"The War of the Abs..."

The other day while I was getting a piece of my leg hacked off (ie. the biopsy), the husband was busy purchasing his beloved bicycle. It's a flash, red little number and cost 6,200 Rupees (app. £80).

This morning he pipped me to the post and as I opened my eyes around 7am to a horrible racket (he was tearing apart his suitcase to look for something or other...he is ALWAYS looking for something or other) he announced that he was going on a bike ride for an hour or so.

Now I have no problem with this. In fact I actively encourage it as I am a huge fan of exercise, but the one teeny tiny little problem is that if HE goes on his bike ride then I don't get to go on MY morning run.

You see, the sun is a merciless thing here in India. I realise those of you currently in North America or Europe have scant regard for this concern - and fair enough. However, if you dare to push your body to any sort of personal limits WHILE the sun is beating down on you...well, you're headed for heat meltdown...Heart Attack City. Or at least that's what if feels like.

The optimum time for 'Kingfisher-drinking-sleep-loving-health-enthusiasts' to do their workout is between the hours of 7am and 7:45am. This obviously poses a problem, given that some time ago the husband and I indulged in behaviour which brought about not one, but two little people - who now (poor dears) soley depend upon us for their happiness and well-being. We can't exactly just both bugger off and leave them in front of the Hindi version of Tom and Jerry and let them get on with it, can we?

So we've got ourselves a little conundrum here. The husband is sincere in his belief that a daily bicycle ride will cancel out any beer or whisky beverages he chooses to imbibe later on in the day (he's become particularly fond of the local 'Royal Stag' whiskey - which, when mixed with soda, is apparently rather palatable).

I am also of the belief, that a daily run shall (eventually) turn my body into that of a supermodels and render me 'beachworthy' and allow me to one day emerge from the Arabian Sea like some sort of James Bond female sidekick...all salty hair and toned abs.

We are obviously both terribly disillusioned, and secretly I think, are becoming concerned with the onset of years, and have an innate desire to prolong our lives as much as possible - if only to see the outcome of our progeny.

Now obviously I didn't monitor the husbands packing for this trip closely enough, because as I was busy rejecting (what I now realise were necessary) items, he was tossing all his bike paraphanelia in with nary a thought: heavy biking shoes, biking tops, biking hat, specialty biking pedals, lights, gizmos, etc...need I go on?

Worryingly, now that he's gone off for a ride with most of the above accoutrements, his suitcase contents look shockingly meagre. He's as bad as the monsters and goes through at least two changes of clothes a day. At this rate we're going to go slowly bankrupt as we bring over sack load upon sack load of soiled clothing to our favourite 'Laundry Walla'.

There are various signs about advertising 'Laundry Service...With Washing Machine!" and we have availed ourselves of one such lady. Each bag of filthy gear - for around £4 - is returned to us spic and span...and neatly folded. Nice.

Anyway, I digress.

We've got ourselves a wee problem here and the only solution I reckon, is to set my watch alarm for 6:45am. Then I can get out first, haul myself along the beach for a half hour or so, and return to find the monsters dressed and fed and readying themselves for school.

The husband I think has the same idea, so it shall be interesting to see where things go from here. It may get to the point that we end up staying up all night just so we can be the first the leave the house.

We are that sad. And more tragically, stubborn enough to try it.