"Why do strong arms fatigue themselves with frivolous dumbbells? To dig a vineyard is worthier exercise for men."

Today was a wonderful day my friends. I handed in two essays which have been causing me much mental challenge over these past few weeks. I took the babies I raised from nothing but a somewhat dismal plan, a scattering of quotes and hours of procrastination, and released them from my care hoping only that they do well for themselves, perhaps raise a papery family of their own and return with a number greater than 40 penned upon their pages.

And how to celebrate friends? My house mate spent the afternoon drinking, but no such frivolities for myself, since other exams beckon somewhat cruelly, with a suggestion of malice and an odd scent of musk. Instead I spent my afternoon pretending to study for an exam on photography, whilst in actual fact just looking at said pictures and thinking, "Is that meant to be a horse?" But still, celebration is in order and I shall do so with... drum roll please... a spell in the gym.

Once again an eyebrow is raised by those who know me well (the same people who choked at my training for a 10K race) and I will concede that I have mixed feelings on this house of torture. I do quite like going to the gym and the exercise I do there. I like the feeling of pushing my body to its limits. And lifting realistically a small amount of weight is about the only time I look in any way muscular. My issue is not with the gym itself but with the things that surround it; and by that I don't mean bricks, trees and copies of the Sunday Express.

Take for instance the people that go. There are many normal people like myself, who go to keep in shape, relax and meet people who might be convinced that they are healthy and fit and therefore eligible for a relationship with stories told about how they met on the exercise bikes. However, a small group (but a highly visible one nonetheless) go to work on their already oversized muscles. You know the ones I mean. Men with arms as thick as lampposts, lifting dumbbells the size of Pluto and grunting like an elephant having an orgasm. And for someone like myself, whose bulk tends to collect on my waistline as opposed to my upper arms, they are somewhat intimidating and, dare I say it, emasculating; especially when they wear those belts that make them look like a wrestler with his mask off.

And it's not just the ones who resemble the Hulk on steroids (and apparently have a similar conversational capacity) that are able to make me feel somewhat pathetic and wishing my Mummy was there to tell me I'm her soldier. There are those insanely fit humans who seem to spend the majority of their life on a treadmill, stopping only to do a quick Tour de France on the cycling machines. Whilst I sweat buckets on the lowest setting possible, having only been running for two minutes, these people can go for hours and hours on a 70° angle at 50 mph. I'm surprised they don't start a small bush fire with all that friction!

Thank God then for music! Thank the lord for the wonderful device that is the iPod! Once again I differ from my fellow gym-goers by listening to jazz whilst gasping for air on a rowing machine, but for me it has advantages.

It's hard to hate someone when Louis Armstrong's telling you at length 'What a Wonderful World' it is that we live in.