Slave Driver

Chef has turned into some kind of sadistic Personal Trainer, and is making me take part in all manner of absurd stomach crunching movements involving tables, bottles of water and 10kg weights. After two days of this barbaric treatment, I have been left an aching mess and begging for reprieve - he's now gone as far as subjecting me to some form of evil torture, known to man kind as 'jogging'. By the time I've rearranged all my internal organs after pounding the pavement in a thoroughly un-elegant way, and put my hips back in their correct socket, I'm practically gagging for a cigarette, and a stiff scotch on the rocks. Unfortunately, I made the grave error of banning myself from these substances several days ago, and find myself searching the backyard for half smoked butts and looking enviously at the girls from Americas' Next Top Model, whom seem to maintain their stick-thinnedness on a diet of nicotene and alcohol.

Still, I continue to watch the pretty tops and summer dresses on eBay and think of how nice my rippling six pack will look in the new bikini I am having shipping from the UK, and using it as inspiration to not smack Chef over the head with a random 5kg weight and running from the house in glee. Well, maybe not running, after all. More my usual slob-ish walk with a few energetic dance steps throw in, as my 'workout music' plays resolutely in the background.




In all seriousness, it's great having someone motivate me to exercise. I'm just a little concerned I'm going to end up looking like than the above, rather than the below...