It’s my first training day where Florian is going to focus on getting me ready for the lumber jack championship. We have to learn six different types of chops, in one of four stations.

There’s an underhand chopping station which I somehow need to get sorted out, a standing block chop, a springboard pole, and a sawing station.

The springboard pole is my favorite. Although I’m not sure it will be by the time I’m cleaving into a vertical log and slipping in floorboards which I have to clamber up onto. That in itself might be OK, except then I have to start lobbing off the top of the vertical log which will be my support. Understandably, ’m unsure how the reality of this exercise will go.

It all sounds like we’re heading toward another accident if you ask me.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” Florian senses my unease. “It’s all about the training.”

“Yes, but that’s part of the point. How will El prepare for this when he’s stuck in rented accommodation all week?”

“He has his gym at work. We’ll outfit it with everything he needs and then he’ll be here on the weekends where you have a forest in your back yard.” He says this all like it’s just obvious. To him maybe, but I’m more concerned with his intimate knowledge of our living arrangements for the forthcoming months. He appears to know more about the mechanics of our relationship better than I do, and despite my best efforts, a stab of jealousy knifes right into me.

‘What have they been talking about? Clearly, I’m not necessary for these planning stages.’

I hear the words as they run through my head and I’m angry at myself for feeling this way. Elliott and I have never had the type of relationship where resentment rears its head. ‘What’s wrong with me now?’

But even as I dismiss the emotions, I’m aware it’s like trying to plug a dam and they surge through other parts, bulldozing rationality and washing free the stranglehold I've been managing to keep on my unreasonableness. My diaphragm tightens, and I want to scream. I actually could do with letting out a crazy assed man-scream.

“Let’s get on with this. What do I need to do today?” I snap, wanting to burn away this unwelcome hostility.

“We’re going to see what you’ve got in terms of squats and dead lifts today. Then we’ll add in some clean and jerk and the snatch which I’m sure you’ll be pleased about.”

“Sure am, that’s my bread and butter.” I grin. This isn’t going to be as bad as I thought.

“But we’re also working some explosive kettle bell movements too because you need to have full body strength combined with endurance. That’s why I chose this activity.”

Is he seriously calling this an activity? An activity is a day out at the races, a trip to the zoo with a niece. An activity certainly is not chopping logs at speed for two hours while balancing precariously on a wayward floorboard.

“Fabulous,” I reply.

I catch myself again. I’m turning into a real miserable moaner here. And so, without further ado, I put that piece of myself in the trash can and throw myself into Florian’s exercise plan.

An hour later, I’m throwing up like a good-un, but I’m feeling great. I’m at that stage where my energy has been burned (and my bad mood) but I’m no longer exhausted like I was when I first started working out with him.

The extra bonus is that as I look in the mirror now, with my top off and my muscles ripped as fuck, I have to say, his tolerance to my abuse is paying off.

“Right my man, I’ll be heading off home.” Florian collects his phone that he’s been using as a bleep counter, off the side, and goes to show himself out of the glass doors which take him down the outside of the house.

“Are you doing anything now?” I surprise myself.

“Nah, just off to watch the rugby match.”

“It’s a bit lonely around here with Elliott away. If you’d like to watch it here, I’d appreciate the company.” Again, I’m as surprised as anyone. I hated this guy not half an hour ago and now, as I see the benefits of his hard labor, all is forgiven.

“Sure, that’d be great if you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not.”

I settle Florian on the sofa with a beer. I make sure he’s in my seat. I don’t want him taking Elliott’s space; that would be too odd. It’s weird enough having someone else in the house with me as it is. I feel surprisingly awkward as I leave him alone to dash upstairs for a quick shower. I feel the pressure of time to return back downstairs to my guest.

It’s easy when it’s just Elliott and me. The energy is balanced and we understand each other. Now I regret inviting someone in who throws everything off with just their mere presence.