“One-minute left,” she mutters, pushing through the boredom. One more minute. Then she can escape the odour of sweat, have a cooling shower and consume guilt-free pudding.
One more minute of frizzy tentacles, tickling her face. One more minute of salty moisture sliding down her cheek. One more minute reading subtitles out of sync with the colourful pictures. One more minute to know if Sophie and Mark from Shropshire find a Pointless answer. One mor…done!
Wobbling to the changing room, her friend points out, “Now you only have to do another seven thousand, seven hundred and ten minutes this year.”