7: 500 Squat Thrusts A Day

Bob waits until the pansy from Ref has cleared off and then stands up, pushing his chair back so roughly that it rocks on its wheels and bangs into the front of Katerina's desk.

Watch it, she says, and slams a book with a horse on the cover onto her keyboard.

Horses - that's about right. Suits her. Silly mare. Nag. Bob ignores her and draws himself up to his full height.

When the weather's right, he can see himself reflected in the windows at the back of the room. He likes to do his mid-morning excersises that way. He interlaces his fingers and pushes his hands out in front of him. There is a satisfying crack. He puts his hands on the desk and does five mini-pressups, keeping his feet flat on the floor, his back as straight as a rod.

He feels, if he's completley honest with himself, extraordinarily potent today. He likes the word 'potent'. It reminds him of sex, and God, and himself. Potent, potent, he thinks. He stands back from the desk and cracks his knuckles again, this time over his head.

The new whelp Linda was dragging about has reappeared. He is pale and trembling. He is holding a back pack in front of him like it is a shield.

All right, guv? Bob says, and takes one step back into the space between his and Katerina's desks. He starts doing squat thrusts, feeling the satisfying tug from Achilles to groin. He grimaces. He puts his hands on his hips and puffs his chest out. He goes faster. The good smell of clean sweat wafts up to his nose from his armpits.

You've got to put yourself through some pain to get the benefit, he says. He looks over his shoulder to see if the daft nag is watching him, but she is leaning over an open book on her desk, a wisp of sticky tape dangling from one finger. Garry is watching her.

Pay no attention, he says, jerking his head backwards. I reckon she's on the blob. Lunch?

Excuse me? Garry says.

Do. You. Want. To. Meet. Up. At. Lunch. Bob says, spitting his words in time to the quickening tempo of his thrusting. Man. To. Man. A. Swift. Pint. He stops, stands, shakes himself loose.

I stick to a couple of tins of tuna and a creatine shake myself, but there's a sandwich shop round the corner if you're into that sort of thing.

Bob makes 'that sort of thing' - eating sandwiches, sound as if it's in the same category of hobbies as dressing in women's clothing.

Garry opens his mouth gently. He's about to speak when Linda appears behind him. She claps him on the shoulder and he jumps as if she's just chucked a pot of boiling water at him.

There you are! She says. Right! Induction over! Good! Now you know what you're doing, lets get on with it, shall we?

1 comment:

emma said...