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Authors: Michael Bond
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“Bully for you! What did you do then?”
“After I finished the interview,” said Paddington, “I called in at the bakers. I have a standing order for buns, and while I was doing that, Mr Gruber made some cocoa. Then we sat down on the horsehair sofa at the back of his shop and had our elevenses together. We do that most days.”
“Tut, tut,” said Miss Brimstone. “That’s something else that will have to stop.”
She gave Paddington’s stomach a sharp poke.
“Your waistline needs trimming. Too many French fries I would say, at a guess. We can soon burn that off…”
“Burn it off!” exclaimed Paddington in alarm.
“It’s a technical term,” said Miss Brimstone hastily. “There’s no cause for alarm. We have our methods. It’s a case of being cruel to be kind.
“First of all, repeat after me – I hate French fries. ”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Paddington firmly.
“Why ever not?” asked Miss Brimstone.
“Because my Aunt Lucy brought me up never to tell lies,” said Paddington.
Miss Brimstone hastily changed the subject.
“The thing is,” she said, “you can either sweat your excess weight off by coming here several days a week for six months, in which case all you need do is sign on the dotted line if you want to pay by standing order, or you can go for my all-in-one crash course. The choice is yours.”
Leading Paddington across the room, she pointed towards some parallel bars on the wall.
“Perhaps we should start with an agility test.
“First of all, put your right leg up and rest it on the bottom bar.”
Paddington eyed it doubtfully. “I’m afraid it’s a bit high,” he said.
“Now, we mustn’t be defeatist, must we,” said Miss Brimstone. “Take a deep, deep breath and try a little harder…
“A teensy bit more…”
Paddington began waving his paws wildly in the air for fear he might lose his balance.
“More… more… more…” urged Miss Brimstone.
“Brilliant!” she cried, as Paddington managed to touch the bar with his toes at long last. “Top hole! I knew you would get there in the end.
“Now try the other leg.”
There was a crash as Paddington landed on the floor with both legs in the air.
Miss Brimstone gazed down at him. “Oh dear,” she said. “I was rather expecting you to remove your right leg first.
“Bravo, though!” she continued, “You have taken up the scissors position. None of my other clients have ever managed that the first time round.”
Paddington attempted to unwind himself as best he could. He wasn’t familiar with the scissors position. It felt more like one of Mr Brown’s corkscrews to him and after a moment or two he gave up the struggle and remained where he had landed.
“Was that it?” he gasped.
“Was what what?” asked Miss Brimstone.
“The crash course,” said Paddington.
Miss Brimstone gave him another sickly smile. “Certainly not!” she said. “Whatever next?” She pointed towards the back of the gym. “There’s a whole lot more to come… the rowing machine… the treadmill… we mustn’t rest on our laurels, must we.”
“I don’t mind, Miss Brimstone,” said Paddington. “Except it doesn’t feel like laurels. It’s more like the floor, and it’s very hard.”
“These things are all in the mind,” said Miss Brimstone.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked, proffering a helping hand. “You look rather disappointed about something.”
Paddington gazed up at her. He was very conscious of the fact that her tattoos seemed to have taken on a life of their own. Some of them were making very odd faces indeed, mostly in his direction.
“I was hoping you might lift me up with your teeth,” he said. “Like you do in your brochure.”
“It just so happens I have a bad back,” said Miss Brimstone stiffly.
“I expect it’s all those steam rollers you’ve been pulling,” said Paddington.
Miss Brimstone chose not to answer.
“Now, on the subject of
“After I finished the interview,” said Paddington, “I called in at the bakers. I have a standing order for buns, and while I was doing that, Mr Gruber made some cocoa. Then we sat down on the horsehair sofa at the back of his shop and had our elevenses together. We do that most days.”
“Tut, tut,” said Miss Brimstone. “That’s something else that will have to stop.”
She gave Paddington’s stomach a sharp poke.
“Your waistline needs trimming. Too many French fries I would say, at a guess. We can soon burn that off…”
“Burn it off!” exclaimed Paddington in alarm.
“It’s a technical term,” said Miss Brimstone hastily. “There’s no cause for alarm. We have our methods. It’s a case of being cruel to be kind.
“First of all, repeat after me – I hate French fries. ”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Paddington firmly.
“Why ever not?” asked Miss Brimstone.
“Because my Aunt Lucy brought me up never to tell lies,” said Paddington.
Miss Brimstone hastily changed the subject.
“The thing is,” she said, “you can either sweat your excess weight off by coming here several days a week for six months, in which case all you need do is sign on the dotted line if you want to pay by standing order, or you can go for my all-in-one crash course. The choice is yours.”
Leading Paddington across the room, she pointed towards some parallel bars on the wall.
“Perhaps we should start with an agility test.
“First of all, put your right leg up and rest it on the bottom bar.”
Paddington eyed it doubtfully. “I’m afraid it’s a bit high,” he said.
“Now, we mustn’t be defeatist, must we,” said Miss Brimstone. “Take a deep, deep breath and try a little harder…
“A teensy bit more…”
Paddington began waving his paws wildly in the air for fear he might lose his balance.
“More… more… more…” urged Miss Brimstone.
“Brilliant!” she cried, as Paddington managed to touch the bar with his toes at long last. “Top hole! I knew you would get there in the end.
“Now try the other leg.”
There was a crash as Paddington landed on the floor with both legs in the air.
Miss Brimstone gazed down at him. “Oh dear,” she said. “I was rather expecting you to remove your right leg first.
“Bravo, though!” she continued, “You have taken up the scissors position. None of my other clients have ever managed that the first time round.”
Paddington attempted to unwind himself as best he could. He wasn’t familiar with the scissors position. It felt more like one of Mr Brown’s corkscrews to him and after a moment or two he gave up the struggle and remained where he had landed.
“Was that it?” he gasped.
“Was what what?” asked Miss Brimstone.
“The crash course,” said Paddington.
Miss Brimstone gave him another sickly smile. “Certainly not!” she said. “Whatever next?” She pointed towards the back of the gym. “There’s a whole lot more to come… the rowing machine… the treadmill… we mustn’t rest on our laurels, must we.”
“I don’t mind, Miss Brimstone,” said Paddington. “Except it doesn’t feel like laurels. It’s more like the floor, and it’s very hard.”
“These things are all in the mind,” said Miss Brimstone.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked, proffering a helping hand. “You look rather disappointed about something.”
Paddington gazed up at her. He was very conscious of the fact that her tattoos seemed to have taken on a life of their own. Some of them were making very odd faces indeed, mostly in his direction.
“I was hoping you might lift me up with your teeth,” he said. “Like you do in your brochure.”
“It just so happens I have a bad back,” said Miss Brimstone stiffly.
“I expect it’s all those steam rollers you’ve been pulling,” said Paddington.
Miss Brimstone chose not to answer.
“Now, on the subject of
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