one to let a potential outlet for great hilarity go unwitnessed, I decided to accompany her in her quest for fitness, toning and perhaps an answer to those wayward bingo wings that Hector kept inadvertantly laying on in bed – incidentally the only time I have heard HER do a greyhound scream of death. We booked ourselves into an introductory session into the dark (and perspirational) art that is…exercise. 

I began to forsee the level of competence of the evening’s jaunt when her water bottle emptied itself out on the journey to the gym, soaking her coat and making her look as though it would be a good idea to work on her pelvic floor whilst she was there. 

We both approached the awaiting doors of a whole new world. Sadly our induction coincided with the busiest of times – the time of the nubile nobility,  the word intimidating doesn’t even begin to cover it. She jauntily walked in, narrowed her eyes at the bank of people squatting, thrusting and stretching before her and tried to ooze back towards the door and into the cafe where perhaps an emergency bun awaited her.

Too late, as we were swept into the arena of doom, or the reception desk as it was named on the sign. Remembering the respective life experiences, traumas and incidents that we had both endured and coped with in our lives thus far, we decided that quite frankly we didn’t give a bugger what anyone thought about us so we got stuck in. I particularly liked the Spotty Dog machine, or cross trainer as they called it. I gloried in the fact my lithe and long limbs could reach the paw holds quite comfortably, whereas muvver’s had to be adjusted to child size so she could reach. It was just like when she was given a cushion to sit on for lunch when we were out in Leominster, both incidents highly mirth making.

I was delighted to discover that one of the bicycle machines actually had a fan thing attached to it and puffed out a steady stream of cold air over one’s nether regions as one slaved to the call of the pedals! I might get one of these for Spindle Towers, but maybe without the bicycle bit. Which I suppose would be just a fan…

There was also a large bouncy ball, think space hopper minus the horns, upon which to perch as we lifted small weights. I found the ball rather difficult to balance on, not a natural position for a hound I think you will agree and I was told I looked like a large comedic skydiving tarantula. Muvver bounced happily on her ball until she was instructed to do a plank, whatever that is but she just ended up face down in a heap. 

The most precarious part was a little later on in the evening when her pal had decided to join us, I assume to also have a laugh. They decided to mount the running – or in muvver’s case, ‘trotting like a shetland pony’ – machine. They were happily chatting away next to each other when the subject of the unearthly comfort delights of sports bras came up in conversation. On being asked where muvver had got hers (M and S) she excitedly lifted her tee shirt to display said undergarment and shot off the back of the machine with a squawk and a look of surprise. Now this was what I had been hoping for and wiped the tears from my jubilant eyes with a sweaty paw. 

All in all though pals it was a great success and we felt magnificently spiffy and virtuous afterwards. SO much so that we have been back, of our own volition! 

I rather fancy that I can get into shape which I am hoping will even up the squirrel v Spindle ratio in the woods. Muvver is hoping for an overall sense of well being, fitness and flexibility…and Hector is absolutely terrified and has sent away for a stronger lock on his invention shed.

So there we have it, you may be seeing a new slinky Spindles in the months to come. Until next time, I shall go and enjoy a custard cream and a cheeky glass of Dubonnet.

Pip pip!