Definitely fat

See the previous article for some fit v fat context!

It's Thursday night. Should be the 7:30 circuits session, bizarrely called Fruit Loops, at Charterhouse gym

Called Mrs M as I made my way home through the mean streets of Soho. Sore throat. Cold. Cough. She's bailing out. No commitment. How does she think we're going to get up Kili with that attitude?

Waterloo. Mayhem. Failed train, dodgy points, lost driver, wrong type of cold...whatever. Some disaster or other in the Havant area has paralysed the whole South West Trains network. Great

I just about managed to squeeze into the last carriage on the 18:00, like a masochistic sardine sliding into an oily grave

Shuffling into the middle of the coffin, I found a tiny space next to a short Asian girl with plaits, a sweaty suit clutching some crumpled tulips for the missus, and the bike rack. Nice

Struggled to read the Evening Standard as it fluttered precariously between muddy spokes, wilting petals and Oriental scent, and as the ageing back began to complain about the twisted stance

The guard is surprisingly chirpy, announcing with monotonous frequency and possibly a sadistic irony that this is a special service, calling at every station from Waterloo to the south coast. I think he means this country. And he's definitely winding us up when he trills that he won't be able to pass amongst us for the usual ticket inspection. He knows that if he did, his life expectancy would probably be shorter than Wayne Rooney's fuse

The happy mood is interrupted by a kerfuffle as we trundle through somewhere near Surbiton. Train rage? No...an elderly lady seems to be in some distress and close to collapse, waving her arms around in some strange new trainbound distress signal. Even if she could force her way through to the inner sanctum of a carriage, the chances of a commuter conceding a hard won seat are probably about as high as a Lib Dem politician being honest about their sexuality or drinking habits. But a very kind younger lady near me - not the plaited one, the one who had been giggling uncontrollably down her mobile a few minutes ago - beckons her over and manages to procure from somewhere a few gulps of water at the bottom of a warm Evian bottle

It's not the most dignified solution but the arm-waver is soon folded over the toilet seat, the door held open to allow some stale air to circulate as she mops drops of sweat from her furrowed forehead

A few minutes later and she's throwing up. The perfect end to the perfect commute

There's finally some respite when most of the sardines hurl themselves out at Guildford. The puking has run its course and the shaking has picked up the slack as the lady eventually manages to find a seat, muttering claustrophobia as I wish her luck and slither out at Godalming

As I struggle up Holloway Hill, Fruit Loops is definitely off the agenda. I reckon that an hour's sprint to and from the office, an hour standing up during the Journey from Hell, and 15 minutes of icy hill climbing are more than enough Kili exercise for today

Besides, I need to look after Mrs M. Honest

And as I mentioned before, apparently it's no good being too fit for the assault on Kili - you need to take it slowly (pole pole in Swahili) - so best not to peak too early, then, or overtrain

And what is it they say... feed a cold? That healthy pasta and salad stuff can wait. In the spirit of storing away some fat to energize the long 7 day slog up the Machame trail, we're soon gorging ourselves on fish and chips, accompanied naturally by bread and butter, oodles of salt, vinegar and ketchup, and large mugs of tea. With sugar

I know the Kili attempt is just over a year away but it's not too early to try and sort out the fit v fat balance, is it? Fat 2, Fit 1 - home win