Bleeuuurrrggghhhh...

So, I am going to vent. Again. I know, I know, I should learn to get it out of my system at the gym or something. But dammit, this is about the gym! There's nothing worse than going somewhere hoping to work out all your frustrations on the treadmill and then coming away feeling even crosser than when you went in...

Why am I at boiling point? Well...

First off, I discovered when I went to put my stuff in the locker that they do not have a tampax machine in that changing room. I mean, really. It's a woman's changing room. Full of women. Most of whom are at the age when that sort of thing might come in handy at some time - say, about once a month when dates get mixed up and you are unprepared.

Oh, they have vending machines, yes. For mints. For hairspray. For conditioner and deoderant. In fact, for most of the stuff that Tresemme sell in the shops. Very handy, I suppose. But surely - you are much more likely to suddenly find yourself in need of a tampax than shampoo (which, by the way, is also on tap in the shower cubicles). Or is that just me?

So, after searching the other two women's changing rooms (what can I say - it's a big gym), I finally located a machine hidden in the back of the one furthest away. Which was out of stock of all but mini tampax. Without getting too graphic, WHAT THE FXXK? (I am no longer 18. I have had 2 children. Know what I mean?).

After complaining to a completely non-understanding 18 year old Polish girl the size of a twig on reception, I made the most of what was available and stomped into the gym. Only to be confronted with a succession of nubile lovelies writhing about on the tv screens in front of the bank of cross-trainers, stair masters and treadmills. To be fair, there were also other programmes on view. Jeremy Kyle shouting at teenagers for getting pregnant and then treating the whole situation as if it was a playground spat. Fatuous morning tv shows discussing soap operas. Children's tv. Sky Sports.

Shoot me now.

Of course, the gym can't be held responsible for the rubbish quality of what's on tv. They can't be held responsible with MTV's fascination with Shakira and Beyonce writhing around on the floor and pouting provocatively at the camera. But here's the thing. Out of around 10 people using this bank of machines, NOT ONE was a man - surely the target audience for this soft porn. You'ld think at this time in the morning - straight after the school run - they would put on some equivalent for their Mummy users. I don't know - maybe some gratuitous shots of the England rugby team? Perhaps some marines in training? A few shots of some Himbo's in Baywatch?

So, having crossly used up a few hundred calories, I left. The visit wasn't a complete loss. On my way out I heard two women discussing how they could just never get organised. One was complaining how she had managed to forget her socks again.

"That's nothing" said her friend. "Yesterday I forgot my underwear. Now that isn't pretty."

Indeed.