1984

40 1984

was nought seven fifteen, getting-up time for office workers.
Winston wrenched his body out of bed—naked, for a mem-
ber of the Outer Party received only 3,000 clothing coupons
annually, and a suit of pyjamas was 600—and seized a din-
gy singlet and a pair of shorts that were lying across a chair.
The Physical Jerks would begin in three minutes. The next
moment he was doubled up by a violent coughing fit which
nearly always attacked him soon after waking up. It emptied
his lungs so completely that he could only begin breathing
again by lying on his back and taking a series of deep gasps.
His veins had swelled with the effort of the cough, and the
varicose ulcer had started itching.
‘Thirty to forty group!’ yapped a piercing female voice.
‘Thirty to forty group! Take your places, please. Thirties to
forties!’
Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen,
upon which the image of a youngish woman, scrawny but
muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-shoes, had already ap-
peared.
‘Arms bending and stretching!’ she rapped out. ‘Take
your time by me. ONE, two, three, four! ONE, two, three,
four! Come on, comrades, put a bit of life into it! ONE, two,
three four! ONE two, three, four!...’
The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of
Winston’s mind the impression made by his dream, and the
rhythmic movements of the exercise restored it somewhat.
As he mechanically shot his arms back and forth, wearing
on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was consid-
ered proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling