Be careful what you wish for - isn't that what they say? Well, I admit I have been wishing that a fit, young, muscular man would come into my life, give me a proper work-out and sore thighs, but this is not exactly what I had in mind.

I'm sore - really sore, and not in a nice way. It's my own fault for getting so cocky about my kickboxing class. I thought the weedy bloke in the glasses was as tough an opponent as I was going to get, but he was just the appetizer, the limp lettuce and egg mayonnaise that comes before the meat course.

The meat course was tough and gristly. I wasn't given any choice in the matter; everyone else had come with a chum, he was new to the class and I was Norman No-partner. I gave him a quick once-over and decided that judgement day had finally come. He seemed nice enough, but was clearly very fit, very muscular and about ten years younger than me.

We started off at a relatively easy pace, but as the session got warmed up, I realised that I was way out of my depth. I don't often hear the phrase, 'Kick me harder', but that's what he kept saying to me. I thought we were supposed to be having a 'tap' fight, but he was obviously training for a bare-knuckle bloodbath down some back alley in Devonport. I did try to be accommodating with the 'kick me harder' thing, but in doing so I failed to take into account that for every action, there is a reaction…

It was hard enough to aim a kick at his inner thigh without missing completely and connecting with his delicate gentleman's equipment. I had no wish to play footsie with his manly portions and so I put all my effort into aiming at the same spot every time. Such was my concentration, that I became almost oblivious to the fact that he was returning my kicks with equal force, and after a couple of minutes of sustained battering I had to stop the bout and remind him that he was fighting a red and tender woman, and not Brad Pitt. The first rule of fightclub is: Choose a weedy partner. The second rule of fight club is: If you end up with a meathead, don't fight, run away.

It wasn't like this in 'Sex in the City'. In that show the girls had a high-kicking girlie fight and nobody seemed to get hurt at all. Why did I have to get a partner with the body of a Greek god and the attention span of a goldfish? No matter how many times I reminded him, he just kept forgetting the simple plea, 'Don't hit me so hard'. I tried to run away but there was nowhere to go, so I had to tough it out for the remainder of the hour and try and avoid his blows with a combination of lightning-quick reactions, guile and reverse gear. It was all a bit of a blur, but I think I can safely say that Mr Meathead arrived with a big can of whoop-ass in his back pocket, and left with slightly tender thighs and one very empty can. At the end of the session even my fellow classmates were a little horrified by the sight of my battered legs; they looked like they had been hit repeatedly with a meat tenderizer, and it was a bit of an effort even to drive home. Now the redness has turned into a patchwork of black and green bruises that stretch from thigh to foot. Yes, it serves me right, and yes, I probably had it coming, but next week, when I go back for more punishment I'm going to ask for a slightly smaller portion with rather less meat.


Now, to change the subject entirely, I had a thought today, whilst vacuuming the stairs. My thought was this: There is an advert for denture fixative glue that appears quite often during daytime television. I have seen it a few times whilst at work, but it was only today that I stood on the stairs with my crevice tool and realised that it just doesn't make any sense.

The advert features an attractive grey-haired couple; they are sitting on the beach, the sun is setting and they are laughing gaily as they get served a delicious-looking lobster dinner. I don't know whether their jollity is because of the seafood, or simply that she is happily confident that she won't suffer any embarrassing bladder leakage and he is feeling the first stirrings of a Viagra wake-up call. You are supposed to guess which one of them is wearing dentures, but I think you should be trying to guess which of them has the aluminium saucepans and attendant short-term memory loss.

Now, I don't have lobster that often, but when I do, I tend to eat it in much the same way as everybody else, that is, by using the metal shell-crushing thingy to break up the lobster, and then the little fork to prize out the sweet, firm meat. But not Mr. and Mrs. Firmdenture, no, they don't need to bother with tools, they have such confidence in their porcelain pals that they can happily take a whole lobster and just bite right through the shell. Is this normal? I don't think so. Nobody bites through the shell of a whole lobster, unless they are partly octopus or mostly senile.

I have thought up some new ad slogans for that particular denture fixative advert, 'Fixoglue - helps you keep a grip on your teeth even after you've lost your grip on reality.' Or, 'Mastication isn't a crime for the senior citizen. Whole lobster is never a problem for the woman who chews to be different.' I love the adverts on daytime television; my favourite at the moment is for the comfy chair that you can drive around your living room. Imagine the fun you'd have on a shopping trip to Tesco. Going down the A38 would be a pretty surreal experience in a leatherette recliner, but shopping from the comfort of your armchair is my idea of heaven. So, in thirty years' time, if you should happen to pass a wizened old lady, who is sitting in a motorized armchair in the fast lane of the M25 and trying to manoeuvre past a large juggernaught whilst eating a whole lobster, you'll know it's me.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.