Don’t put the kettle on…


Events intervened since I last posted on the progress of my latest short story. It has progressed –  just not enough to write anything meaningful about yet. There should be a new report early next week. In the meantime, something a little lighter for a Friday evening…

An hour ago I had never heard of a kettle bell. If asked, I probably would have hazarded a guess that it was something our ancestors might have used to alert them when the kettle had boiled – possibly a more soothing, rural version of a kettle with a whistle… No?

Sadly, not this.

No. A kettle bell is a recent phenomenon that has nothing to do with hot beverages (NOTHING, sadly) and looks like this:

Yes, this.

Bit scary eh?

You may be wondering how I discovered what a kettle bell is. There I was this evening, innocently wandering into my local gym here in Waterford, nice and relaxed and feeling very pleased with myself for being there instead of tucking into a glass of red wine on the sofa in preparation for The Late Late Show (and let’s face it, some chemical assistance is needed to sit through The Late Late Show these days).

In the gym, I noticed that instead of working the machines, the members already present were standing in a circle, stretching and bearing distinctly tense facial expressions, with the aforementioned bizarre-looking objects lying in the middle of the floor.

I had inadvertently wandered into the Kettle Bell Class and it was just about to start.

Despite the cuddly-sounding name, I had a strong feeling that the kettle bell was not about to add to my happiness levels.

What could I do? I had got changed, got myself down there, and everyone was ready to go, eyeing me balefully. I manned up, picked up a kettle bell and found myself doing my first class.

It is not for the faint-hearted (me).

The tattooed, muscle-bound instructor swung his kettle bell around like it was an empty handbag for the duration of the one-hour class. We did everything with them: lifted them above our heads, down to our legs and back up again, clasped them to our chests while rotating our torsos from side to side, and lots of other things that I have blanked from my memory (no doubt to resurface again in a disturbing dream).

And this, please.

Now, safely ensconced at home again, I have that great post-exercise buzz and incredibly, am considering – in a very measured, considered way – going again next week.

Now for that kettle – I mean glass – of wine.

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Posted on September 23, 2011, in Modern life is rubbish, Waterford and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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