Every Monday and Saturday (hangover permitting), I turn up to my expensive Shoreditch gym and sweat on a spin bike alongside 30 other upwardly mobile women wearing all-black gym sets.
There’s a small degree of differentiation amongst my heavy-pedalling army: the back of a sports bra might change, or the label design on our leggings but, by and large, we all look the same. (Once, early into my spin journey, I turned up wearing a patterned set due to laundry-related laziness and felt like Cady Heron when she didn’t realise the Plastics wore pink on Wednesdays.)
