What's He Up To Now?

Bet you didn't know, dear reader, that in his younger days my husband Caddoc went in for all-in-wrestling. His favourite opponent was little me, Ada, his best-beloved (he says) wife. "Come now, dearest," he would cry, "three five minute rounds with two falls or a submission to decide the issue." Just imagine it!  In the halcyon days losing to him wasn't too bad, but latterly . . . goodness me, at my age!  Anyway, there he is, holed up in his shed, doing burpees and squats and one arm push-ups and trunk-curls and what are those rumbling sounds I hear . . . has he got a treadmill or an exercise bike in there? And here am I imagining him expanding his chest, toning his biceps and thighs, reshaping his physique to it's useful (oops! I mean 'youthful') splendour . . . though come to think of it 'useful' doesn't sound so bad.  Hold on!  Can this really be me, Ada (call me "Unyielding") Trellis falling prey to slightly impure day-dreams?  Never! No way!  On the other hand . . .

'Caddoc.  CADDOC!  Come here a minute. But take that scarecrow hat off, look you!' 

Magaly's invitation to write about muscle memory is behind this unwarranted and, I assure you, quite untypical outburst. Things are now back to normal and our hero has retreated to his shed.