Bottom

Got very excited today when the instructor at circuit training told me I had a nice bottom. At least, that's what I heard him say. I began to flush girlishly, undecided whether to be offended or flattered when a bloke who looks like Linford Christie's cute young nephew comments on my gluteals.
Then I realised.
He had in fact said "Nice bottoms", referring to my Adidas leggings. I mumbled something about them being very old and took a big swig from my water bottle (I think this is what is known as a 'displacement activity' - when you do a pointless activity in order to cover up your embarrassment. Children are excellent props for this, incidentally, as a full nappy will extricate you from any kind of tricky situation. Sadly the Twins were in the creche at this point so that wasn't an option).
Of course he didn't say "nice bottom": I am a middle-aged mum-of-three and it is no longer 1971 and he is not Sid James and I am not Barbara Windsor.
Thought I might manage to salvage some dignity by being super ace at circuits - it was my first time and I was hoping to impress. I was fairly sure of being pretty fit. I push a double buggy to school and back five times a week, so that must count for something , right?
Erm, no.
I'm just grateful that it's not the kind of gym that had loads of mirrors, as seeing my beetroot face and wobbly (not nice!) bottom bobbing around hopelessly would certainly not have been a pleasant sight.
Still, I have decided to give it another go next week because:
a) there is a cheap creche for the Twins (happy days);
b) it's a way of escaping from camp, which does get to feel a bit Trueman Show -esqe sometimes
and
c) things can only get better.

In a minute I will park my not nice bum on the sofa and get stuck into a super large G&T. Chin chin!