I conclude the cellular conversation with my father and secure the device in my bedroom drawers and make way for my weekly gym session at Edinburgh’s Commonwealth pool.
Upon scanning my membership card, the chords of don’t be so hard on yourself transmits waves to my naked ears within the sweltering sphere.
Limbs thrust, some vigorously, some gently, across the gallery hairless torsos do not defy gravity.
Steel consistently plumps down; biceps regularly constrict like a rush hour carriage.
The conductor hops off, and my femurs can momentarily rest.
The viewing of Planet Earth on the vertical portrait attracts my pupils, and as the leopard begins its transition from grassland to savannah, the imaginary inspector ups the ante, and I begin my last set.
The lyrics of I’ll be their spurts into my forgiving ear drums, however as I rack the barbell to safety, many rectangular shadows of cancerous slabs diminishes the fluorescence of those in lycra.
Feet tread, necks bend, phalanges scroll in tune with the mill; relay neurons rot oblivious to the outer world.
Water whets my oesophagus, and prior to moving towards the pull up bar, I admire the precision of the young divers.
My tibias criss cross, and I ungracefully exert my upper mass over the steel bar for a few moments until I glimpse at my fortnightly half episode of Deal or No Deal.
Noel Edmunds flips the box open, and it shows red akin to my flushed reoxygenating muscles.
I look around, and all I can see is a sea of blue boxes, corneas diluted by their electronic hands, again cerebrums unaware of the significance of the single parent grasping her lifechanging cheque.
The song of Hold my hand bellows, and I become engrossed in the live picture of two struggling young women hauling their suitcases in angst at the bus driver.
Predicting their holiday destination alleviates the burgeoning stress of my glutes, and buoyed by the kindness of the driver, I administer one further rep.
On progression to my final exercise, emotionless figures lie in their temporary comas displaying their ear defenders.
Unperturbed by their obliviousness, I thunder my legs deliberately that little bit closer.
Finally, a form of communication greets me, and someone just someone wrestles one handcuff from their smouldering palms.
The tune of Take me home bulges from above, and I fake a smile to gesture my apologies for interrupting their entrenchment of their latest suckering reel.
On my mile of departure, I earwig the latest update on the mating calendar of the neighbouring owls and articulate the shoots of progress on the heather of Arthur’s Seat.
I stumble in front of my radiator and clamber for my poisonous phone feeling grateful to have broken free for the afternoon.
Unsurprisingly, no new messages appeared in the 90 minutes, and Kings of Leon quickly replaces Jess Glynne.
