Body Attack

Heart attack, more like it. I took a new class at the gym last night; it was exactly like being back in PE at school, except nobody was pointing and laughing at my funny legs. At least I don’t think they were. God, I hated PE in school. I was that cliché of a girl who always got picked second-to-last for teams (last was Alwen Morris, who, being mentally and physically retarded, didn’t count).

I have very little, if any, physical co-ordination. I learnt that when I took the afro-dance classes last year (and confirmed it later during a traumatic ski trip in Austria). Y’know, I always thought I was a fantastic dancer – until, that is, I was plonked into a brightly lit gymnasium surrounded by mirrors and lithe Icelandic girls shaking their booty in grass-skirts. I looked distinctly ... clumsy. It’s a far cry from owning the floor at the GPO, tanked full of Jägermeister, imitating capoeira with my brother on a Friday night. (I actually remember us once being thrown off the dance floor by a bouncer who said sternly “ye can’t do capoeira in here, right.” We were over the fucking moon that he’d recognised what it was we were attempting. Although, thinking about it now, maybe by "can't" he meant we weren't able, not that we weren't allowed).

Tonight I’m going back to Body Combat. That was much more fun than Body Attack – more like being in a game of Tekken. I mean, I don’t think you could actually “combat” anybody with it, but it looks fucking cool. That is, when I’m not jumping the wrong way and crashing into the mirrored wall. Úff! What’s that sweaty red thing hurtling through the air towards me?! Bollocks. It’s me.