Warpaint

I went down the gym this afternoon - which is the first time I've been down the gym on a Sunday afternoon for, like, forevah.

I'm really trying to make the effort to jump back into the ol' fitness routine again having slobbed around for the last couple of weeks; I mean, really, I haven't done a run in two weeks! Anyway, I thought I better go this afternoon because there's a chance I might get my Xbox tomorrow, and I'd feel really guilty if I didn't do some exercise today to make up for the fact that I probably won't do any next week. There's dedication!

Hmmm...

So, as I'm driving toward the gym I notice that there's an awful lot of cars parked in the road, and the car park is really full too. It's been a while since it has been that busy - in fact that was the time when there was that awful-

Oh. My. God.

Yes, it is that time of year again. Beauty pagent time.

Every year or so the leisure centre in which my gym is located houses a beauty pagent dance competitiony thing. Believe me when I tell you that it is horrific in the extreme. The foyer is packed full of chavvy power mothers instructing their horrendously made-up post-foetus, pre-teen, and post-teen offspring how to twirl, cartwheel, and pout, and god-forbid if you want to get through the crowd to actually get to some of the other facilities. They glare at you, hands on hips, like an army of midget Dolly Parton drag queens ready to beat you with their battons at a moments notice.

The way they look just freaks me out. Five year-olds dolled up in so much make-up that it looks like they applied it in the dark under instruction from a prostitute of pensionable age, and unspeakably skimpy clothing (I could've walked through there in my pants and I'd still have been considered overdressed). If I met something like that in a dark alley I'd be inclined to whack it in the face with a plank first and find out what was later. S-C-A-R-Y.

So anyway, I got into the gym, did a reasonably awesome workout, then decided to head home. But - ARRRGH! - they'd multiplied in the space of an hour. The foyer was packed full of them, leading me to ask the question - what sort of mother puts their daughter (and in some instances sons!) through this merry hell? I was still pondering that question when a three year old in flourescent pink lycra attempted a cartwheel in front of me and almost clipped me in the gentlemanly bits.