Spring

I don't dance.
My body isn't build for dancing, or for any form of physical exercise if I'm honest.
I'm five feet eleven, and I am apparently overweight for my age and height. My mum says I am 'cutely chubby'. My doctor says I am 'touching obesity'
He outlined a new diet plan, and gave me a series of simple exercises that I should do each day. I said "But Dr Kozhliak, surely if The Good Lord had meant me to touch my toes he would have put them on my bedside table?"
He told me to change my attitude or die in my forties.
I may just change my doctor instead.

Dr Kozhliak is a 36-year-old Polish man whose father survived the camps in World War II, but then fell off a cliff on a unicycle. With that behind him, it’s hard not to cut him some slack, even when his English fails him dangerously. Last year my Uncle Jack was prescribed 'Vitamins' but Dr K read it as 'Vicadin' and Jack was unconscious for the next three days, and is still in-and-out of rehab.
But back to my original point - I don't really exercise; because I'm fat, and I sweat. Ten star jumps and sweat will cascade down my back like a torrent before collecting snugly in the cleft of my anus. So I don't exercise. I don't run, skip, jump, walk fast, trampoline, swim or aerobicate.
And I don't dance.

Or I didn't, until 1145GMT last night, when my cyber-girlfriend Melissa dedicated a song to me on Internet-only radio station 'WaveLength USA.' So overwhelmed was I by her show of love that I felt an uncontrollable urge to jump on my bed and dance like a cheap Nebraska pole-dancer. The body was willing, but the bed was weak, and as I attempted something akin to a double-axled inverse pirouetting spiral back-drop (with added flange) one of the main springs caved in on itself before shooting up through the mattress with the force of a champagne cork from a bottle.
I am now scouring the internet for a new mattress, and sporting a bruise on my arse the size of a Galia.
(You see, Dr K - I can name at least one fruit..)