Punishment​ by exercise​ & Polling Day

A friendly reminder on her running app is enough to convince an exhausted Daisy that this morning she should punish herself for her recent stupidity by a morning of exercise. Exercise doesn’t come easily to her, but the fact that in amongst everything she can’t control, her weight and her body shape might actually be the things she can. What follows is an ‘almost’ run in the beautiful spring sunshine and common that makes her feel like every step might be the end of her, and yet every step she takes is one more step towards the body of her dreams.
Yes, Mr Unavailable might not give a fuck about her, but she is going to get herself a body that will make him and hopefully a selection of other eligible suitors drool when she Instagrams sexy hot fit pictures of herself later in the year. ‘Fit’ as in healthy fit. ‘Buff’ fit. She is not that overweight, spotty, ugly fifteen years old of years past. Now, day by day, as she recovers she is building the new her. The ‘new, improved’ her. Every time she sees something tempting like the £1.05 Yorkie chocolate bar in the petrol shop this morning she was in this morning buying her father’s “Birthday Present of a ‘Full Tank’ of diesel (thank God for her Motability Car and disability payments) she reminds herself that before she can start something technical called ‘clean bulking’ she needs to reduce her fat percentage. Somehow in the last two weeks, she lost than gained 0.6lbs, and so now her heart is set on not ‘fucking up’ again. Not fucking up her weight and not fucking up her life.
It’s May after all, and although she may not yet have the body of an Influencer she is beginning to think like one. Eyeing up mail outs which use social media to pimp their brands, and now taking an active interest in creating a ‘Work Out 1’ on a YouTube Playlist. It was reassuring in the petrol garage that she bumped into her old boss, John, who owned the off-license come wine shop she worked in for six months until she became too sick to carry on. Her life really has been a series of work then sickness, and the fact she lasted so long is a testament to her passion for wine and her commitment for continued work even when she felt exhausted beyond belief. The fact that one of the local Indian property and business owners was buying petrol in that shop was also a great sign as Indians are notorious for being astute with their money, so it has to have been the best petrol price in miles.
Daisy had gone on her errand in her sports attire. She had picked up her postal order payment from the cleaning ‘job’ two weeks ago on her way and had cashed that with limited drama at the post office. (An old friend had asked if Daisy might feel up to coming and sitting on the floor and working through shoe boxes full of life, and then for it, they would help with petrol and food money for the coming month. Sitting on the floor Daisy can do. It fits nicely into her skill packet so often curtailed by crippling fatigue.)
Cash in hand, she was collecting petrol and then heading back to do some TRX exercises, an attempt at yoga and some funky anti-bat wing work out with some blonde fittie she had never heard of before but ‘promised results’. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and Daisy was trying to stay positive and proactive.
After her exercise binge, which left her even more tired than before she changed out of her work out clothes and into her slobby grey cashmere jumper with the litany of holes in inappropriate places, and her battered and threadbare shorts and headed off to the polling station for the local council elections. The first mistake she makes when she walks into the hall is not noticing the sign which directs people depending on username to an appropriate size, and then the following faux pas which isn’t technically her fault is to have taken her European form as well, and that won’t happen until the 23rd of May, that’s if the world hasn’t ended by then due to a meteor shower or Brexit melting the world.
Inside the wooden half booth, with pen dangling limply on a string, Daisy surveys candidates names which mean nothing to her, and realises that although she may be doing her ‘civic duty’ it’s not like she is carrying it out to a high level, voting on her moral view rather than knowing them. There is some smell emanating from the wood of the booth, which reminds Daisy with a jolt, of the smell of cocaine in San Francisco. It’s a chemical smell, that she can’t pinpoint, but with a thud, she realises that in fact, this says a hell of a lot about what the stuff was cut with out there.
She has heard nothing from Mr Unavailable today, nothing since she sent her message last night about the Mr accused of leaking the Hawaii scandal. He is busy. She is busy. But in the back of her head, with everything she does is that the chances of diagnosis being positive are higher than with most normal people.
Daisy curses herself. If she had been hoping to win him round, an STD scare was not the best way to do it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

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