a poem by Akachi Obijiaku

Luxury is all the rage

As the zone one high life seeps into the muscle groups of dear old pensioners

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The towels are warm

The accent thick, native, and weirdly Queen Victorian

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Gratification is not delayed

As they drink red wine and give the personal trainers high fives for easing the pace

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You know you’re in a different land when the gym floor is faux fur

You know you’ve stepped out of line when the dogs can get manifuckingcures in the lounge

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Battle lines are drawn amongst the upper-class neighbours

As the stay-at-home mothers, wives of oil barons, break sweat to see who can stretch the widest in Pilates

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Bespoke Kegels they call the late-night class

Bespoke health they’ve convinced themselves they can acquire

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With my mop firm and my head down, I return to my barren lightbulb-bust basement post

As they carry on with their premium yoga and tax-deductible charity spins

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