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Forget the classics, give me a glossy

I'm back in the zone with two Pilates and one yoga class under my belt. I have been attending Pilates on and off for the past seven years and it is the same every time -- the January sessions are jam packed with women trying to turn over a new leaf.

Once February rolls around, the blow-ins drop off. So, for now, I will endure strangers kicking my head or rolling on to my hand and the symphony of trumpeting. Breaking wind, which I touched on in an earlier column, is quite prevalent, but more so when there are newcomers.

It is not the sudden gun-shot-like crack in the otherwise calm, silent air but the sheer shock and embarrassment of the poor, unfortunate perpetrator who had no idea what was about to happen, and the utter disbelief that it came from their rear end that makes me chuckle every time.

I have ordered my copy of F Scott Fitzgerald's classic The Great Gatsby from the library and, in the meantime, I am catching up with some colourful reading in the form of magazines. Ever since I could read I have been obsessed, firstly with Jackie, Mizz and Match, right up to Cosmopolitan and Marie Claire. In fact, I will read just about anything in magazine form -- even Betterware catalogues. Though I draw the line at real-life 'The dingo ate my baby' ones. My life has long been influenced by colourful shiny pages; from my part-time newsagent job where I was responsible for ordering and returning magazines (jackpot! I doubt I was being paid to read them, though) to my first full-time job as picture editor on Woman's Way magazine. So, I indulged myself and devoured all my monthly back copies that I have not had time to read -- bliss!

Since volunteering my time to Dear Grace before Christmas, I feel I am now ready to find another project to inflict myself on. There are so many worthy causes out there but I have decided to look closer to home this time and help an ageing relative clear out their wardrobe. Not because they are immobile, this madam is very nimble, but because she has too many clothes that no longer fit her.

Tianna, my niece, is going on seven but, because she is tall, is wearing the clothes of an 11-year-old. As her mum, Elisa, is heavily pregnant, I have offered my de-cluttering services. I hate seeing people wearing ill-fitting clothes, whether they are seven or 70, so I am strangely excited about chucking out pink-hued garments. A sure sign that I need to find a job. Fast.


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