Shock, horror I have joined a health club. I know, it is like saying Nick Griffin is working voluntarily for the Board of Racial Equality or that Shane McGowan has goneTee total, but there you have it.
You see, I was getting a little bit fed up of a life involving slobbing about, watching videos, travelling by car to London and back and not keeping up my routine of swimming twice a week, which I had managed to carry out in Cardiff.
And I didn't fancy joining one of Bristol City Council's Sports Centres, for which you still have to be a member if you just fancy the odd dip. Then, no doubt, you have to take your chances with the regular riff-raff, general public and, God help us, schoolkids.
So looking for a suitable place to swim I went onto the net and googled Bristol and swimming - and at the top of the list came the Esporta Health Centre. I gave them a ring and after a brief chat with Tom, one of the guys employed in the membership department, he invited me down to their facility just outside the little village of Stoke Gifford, a stone's throw from Parkway Station.
Well, the tour was fine and I marvelled at the amount of gym equipment there, while never feeling the slightest bit tempted to use any of it.
The 25 metre pool, while not particularly big, did appeal, however, on the basis that there are only about three people in it at any one time during the day. I am told it is busier at night and at weekends but my job and my preference for public houses ruled out those two possibilities.
Tom threw in a free head and back massage at the health centre and eight visitors passes so that Mrs R could avail herself of the facilities when she fancied it, and then quoted me the ridiculously expensive price of £58 a month. Having said that, it is half price up until Christmas.
I must say, though, the luxury of diving into your own private swimming pool (or so it feels) is great and I shall do it as often as possible just so that it's value for money. With a very nice jacuzzi there to ease my long-lasting shoulder and neck pains, plus one of those spinning things that get all the excess water out of your trunks, I must admit I was sold on this little piece of private luxury. Can I afford it? Well, I am not drinking with the Boozeday Tuesday crowd every day of the week drowning my sorrows after another sh** day at work, so perhaps it is swings and roundabouts.
The week has been pretty quiet really, though I am sick to death of footie again. My beloved Gas, having gone on a run of impressive wins earlier in the season, now seem to be on the mother of all losing streaks. Perhaps Mrs R and I, who were present at their last great win in Southampton, have brought them bad luck in the long run. Saturday we lost 2-1 at home to Yeovil, for God's sake. Yeovil! They hadn't won an away game in about 100 years. It seems the bubble has well and truly burst.
Put me in a foul mood at work but fortunately Saturday passed ok and on Sunday I spent a lazy day in front of the box watching Manchester United get a 2-0 tonking by Liverpool. So much for the demise of Rafael Benitez.