Weighty subject

On Sunday morning I went outside and found that my recent bout of mild depression had gone, the sun on my cheek felt as warm as it does in May, and the birds were singing different songs. I was the first person in the gym — my first visit of 2010. I wished the bleary-eyed attendant a happy new year. Two hours later, showered, changed and brimming with vim, I jumped in the car and set off across town to find the address I had written down on a creased bit of paper.

The evening before, I had answered a free ad for a 30-kilogram chrome dumb-bell set and arranged with the vendor to be there at noon to inspect them. They were for my boy, not me. He’s recently expressed a wish for firmer muscles. His partner’s younger brother is a body-builder of Incredible Hulk proportions, and I think he’s been putting ideas in my boy’s head. Always eager to help him, and always on the lookout for a bargain, I’d spotted the weights advertised for sale in the local paper for a tenner.

My watch said 11.30. I dialled the vendor. Instead of the friendly chap I’d spoken to the night before, a woman answered. She answered diffidently, as though unsure of whether she had permission to answer the phone. Would it be all right, I said, if I turned up to view the dumb-bells half an hour earlier than arranged? There followed a whispered argument with a third party, then she was back. Could I give them another ten minutes? Say, 11.40?