Fitness for Purpose
Posted: October 9th, 2020, 2:51 pm
Loosely translated by yours truly from the recently-rediscovered first draft of some Scottish play or other. (I'm having a quiet day.)
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps on this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time.
"You know you bought that fitness gear last year.
So how about you use it, husband dear?"
“I’ll ride the bike tomorrow, run the treadmill after that.
But first I need the allen key that’s missing since July,
I think the neighbours borrowed it, you know how neighbours are.”
I can’t do anything with all the set-up wrong.
“And anyway, it’s Tuesday now, and Bake-Off’s on the box
And ooooh, me glutes are playing up, so not tonight…”
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty stuff, and creaky limbs,
And wheezy hearts and sagging riffs.
And clobber cupboards filled with good intent.
But, tripping over dumb-bells on the stairs
One final time, Yep, now it’s got to go.
Out, out, brief fad! False friend!
And stick your gold gym membership as well.
Deception’s but a transient thing, and costly too
As now my wobbling overdraft avers.
This walking shadow, this poor player,
This Feckless Fool who puffs and frets his hour on the machine,
And then is seen no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Chat, fat, yoga mat. Maybe I could manage that?
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps on this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time.
"You know you bought that fitness gear last year.
So how about you use it, husband dear?"
“I’ll ride the bike tomorrow, run the treadmill after that.
But first I need the allen key that’s missing since July,
I think the neighbours borrowed it, you know how neighbours are.”
I can’t do anything with all the set-up wrong.
“And anyway, it’s Tuesday now, and Bake-Off’s on the box
And ooooh, me glutes are playing up, so not tonight…”
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty stuff, and creaky limbs,
And wheezy hearts and sagging riffs.
And clobber cupboards filled with good intent.
But, tripping over dumb-bells on the stairs
One final time, Yep, now it’s got to go.
Out, out, brief fad! False friend!
And stick your gold gym membership as well.
Deception’s but a transient thing, and costly too
As now my wobbling overdraft avers.
This walking shadow, this poor player,
This Feckless Fool who puffs and frets his hour on the machine,
And then is seen no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Chat, fat, yoga mat. Maybe I could manage that?