So I had one of those Christmases, you know? The ones that basically last all December, involve an entire vat of Quality Street, and leave your stomach looking like the rippling sea of Prosecco you consumed; the kind that leaves you in January unable to wear a chunky sweater under your coat and still button it up, desperately typing 'what is clean eating?' into Google, ordering chia seeds even though you have no idea what to do with them, and finally turning to exercise because you realise there's no way you're ever going eat kale.
I have a gym membership and the gym is IN MY BUILDING, like I literally don't even have to go outside to get there, but sometimes a girl needs something even easier - as in, exercise that you really don't even have to bother to get dressed for. Ergo, I decided to buy an exercise DVD. My research for this basically consisted of 'which ones promise results in the quickest time imaginable?' and I came up with the 30 day shred. It seemed pretty ideal because my sister's wedding is in about six weeks' time, which means I can aim to fit in the 30 days before then (you know, because of all the days when I'll be out, or ill, or so lazy that even getting off the sofa and removing my fluffy slippers seems too hard). And it was £5.99, so I got it.
Monday, 25 January 2016
Thursday, 14 January 2016
The second Monday in January after Christmas has to be one of the most depressing days of the year, doesn’t it? Trudging home from work in the cold, drizzling rain, clutching my salad miserably to my chest, with the prospect of an evening spent guiltily avoiding the gym whilst jealously scrolling through Instagrams of celebrities on the beach, I guess I wasn’t concentrating on the pavement, and I accidentally stepped on the shoe of the man in front of me, tripping him slightly.
‘Oh, god, sorry!’ I exclaimed immediately, because you know, I’m not evil, I don’t go around kicking people in the shins for a laugh. I don’t know if he didn’t hear me (he had headphones in, to be fair) or if he was just in an equally miserable mood, but he yelled ‘OUCH!’ and leapt in the air as if I’d stuck a boiling hot poker up his bum, then turned and gave me the kind of look usually reserved for paedophiles in prison, muttering furiously ‘Stupid cow.’
I gave him one of those very British ‘WHAT?’ looks, tutted, muttered ‘I said I was SORRY,’ and made it about halfway down the street before I burst into tears.
And it made me think – you know what? He could’ve just not done that. He could’ve said ‘Oh, don’t worry love,’ and given me a kindly smile, and I would’ve maybe felt a little cheerier. What did he get out of making me cry on my way home? We could all just do with being a little nicer.
So here are my ten ways to, you know, not be that dickhead man.
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