Taximeter in my head

I seem to have developed a taxi meter inside my head over the last month.

It started up when I gave in to nagging from the lovely Mrs Spiders to join her gym. It's one of those nice cardio and tennis kinds of places with a favoured location by the river and a Costa coffee place inside. Not really my kind of place, I'm used to the gyms offshore and they tend to be poky little cupboards full of big piles of weights and a few grunting meatheads. I usually turn round and go and watch TV instead.

The new gym has TVs in the exercise machines and more kinds of different machines than I thought possible. There is a treadmill that is made of stairs (quite what's wrong with, say, STAIRS as a form of exercise, I don't know).

It's all very nice and there is no sense of impending violence like a lot of places I've been in the past. When I was getting a tour round, one of the gym guys pointed at a machine and proudly told me "That's one of the machines that was in Rocky IV" I didn't have the heart to tell him that it was only when Rocky went off to Russia and chopped wood, did sit ups and ran in the snow that he beat the big blond Russian lump of gristle.

So, why do I have a meter doing the fast forward blur of numbers in my head? Well, all the time that I spend sat around, doing what I always used to do (nothing) I have a vision of the monthly fees ticking away and it just doesn't seem to be motivating me the way it really should.

Maybe I need to move to a shack in Russia.

Or get Dolph Lundgren to kill one of my mates.