Counting man and city ways

I have given up chocolate until Easter - and no am not ready to discuss it - I am mentioning it up front as an excuse for the bizarre story that follows.

Most of my friends know how incredibly curious I am. Calling it curious is actually nice. It should be called something with the words chronic and/or pathological in front of it. Sometimes I also have a shocking lack of boundaries.

People who gym in the first few days of January are either die-hard gym fans or those, like me, who feel guilty about spending most of their awake hours in December lying in a hammock, on a beach or sitting on Ouma's stoep with a glass of bubbly in hand.

Some of the people at my gym are always there. If I gym in the mornings they are there. If I gym in the evening they are there - and they don't work there.

One of these people is a rather big (as in muscled) man who always counts repetitions out loud. I don't have words to describe how much this annoys me - especially as sometimes he counts wrong and then all I can do is start to listen to him grunt-counting his many, many, many repetitions he do to catch him making a mistake again.

I am sure he is a lovely person. He sure will be handy to have around in a flood, or a storm or a fight for that measure. Maybe just not where the necessity to count to more than ten is needed. O yes and he drinks with his mouth open (I am often very bored at gym hence all the detailed observations).

In any event last night I leave gym happily on my way to feed the geese, make sure that Awful-Noise bird hasn't returned, put the sprayer on for crazy Brown-Bird and his subcontractors and have a chat to Jean-Luc who seems rattled by the Awful-Noise bird incident.

In the car parked next to mine is the counting man. And he looks dead or at best for him asleep. City instincts say drive away fast and pretend you didn't see. Port Elizabeth instincts say ask him if he is ok.

I drove away. Then turned around. Went back. Convinced self that he had a heart attack or something worse. (Can you have something worse than a heart attack?) Went back to find him still in car, still sleeping or dead.

Knocked on window.

Counting man who is clearly not dead or possibly named Lazarus woke up.

Asked if all was fine.

Counting man smiled as if I am princess on white horse (&^%$#$%!!!). Explained that sleep in car between gym sessions.

Asked why.

Regretted it.

Treated to long tale of woe about the cut throat body building business.

Tempted to say that counting man must stopping skipping from 63 to 76 when doing repetitions, might be better for body building purposes.

Didn't say a thing.

Smiled politely and left counting man to his nap.

Returning to city ways.

Jean Luc agrees as long as city ways involve having a pet mongoose.