Around twice a week Chris and I head off to the gym. We joined last summer and bought a six month membership. the promised membership cards never turned up (despite our photo being taken and several promises) so I had no real idea when we needed to renew. Our gym in Hatfield would remind us by email – Chris and I had smiled at the thought that we might get a reminder here.

“Do you have a membership?” asked the important-looking man at the desk as we signed in recently (you never have to sign out). We’ve not seen him on the desk before and he’s the first person to ask us that since we joined. “Yes” I replied uncertainly, thinking it may have expired by now. He looked us up on his computer and told us our membership expired on 21st February. Oops. “You didn’t remind us” I challenged weakly. He had no idea what I was talking about. We agreed we would renew next time we came.

On Thursday we pitched up to the gym armed with a considerable wodge of cash. To be specific I had 24,000 Birr composed of 280 bank notes. The important looking man at the desk had been replaced by the usual innocent-looking young woman. Not having done the “How to Renew Your Gym Membership” section of my Amharic textbook I knew there would be a language challenge. “We need to renew our membership” sounded simple enough. She smiles innocently - and completely uncomprehending. “You join?” she asks. Eventually some A4 forms appear for us to fill in, which were reassuringly in English and have a box to tick marked “Renew”. “Do copy” she instructs. I fill one in, and do a second one accepting the fact that a copier or scanner, if actually present in the building, would probably not work. I look at the other three forms, wondering who they are for. “Do copy” she says again, pushing the other three towards me. I know the Amharic for “five”. “Amist?” I ask, incredulously. She smiles, innocently. “Ow, Amist”. So arming Chris with a pen as well we complete all five. I hand them to her triumphantly. She keeps one and hands four of them back. “To bank - first floor” she beams, pointing out of the door. Clutching our four copies and wodge of cash Chris and I head off out of the gym, past the cafe, into the shopping centre, up the stairs, and find, opposite the bank, a desk occupied by a young man and a young woman under a sign on the wall saying they were something to do with the gym. They have a computer, and the young man is trying to use it by rubbing the mouse around on his leg. “Can we renew our membership?” I ask, waving the four copies around. They point. “In bank. Account 169. Samson Sport”. I’ve never been in an Ethiopian bank, and it looks a bit intimidating. “She will help” they say, indicating a woman inside the bank behind a counter, strewn with paper. In we go. The bank lady produces another piece of paper on which she writes the account number, name and amount. She points to another young woman in a glass box immediately to the right of the paper-strewn counter. She is surrounded by enormous piles of bank notes. I hand my paper and the wodge of cash through a small opening in her glass cubicle and she puts the three bundles into a note-counting machine. It jams. A few attempts later she has concluded I have given her the right amount. She writes it all down on the piece of paper. The hundreds are easy, but next to the “50 Birr notes” box she writes “80”, picks up a calculator and taps in “50 x 80” to prove beyond any doubt I had given her 4000 Birr in 50s A receipt is produced, stamped (you’ve no idea just how much that matters) and is handed to me. Feeling we are making progress we go back out of the bank, past the two people behind the desk opposite (still trying to make the computer work), through the shopping centre, down the stairs, past the cafe and into the gym. I smile at the young lady behind the desk, and hand her the four forms and the receipt. She doesn’t smile now – maybe she’s fed up with us? She makes her way out from behind the reception desk and gestures to follow her. We go out of the gym, past the cafe, up the stairs, through the shopping centre to the two young people behind the desk opposite the bank. She leaves, and I hand the four forms and the receipt to the young man who appears to have made the computer work. He does something with it and it takes a while. “Write your name” instructs the young lady, handing me a piece of scrap paper. I write “Philip Griffin”. She types in “Philp Griffin”. Eventually between them the two young people make the printer print out a receipt. They keep the bank receipt, pin one of my four forms to the newly printed gym receipt, hand it back to me and tell me it’s all done. They keep three forms. Now we're winning. Off we go again through the shopping centre, down the stairs, past the cafe and into the gym. There are a couple of other customers being served now so we wait a bit. I hand the receipt and the form to the innocent-looking young receptionist who has definitely stopped smiling. Chris asks her about membership cards. She stares incomprehensibly. “You can use” she says pointing to the gym equipment. A bilingual customer also trying to buy a membership intervenes. “Do you want to join?” she asks. “No! I’ve joined!” I reply, “We are wondering about membership cards”. She says something in Amharic to the now less innocent and rather stressed receptionist. “Five minutes” she says. (One for each form perhaps?)

After exercising and changing we go to the poor receptionist for the last time. “Membership cards?” I ask. She stares back, clearly mystified. I smile and thank her. “Never mind” I say to Chris as we take our exit, leaving the receptionist to easier tasks, such as using her mobile phone.

One remaining question. Does our successfully renewed membership expire in February or April 2016? I think we’ll find out next year.  Oh,and by the way, I discovered the next day that I had written the Bingham PO box number wrong on all those five forms. Oops.