I hope that, wherever you are, you enjoyed the extra second imposed upon you by the imperialist forces of the dominant scientific-capitalist worldview and that you have a prosperous 2009.
As for my year so far, I jogged wearily to the gym this morning, dreading the crowds of resolutioners (though it hasn’t been too bad in the past), only to find that the place was closed for the day. This didn’t happen under the old management. Weaklings!
This might be a Message From God. I used to ride a real bicycle—a handbuilt tourer, the sort of thing the maker won’t hand over until you’ve signed a pledge to keep a woolly bobble hat on your head and a Thermos of industrial-strength tea in one of your pannier bags at all times—and sneer at people on exercise bikes, but fat as my thighs grew on my daily three-quarter-hour commutes across London, they have recently reached seam-busting proportions. The sad truth is that my legs no longer fit into my gay trousers.
On the subject of bicycle thighs, here’s New Year’s honorand Victoria Pendleton, gold-medal-winning cyclist:
Who could resist a woman who can lift twice her own bodyweight?