So Anne's back. And it all begins again.
For the uninitiated, Anne is a half-baked Scottish woman whose age remains un-guessable, I'd hazard anywhere upwards of 46 - 83. She is a member of The Gym and, in the words of Ellis Shortt, Esq., "a complete nutter". The gym closes on Friday nights at 9pm. On the stroke of 840pm she streaks in through reception like she's saving Scottish Independence, and scuttles across the bridge to the small Ladies changing room where, I am given to understand, she does her washing in the shower. All members are supposed to be out by 9pm. It's like some sick game to this woman. If the gym instructors don't go in to the changing room every 3 minutes to remind her of the time, she will gleefully stay in the shower until ten past the hour, like she's won the war against us and our petty timekeeping. It's all mind games to this woman. She's like some naked Scottish Hannibal Lecter.
She had briefly returned to Scotland and thus many happy months had passed in her absence, when every gym instructor managed to leave the gym on time. I had heard a dark rumour that she had returned, but until last night I'd not had the misfortune to encounter her. Well, indulge me as I share with you the last 15 minutes of my shift on a cold, wet, Auckland Friday night.
INT. GYM. SMALL WOMEN'S CHANGING ROOM. NIGHT. 20:50
SARAH, ANNE
SARAH: (Speaking to running shower) We close in ten minutes.
ANNE: (Inside shower) Yes.
[SARAH WAITS OUTSIDE. RE-ENTERS CHANGING ROOM]
SARAH: (Speaking to Naked Anne) We've closed now.
ANNE: (Naked) Yes, just coming.
[SARAH WAITS OUTSIDE. CONSIDERS VARIOUS CAREER CHANGES. ANNE EMERGES AND FLEES BACK ACROSS THE BRIDGE]
I severely miss closing the gym with my colleague Luke, who would stand outside the door and bellow in his Auckland accent, "Anne? If you don't come out in 2 menutes I'm coming en to get you. And neither of ass wants that to happin."
On a happier note I am heading home for ten days at the start of August and am very excited about.... Marks and Spencer's. Yes, OBVIOUSLY, I want to see my friends and family too, but ask any Brit what they miss most about the UK and I defy you to find anybody whose first response isn't "Percy Pigs. And M&S sandwiches. And Boots". I'm not quite Kiwi-fied yet, but I must confess I have swapped Cadbury's for Whittakers. Does that make me a disloyal Brit Abroad? I still buy Heinz 'English style' baked beans though. There's actually a British sweet shop in Auckland called 'The London Lolly Shop', which quite frankly I find very confusing since we Brits quite clearly call them 'sweets' and it's the Kiwi's that call them 'lollies' and who are you aiming these overpriced Quality Street tins at? BRITS.
Who do you think you are kidding Mr Hitler?
(Writing the last paragraphy has just led me to open a Crunchie of dubious edibility. The best before date is in Mandarin. I'm sure it'll be fine).
In other breaking news we have discovered tonight that the biggest slut in a household of 3 Kiwi girls and one Pommie is.... the cat. My flatmate bought a grey Burmese called Bella a few months ago and she is extremely lovable. It's rare for all us flatties to be in the same room together for longer than about 10 minutes, but we discovered tonight (during a rare flat conversation) that Bella has been whoring herself for cuddles around all of us like she's some kind of Mormon husband. She'll scratch upon one person's door for attention, and then if she has no luck with them she'll move on to the next one. Not unlike many of the Handsworth Grammar boys in the Dome II, circa 1998.
However, while I can't wait to check out Heat magazine to find out who Jordan is married to this year, I am rather concerned about how I will survive without the amazing coffee that Auckland has to offer. Seriously, only the tourists go to Starbucks here. I have to confess that working in the gym has turned me into something of a caffeine addict. I read an article recently by a Kiwi journalist who was detailing his attempts to give up said beverage, and I confess that all his symptoms were sounding eerily familiar. Just as I was warming to his writing, however, he moved on with the following:
"I refuse to drink tea for fear that it will turn me into some Beige Brit, and I shall be forced to whinge about the public health system and the weather".
Well, Andrew Perkins, you just lost yourself one WEEKEND HERALD reader. I hope you can sleep at night.
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
GAY PT: A hole's a hole.
Lovely.
