The weather's turned. Turned to SHIT.
We had the sunniest weekend - possibly ever - this weekend just gone and how did I spend much of it? Why, lounging idly on the sofa with the curtains closed, drinking tea and watching my new DVD set of The Big Bang Theory. I have a wholly inappropriate, probably immoral, and certainly ill-advised, crush on Leonard.
One of the many things I love* about that programme is the fact that I feel as though I am learning about Science as I watch. All those years of sitting in double physics at school, praying for the fire alarm to go off, or a mysterious stranger to burst in through the door and carry me away, or a runaway horse to gallop into the corridor, or, well, anything that wasn't double physics, really, wasted.
Wasted.
I have learned more about mass, energy, time and space via an American comedy show than I did whilst studying for my failed physics O level.
Failed? Oh yes. Actually, not so much "failed" as "crashed, then exploded, then crumbled into dust." I'm not good at listening to stuff I don't find engaging, and lordy, I was even worse at it back then when I was 17. I used to read all the notes diligently, but in lessons my brain shut down and went skipping off o'er the hills and far away while poor Mr Andrews (I think) tried to get me to learn about Van der Graaf generators** or inertia or gravity or resistance, or whatever tedious nonsense was on that day's agenda.
It was the same in maths lessons, as I have mentioned a few times in here previously. I would TRY to listen, but my brain just refused. If I ever seemed likely to actually absorb any mathematical knowledge, I'd get an agonising cluster headache to distract me before I could consolidate the knowledge into something helpful.
I must be the only person who was actually employed by the Civil Service with no Maths O Level. Shocking. And they gave me a billion pound contract to manage for a bit. Fools.
Anyhoo. I've been thinking about my days at school a fair bit lately, probably because the gym I go to is next to the local secondary school and if I time my morning visit wrong I drive past all the kids making their way there, gloomily dragging their feet, scrapping with each other, or walking along with their eyes locked immovably to their mobile phones.
People tend to trot out that weary axiom about your schooldays being the happiest of your life when the subject comes up. Readers, I disagree.
I was much happier when I was at college, reading books all day, working in a pub in the evenings, spending hours and hours in the college library reading Victorian copies of Punch magazine for research purposes***. I was happier when I started working full-time too, earning money, feeling like a real grown-up, living on my own in my teeny little flat.
School always felt like something to be got through to allow you to progress to the good stuff.
So. The good stuff in my life at the moment:
We are planting a few more trees in the garden, inspired by the success of the crabapple. This morning we planted a Victoria plum and a cherry tree in the front garden. I hope they thrive, and that in a year or two I can start harvesting their fruit.
My guitar playing has stepped up a notch (Bam! ****) and I am learning to play what my guitar teacher kindly refers to as "solos" but which are really just scales with ideas above their station. It's all rather fab though, and I love it.
The new song I am focussing on learning this week is the embarrassingly cheesy duet between Tim McGraw and (I'm sorry, but it's true) Gwyneth Paltrow "Me and Tennessee." Yes, I know. I know.
I like it. There. I said it.
I'm making some funky fabric-y stuff, specifically cushion covers this week. I'm discovering that I am quite good at it, too. Bam!
Oh, and I am going to brave Salisbury and go to the posh scary hairdresser this week. I am off to a wedding in a few weeks and my hair has suddenly reverted to "woman living in the country with no mirrors in the house" so urgent remedial action is needed.
It's all good, dawg.
*apart from Leonard
**The experimental apparatus, not the band
***Honestly. I did my dissertation on fairy stories and their reflected influence on Victorian novels, and how it all related to society in the Victorian era. Utterly pointless, but I loved doing it. It was a very fashionable subject in the 1980s, darlings.
****copyright Elzar and his spice weasel.
Showing posts with label gym. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gym. Show all posts
Monday, 17 October 2011
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Splash
I've been going to the gym for the last month or so. It's an attempt to stem the encroaching tide of middle-aged "can't be arsed-ness" and also to reduce my bulk to less vile proportions.
I have actually got a bit heavier, which is dispiriting, if not unexpected, and I can't see any real difference in my shape yet. However, I am already feeling stronger, and I sweat more when exerting myself. Niiiiice. Apparently, according to the nice gym staff, that's a common side effect of exercising. You get sweatier.
So. Heavier. Slightly more muscular. Sweaty. I bet you're all having a little private far-away moment just imagining that, aren't you?
The most difficult part of the entire business is getting into a routine. I am trying to go early in the day, to be there before 0900, do my routine, get home, get showered, get dressed and be ready to get on with my day by 1030 at the latest. The downside to that is that I don't eat before I go, which might be a bad thing. I may have to get up at the crack of dawn to have some porridge first.
I do 10 minutes on the cross trainer* to start with, which is ok, as long as I don't look at the timer counting down. I try to watch the TV screen above my head, where they show the BBC News with subtitles. There is a good deal of unintended hilarity caused by those subtitles, with the interpreters having to publish rapid corrections as they go.
If I can't see the TV screen, I look down into the swimming pool. Sometimes there are dozens of small children having swimming lessons, which is also hilarious. They are all so earnest; watching them splashing about like minnows, whacking one another in the face as they attempt backstroke takes me back to my own awful school swimming lessons.
The school I went to in London, way back in the early 1970s, took us to a concrete outdoor pool for lessons. It was very shallow, and I have distinct memories of regularly scraping my feet and stubbing my toes on the rough concrete bottom of the pool as I was learning to kick. I never knew what the swimming teacher's name was. It sounded like "Mr Vinehoff" but everyone in the class had a different opinion what it actually was. We couldn't hear him introduce himself over the splashing, shrieking masses and nobody had the nerve to ask him what his name was.
I don't think they taught us how to swim, as such. I think it was more along the lines of trial by ordeal, where they threw us into the water and if we didn't drown we had to go back to school and learn about the metric system and decimalisation.
The school I went to in Chichester took us to the municipal baths for lessons, in a bus. We seemed to spend about twice as long getting to the pool, getting changed into our swimsuits, getting dry afterwards and getting back into our uniforms than we ever did in the water. I remember the sense of achievement I had when I swam 100 yards. It was slow and inelegant, like so much of my school sporting career, but I did it, and I got a certificate to prove it.
I also jumped off the diving board. There was a low board, a springy plank on the edge of the pool which was perfect for doing "pirate walking the plank" impressions when the teacher wasn't looking, and everyone could jump off that. Well, it was practically the same as the edge of the pool. You had to be a real chicken to flunk that one.
Then there were the Other Boards. I definitely jumped off one of those, but my memory fails me here. I can't remember if it was the the middle board up a flight of scary rickety metal steps, or the "fuck me that's high" board at the very top, up abut four flights of steps. I have a nagging feeling that I did go off the top board, because I can recall the terror when I had jumped; that feeling that there was no going back. When I hit the water I went almost to the bottom of the pool - 12' 6" deep, whatever that is in metric** - and it was scary trying to get back up to the surface before I ran out of air. I didn't do it again.
It may have been something we had to do for a swimming badge with the Girl Guides.
We had to do so many odd things with the Girl Guides. That's a whole blog post in itself.
Anyhoo. Swimming flashbacks aside, I am enjoying the gym, and any day now will develop one of those bodies that you see on TV, memorably described by (I think) Terry Pratchett as a stocking full of walnuts.
I can't promise photos.
*See much earlier, older joke somewhere in the blog archives about this being a piece of gym equipment, not a grumpy muscular man in a singlet
**I learned NOTHING at school. Not a bloody thing.
I have actually got a bit heavier, which is dispiriting, if not unexpected, and I can't see any real difference in my shape yet. However, I am already feeling stronger, and I sweat more when exerting myself. Niiiiice. Apparently, according to the nice gym staff, that's a common side effect of exercising. You get sweatier.
So. Heavier. Slightly more muscular. Sweaty. I bet you're all having a little private far-away moment just imagining that, aren't you?
The most difficult part of the entire business is getting into a routine. I am trying to go early in the day, to be there before 0900, do my routine, get home, get showered, get dressed and be ready to get on with my day by 1030 at the latest. The downside to that is that I don't eat before I go, which might be a bad thing. I may have to get up at the crack of dawn to have some porridge first.
I do 10 minutes on the cross trainer* to start with, which is ok, as long as I don't look at the timer counting down. I try to watch the TV screen above my head, where they show the BBC News with subtitles. There is a good deal of unintended hilarity caused by those subtitles, with the interpreters having to publish rapid corrections as they go.
If I can't see the TV screen, I look down into the swimming pool. Sometimes there are dozens of small children having swimming lessons, which is also hilarious. They are all so earnest; watching them splashing about like minnows, whacking one another in the face as they attempt backstroke takes me back to my own awful school swimming lessons.
The school I went to in London, way back in the early 1970s, took us to a concrete outdoor pool for lessons. It was very shallow, and I have distinct memories of regularly scraping my feet and stubbing my toes on the rough concrete bottom of the pool as I was learning to kick. I never knew what the swimming teacher's name was. It sounded like "Mr Vinehoff" but everyone in the class had a different opinion what it actually was. We couldn't hear him introduce himself over the splashing, shrieking masses and nobody had the nerve to ask him what his name was.
I don't think they taught us how to swim, as such. I think it was more along the lines of trial by ordeal, where they threw us into the water and if we didn't drown we had to go back to school and learn about the metric system and decimalisation.
The school I went to in Chichester took us to the municipal baths for lessons, in a bus. We seemed to spend about twice as long getting to the pool, getting changed into our swimsuits, getting dry afterwards and getting back into our uniforms than we ever did in the water. I remember the sense of achievement I had when I swam 100 yards. It was slow and inelegant, like so much of my school sporting career, but I did it, and I got a certificate to prove it.
I also jumped off the diving board. There was a low board, a springy plank on the edge of the pool which was perfect for doing "pirate walking the plank" impressions when the teacher wasn't looking, and everyone could jump off that. Well, it was practically the same as the edge of the pool. You had to be a real chicken to flunk that one.
Then there were the Other Boards. I definitely jumped off one of those, but my memory fails me here. I can't remember if it was the the middle board up a flight of scary rickety metal steps, or the "fuck me that's high" board at the very top, up abut four flights of steps. I have a nagging feeling that I did go off the top board, because I can recall the terror when I had jumped; that feeling that there was no going back. When I hit the water I went almost to the bottom of the pool - 12' 6" deep, whatever that is in metric** - and it was scary trying to get back up to the surface before I ran out of air. I didn't do it again.
It may have been something we had to do for a swimming badge with the Girl Guides.
We had to do so many odd things with the Girl Guides. That's a whole blog post in itself.
Anyhoo. Swimming flashbacks aside, I am enjoying the gym, and any day now will develop one of those bodies that you see on TV, memorably described by (I think) Terry Pratchett as a stocking full of walnuts.
I can't promise photos.
*See much earlier, older joke somewhere in the blog archives about this being a piece of gym equipment, not a grumpy muscular man in a singlet
**I learned NOTHING at school. Not a bloody thing.
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
Fit for purpose
Blimey, here we are in October already. It's warmer than it was in July, which is just WRONG. One of the most peculiar things about unseasonable heat in the Autumn is that it gets dark early, and we have to choose between sitting in the garden in the pitch black, or inside the house at 7.30 at night, sweltering. And, it being Autumn, many, many spiders are migrating indoors, so if we have the windows open to cool the house down, they come swarming in with little cries of glee.
Sitting outside in the dark isn't as much fun as you might imagine, either.
Anyway, today it's raining, but still really warm, which is even odder. It feels like being in the tropics, but with all the leaves falling off the trees, and everything in the garden looking tired and brown. Including me.
I've been busy of late, trying to get myself motivated and prepared for the oncoming winter. I am behaving like the proverbial ant in the fable, storing up for the cold days ahead. Unfortunately, I am not storing up anything very useful, or solid, like chopped logs and salted beef.
I spent a constructive few days making crab apple jelly, using the apples from the little tree in our front garden. The first batch I made turned out well, crystal clear and a beautiful pink colour, so I was encouraged to make some more. Mr WithaY brought home a helpful suggestion from a colleague that I add chilli, which I did, and it made the most delicious sweet hot jelly. It's perfect with roast chicken, and cold meat.
Inspired, I bought a dozen small "presentation" jars and have made a load more. Expect to receive it for Christmas, non-virtual mates!
Why yes, I did spend some time stacking them in a variety of ways, just to photograph them.
I don't have a job any more.
I also started on a commission for a friend. She asked if I could make her a noticeboard, which I was delighted to agree to.
It all went well at first. The fabric she gave me to make it with is gorgeous, I found ribbon to match it, and then some satin to self-cover some buttons to finish it off. I was mighty pleased with myself, I can tell you.
In an effort to bring my fabric noticeboard-making process into the post-Industrial age, I bought a hot glue gun recently. They're not particularly cheap - about £25 if I remember right - and I had high hopes for it. I envisaged a perfect series of satisfying gluey blobs being produced as required, aimed and controlled by my craftswoman-like skills to allow simple button placement and a professional finish to my work.
I was mistaken in that assumption.
Reader, it took me well over an hour to stick on 25 buttons. You have to plug the glue gun in and wait for it to heat up - at least 10 minutes - and then slooooowly and carefully squeeze the trigger until a blob of glue is extruded. That's the theory. In reality, you slooooowly and carefully squeeze the trigger, and nothing happens. You put the glue gun back on the stand, and curse quietly. waiting another minute or two, as the instructions tell you. You pick up the glue gun and you try again, squeezing the trigger slooooowly and carefully. Nothing happens, so you squeeze the trigger more rapidly, in a gunslinger trigger-happy pumping motion. A blob of glue drips out, and you cheer inwardly.
You stick a few buttons in place using this technique. You pause and make a cup of tea, smug that you have mastered the technology, and are a genius. A glue-based genius.
You pick up the glue gun to continue your creative endeavours. The glue gun refuses to extrude any more glue. It is sulking. You leave it for a minute or two and then try again. The rapid-fire technique no longer works. You revert back to the long slow squeeze. Nothing happens.
You swear, louder and more fluently. You keep trying different squeeze techniques, which makes your hand hurt. Eventually, you coax enough glue out of the gun to stick each button down.
You are not entirely confident that they will remain in place, but by now your hand is cramping and you hate the sight of your stupid crappy not-working-properly glue gun.
So. I took the completed noticeboard round to my friend, and gave it to her with the caveat that the buttons might not stay put, and that she should let me know if they fell off.
The next day she rang me. The buttons had fallen off. Arse.
I went and collected it, and now it is sitting on my kitchen table, looking reproachful as I try to think of a way to sort it out.
Other news: I have rejoined the gym. I am hilariously unfit. This situation will change, or I might die in the attempt.
Sitting outside in the dark isn't as much fun as you might imagine, either.
Anyway, today it's raining, but still really warm, which is even odder. It feels like being in the tropics, but with all the leaves falling off the trees, and everything in the garden looking tired and brown. Including me.
I've been busy of late, trying to get myself motivated and prepared for the oncoming winter. I am behaving like the proverbial ant in the fable, storing up for the cold days ahead. Unfortunately, I am not storing up anything very useful, or solid, like chopped logs and salted beef.
I spent a constructive few days making crab apple jelly, using the apples from the little tree in our front garden. The first batch I made turned out well, crystal clear and a beautiful pink colour, so I was encouraged to make some more. Mr WithaY brought home a helpful suggestion from a colleague that I add chilli, which I did, and it made the most delicious sweet hot jelly. It's perfect with roast chicken, and cold meat.
Inspired, I bought a dozen small "presentation" jars and have made a load more. Expect to receive it for Christmas, non-virtual mates!
Why yes, I did spend some time stacking them in a variety of ways, just to photograph them.
I don't have a job any more.
I also started on a commission for a friend. She asked if I could make her a noticeboard, which I was delighted to agree to.
It all went well at first. The fabric she gave me to make it with is gorgeous, I found ribbon to match it, and then some satin to self-cover some buttons to finish it off. I was mighty pleased with myself, I can tell you.
In an effort to bring my fabric noticeboard-making process into the post-Industrial age, I bought a hot glue gun recently. They're not particularly cheap - about £25 if I remember right - and I had high hopes for it. I envisaged a perfect series of satisfying gluey blobs being produced as required, aimed and controlled by my craftswoman-like skills to allow simple button placement and a professional finish to my work.
I was mistaken in that assumption.
Reader, it took me well over an hour to stick on 25 buttons. You have to plug the glue gun in and wait for it to heat up - at least 10 minutes - and then slooooowly and carefully squeeze the trigger until a blob of glue is extruded. That's the theory. In reality, you slooooowly and carefully squeeze the trigger, and nothing happens. You put the glue gun back on the stand, and curse quietly. waiting another minute or two, as the instructions tell you. You pick up the glue gun and you try again, squeezing the trigger slooooowly and carefully. Nothing happens, so you squeeze the trigger more rapidly, in a gunslinger trigger-happy pumping motion. A blob of glue drips out, and you cheer inwardly.
You stick a few buttons in place using this technique. You pause and make a cup of tea, smug that you have mastered the technology, and are a genius. A glue-based genius.
You pick up the glue gun to continue your creative endeavours. The glue gun refuses to extrude any more glue. It is sulking. You leave it for a minute or two and then try again. The rapid-fire technique no longer works. You revert back to the long slow squeeze. Nothing happens.
You swear, louder and more fluently. You keep trying different squeeze techniques, which makes your hand hurt. Eventually, you coax enough glue out of the gun to stick each button down.
You are not entirely confident that they will remain in place, but by now your hand is cramping and you hate the sight of your stupid crappy not-working-properly glue gun.
So. I took the completed noticeboard round to my friend, and gave it to her with the caveat that the buttons might not stay put, and that she should let me know if they fell off.
The next day she rang me. The buttons had fallen off. Arse.
I went and collected it, and now it is sitting on my kitchen table, looking reproachful as I try to think of a way to sort it out.
Other news: I have rejoined the gym. I am hilariously unfit. This situation will change, or I might die in the attempt.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Whiskers on kettles
...or something.
I have nicked this from Belgian Waffle because I feel crap and want to think about nice stuff to cheer myself up.
So. Favourite things....
Clothes shop: Used to be Long Tall Sally (due to my freakish height) but I have discovered several other shops that cater to ladies of a certain stature. And therefore the winner of this category is (fanfare) Monsoon. The clothes are usually pretty, but the reason they get my vote is this. I went on a clothes shopping trip to Salisbury a while back to get some confidence-building workwear for my scary new job. I went into Monsoon and looked sadly at the rails, thinking everything would be too short/too small/tou young for me, like I do in clothes shops.
An elegant and charming assistant came up and asked me if I wanted any help. I muttered "Nurrrr...sarrite, kthnxbai" at her and continued dejectedly looking at stuff. Eventually, I picked up a pretty black top, which I thought might be ok, and went and draped scarves over it to see if I could make myself look stylish*.
She came back and said "Are you trying to find something to match that top, madam?" I said I was, so she asked me what I was looking for. I (bravely, I thought) then told her about the impending new job, lack of funky clothes, and fear of ridicule from the chic city types when I wandered through London in my trousers held up with baler twine.
She asked me what kind of clothes I was planning to wear, so I showed her my smart work trousers (I was wearing them at the time, handily), and said I usually wore black. She looked at me appraisingly, looked at the top I had in my hand, then scooted round the shop picking up a variety of tops in all kinds of colours. She put them in the changing room, told me to go and try them, and handed me a few scarves to accessorise with. It was great. I ended up buying a load of great stuff, all of which looks really nice, and felt like a new woman. When I left, she and her colleague both wished me good luck with the new job and told me I'd be fine. So. Monsoon.
Furniture Shop: Multiyork. They make magnificent sofas.
Sweet: Depends. I like Montezuma's chocolate very much but not sure if this qualifies, really. So, favourite sweet, of the sort that you can get at a petrol station, I'd say was Toblerone.
Music: Love love love AC/DC. I go through phases, and at the moment it's Tom Petty. Because I am trying hard to learn a load of his songs, I am paying a lot more attention to how he puts stuff together. It's all in the timing. And I adore his voice.
TV Series: Futurama. Bender is my hero. But am enjoying watching Scrubs which I hadn't seen before.
Film: The film I will cheerfully watch on any given rainy Sunday afternoon...hm....probably the Emma Thompson version of Sense and Sensibility. Alan Rickman. Actually, love him in Galaxy Quest too.
Workout: When I actually get my lardy arse to the gym, I like using a cross trainer. I can waddle along for ages (listening to AC/DC on my iPod) and it doesn't feel like hell on toast, even though my legs are all wobbly when I stop.
Pastries: How European. Do pies count? And sausage rolls? If so, my home-made Christmas sausage rolls are in the top 3. Otherwise it's lardy cake, closely followed by the chocolate twist thingies they sell in the coffee shop** in Fish Row in Salisbury.
Coffee: I seldom drink coffee, not having much of a taste for it. I do like Lady Grey tea though, if that helps.
There. Now you know exactly how dull I really am. Enjoy.
*No, I can't.
**Might be Costa Coffee, not sure about that.
I have nicked this from Belgian Waffle because I feel crap and want to think about nice stuff to cheer myself up.
So. Favourite things....
Clothes shop: Used to be Long Tall Sally (due to my freakish height) but I have discovered several other shops that cater to ladies of a certain stature. And therefore the winner of this category is (fanfare) Monsoon. The clothes are usually pretty, but the reason they get my vote is this. I went on a clothes shopping trip to Salisbury a while back to get some confidence-building workwear for my scary new job. I went into Monsoon and looked sadly at the rails, thinking everything would be too short/too small/tou young for me, like I do in clothes shops.
An elegant and charming assistant came up and asked me if I wanted any help. I muttered "Nurrrr...sarrite, kthnxbai" at her and continued dejectedly looking at stuff. Eventually, I picked up a pretty black top, which I thought might be ok, and went and draped scarves over it to see if I could make myself look stylish*.
She came back and said "Are you trying to find something to match that top, madam?" I said I was, so she asked me what I was looking for. I (bravely, I thought) then told her about the impending new job, lack of funky clothes, and fear of ridicule from the chic city types when I wandered through London in my trousers held up with baler twine.
She asked me what kind of clothes I was planning to wear, so I showed her my smart work trousers (I was wearing them at the time, handily), and said I usually wore black. She looked at me appraisingly, looked at the top I had in my hand, then scooted round the shop picking up a variety of tops in all kinds of colours. She put them in the changing room, told me to go and try them, and handed me a few scarves to accessorise with. It was great. I ended up buying a load of great stuff, all of which looks really nice, and felt like a new woman. When I left, she and her colleague both wished me good luck with the new job and told me I'd be fine. So. Monsoon.
Furniture Shop: Multiyork. They make magnificent sofas.
Sweet: Depends. I like Montezuma's chocolate very much but not sure if this qualifies, really. So, favourite sweet, of the sort that you can get at a petrol station, I'd say was Toblerone.
Music: Love love love AC/DC. I go through phases, and at the moment it's Tom Petty. Because I am trying hard to learn a load of his songs, I am paying a lot more attention to how he puts stuff together. It's all in the timing. And I adore his voice.
TV Series: Futurama. Bender is my hero. But am enjoying watching Scrubs which I hadn't seen before.
Film: The film I will cheerfully watch on any given rainy Sunday afternoon...hm....probably the Emma Thompson version of Sense and Sensibility. Alan Rickman. Actually, love him in Galaxy Quest too.
Workout: When I actually get my lardy arse to the gym, I like using a cross trainer. I can waddle along for ages (listening to AC/DC on my iPod) and it doesn't feel like hell on toast, even though my legs are all wobbly when I stop.
Pastries: How European. Do pies count? And sausage rolls? If so, my home-made Christmas sausage rolls are in the top 3. Otherwise it's lardy cake, closely followed by the chocolate twist thingies they sell in the coffee shop** in Fish Row in Salisbury.
Coffee: I seldom drink coffee, not having much of a taste for it. I do like Lady Grey tea though, if that helps.
There. Now you know exactly how dull I really am. Enjoy.
*No, I can't.
**Might be Costa Coffee, not sure about that.
Thursday, 17 July 2008
Inner Dolphins
In a vain attempt to revive my flagging good nature by flooding it with inner dolphins, I went to the gym after work. Bloody hell it was hard.
Also meant I didn't get home till 7pm which is quite late for me.
As I pulled into the drive, Mr WithaY was scampering towards the gate clutching his longbow and a quiver of arrows.
Oh how I wish I was kidding.
He stopped and waited till I got out of the car, and then explained "I'm off to next door's! They've got archery targets in their field!" It was said in the same tone of voice as an excited child might tell you that they are going fishing for tadpoles.
So, off he went to do some archery for a bit while I had some supper and watched repeats of Friends on TV to try and unwind after a frankly crap day in the office. We both had a very nice time, thank you.
Other news: Bloody secret police have been out in force today trapping speeding motorists. I saw two unmarked police cars* in the same village, and then two police speed camera vans within about a three mile stretch of road on the way to work. Must be coming up to Wiltshire's Trapped Speeding Motorists quota time again.
*They had their top secret police lights flashing, which is how I knew what they were. In case you thought I might be psychic. Which I'm not.
Also meant I didn't get home till 7pm which is quite late for me.
As I pulled into the drive, Mr WithaY was scampering towards the gate clutching his longbow and a quiver of arrows.
Oh how I wish I was kidding.
He stopped and waited till I got out of the car, and then explained "I'm off to next door's! They've got archery targets in their field!" It was said in the same tone of voice as an excited child might tell you that they are going fishing for tadpoles.
So, off he went to do some archery for a bit while I had some supper and watched repeats of Friends on TV to try and unwind after a frankly crap day in the office. We both had a very nice time, thank you.
Other news: Bloody secret police have been out in force today trapping speeding motorists. I saw two unmarked police cars* in the same village, and then two police speed camera vans within about a three mile stretch of road on the way to work. Must be coming up to Wiltshire's Trapped Speeding Motorists quota time again.
*They had their top secret police lights flashing, which is how I knew what they were. In case you thought I might be psychic. Which I'm not.
Thursday, 11 October 2007
Fog
Interesting drive across Salisbury Plain this morning in the fog. I left home about 15 minutes later than normal (due to sloth and lethargy, mostly) so got stuck behind the bin lorry as it wended its way through the village. That added an extra 10 minutes to the trip, which was tiresome. I did get to watch how the binmen handle wheelie bins, though, which was mildly interesting.
In a "stuck in the fog behind a lorry in the village" kind of way.
And then across the Plain, every bend, dip and hill a new adventure as fuckwit after fuckwit risked not only their own life but mine too by overtaking in the fog. Where are these people going that is worth dicing with death like that?
It was ridiculous. I was doing 60, it's not like I was toddling along painfully slowly.
Not only were they driving on the wrong side of the road in low to zero visibility, many of them did it with no lights on. Gah! Fuckers.
Other news: Watched an episode of The New Adventures of Superman on TV last night. It was (I think) unintentionally hilarious. There was an "Oirish" character with probably the most appalling accent I have ever heard in a professional production.
I genuinely had no idea he was supposed to be Irish until he said something along the lines of "My Ancient Oirish Druid Ancestors would be proud of me". Made me laugh out loud, which frankly was a tough thing to achieve yesterday*.
Went to the gym after work, too, even though I didn't feel like it. So hurrah for me.
Off to the dentist later. It's a social whirl, I tell you.
Peg bucket still looks nice, by the way.
*Just Googled that episode. It's called "When Irish Eyes are Killing" which made me laugh out loud again. And the guilty actor is English. Which makes it even better.
In a "stuck in the fog behind a lorry in the village" kind of way.
And then across the Plain, every bend, dip and hill a new adventure as fuckwit after fuckwit risked not only their own life but mine too by overtaking in the fog. Where are these people going that is worth dicing with death like that?
It was ridiculous. I was doing 60, it's not like I was toddling along painfully slowly.
Not only were they driving on the wrong side of the road in low to zero visibility, many of them did it with no lights on. Gah! Fuckers.
Other news: Watched an episode of The New Adventures of Superman on TV last night. It was (I think) unintentionally hilarious. There was an "Oirish" character with probably the most appalling accent I have ever heard in a professional production.
I genuinely had no idea he was supposed to be Irish until he said something along the lines of "My Ancient Oirish Druid Ancestors would be proud of me". Made me laugh out loud, which frankly was a tough thing to achieve yesterday*.
Went to the gym after work, too, even though I didn't feel like it. So hurrah for me.
Off to the dentist later. It's a social whirl, I tell you.
Peg bucket still looks nice, by the way.
*Just Googled that episode. It's called "When Irish Eyes are Killing" which made me laugh out loud again. And the guilty actor is English. Which makes it even better.
Sunday, 16 September 2007
Catching up
Am enjoying a very lazy weekend. In fact, am still in my dressing gown and slippers as we speak, waiting for the dishwasher to finish so I can go and have a shower. Ah, life chez WithaY. Always something interesting going on.
So, what's new since I was last here?
Well, went to the gym after work on Thursday and ran (yes RAN*) on the cross trainer for a bit. A first for me, and I was bloody delighted, I can tell you.
ACDC are superb to listen to in the gym, they really are.
Mr WithaY was away Thursday night up in Skegness, so I enjoyed a quiet night in, and a quiet day at home on Friday drafting a presentation for next week. Mr WithaY rang to tell me he'd not be home till about 8.
Interesting how different people view the same conversation. To me, that call went like this:
Mr W: Just called to let you know I will be home about 8. (unspoken but obvious dialogue in my head: "So we'll eat the lovely venison chilli you're cooking after I get home. Mmmm, looking forward to that, you domestic goddess you.")
Me: Ok, see you later, have a good trip. (Ditto, in Mr W's head: "Excellent. I'll wait till you get home before eating, so we can enjoy a meal together and you can tell me all about your trip.")
Mr W: See you later then.
But no. The unspoken dialogue in his head was very different:
Mr W: Just called to let you know I will be home about 8. (unspoken but obvious dialogue in my head: "So we'll eat the lovely venison chilli you're cooking after I get home. Mmmm, looking forward to that, you domestci goddess you."
Me: Ok, see you later, have a good trip. (Ditto, in Mr W's head: "So you eat your supper as soon as you like because I had a sandwich on the road and am going to the pub when I get home. Hurrah!")
Mr W: See you later then.
So. I stayed in and ate chilli and watched Priscilla Queen of the Desert. Mr WithaY "nipped out for a quick one" and rolled in at 1am, pissed and giggly.
Tch.
Saturday was the big Day of Reckoning in the wardrobe. I dragged out a huge pile of clothes that for one reason or another don't get worn. I was quite strict. Basically if I couldn't remember the last time I wore something, or knew it didn't make me feel good when I wore it, out it went. So I now have a lot of space.
On the plus side I found several things I'd forgotten I had, which I will keep.
Stayed up late late, late, last night watching the first 6 episodes of Heroes, which I'd managed to miss to date. Blimey it was entertaining.
Sadly the next 3 episodes are on late tonight, which means I wil probably have to miss at least one of them as it's a school night.
Big excitement on Friday evening in the village. Was sat here with all the windows open, it being a warm day, and I heard a load of yelling and shouting outside.
Looked out (as you do) but all I could see was a big bloke sitting on next door's front garden wall, and a couple of cars stopped in the road. I assumed it was just some eejits messing about, and went back to my lawful business.
But no, the yelling and screaming went on, and I could hear a couple of guys shouting "Calm down! Calm down!" over and over. So I went to another room (with a better vantage point) and looked again. The bloke who was sitting on the wall was in fact helping to hold down a young lad who was lying on the pavement, while a couple of other blokes did the same.
More and more people joined the throng, and inevitably, after a litle while the police arrived, handcuffed the young bloke, bundled him into their car and sped off into the sunset. No idea what was going on, but it livened up my afternoon no end.
Off to an afternoon party in a bit. Better go and make myself look respectable.
*slowly, mind
So, what's new since I was last here?
Well, went to the gym after work on Thursday and ran (yes RAN*) on the cross trainer for a bit. A first for me, and I was bloody delighted, I can tell you.
ACDC are superb to listen to in the gym, they really are.
Mr WithaY was away Thursday night up in Skegness, so I enjoyed a quiet night in, and a quiet day at home on Friday drafting a presentation for next week. Mr WithaY rang to tell me he'd not be home till about 8.
Interesting how different people view the same conversation. To me, that call went like this:
Mr W: Just called to let you know I will be home about 8. (unspoken but obvious dialogue in my head: "So we'll eat the lovely venison chilli you're cooking after I get home. Mmmm, looking forward to that, you domestic goddess you.")
Me: Ok, see you later, have a good trip. (Ditto, in Mr W's head: "Excellent. I'll wait till you get home before eating, so we can enjoy a meal together and you can tell me all about your trip.")
Mr W: See you later then.
But no. The unspoken dialogue in his head was very different:
Mr W: Just called to let you know I will be home about 8. (unspoken but obvious dialogue in my head: "So we'll eat the lovely venison chilli you're cooking after I get home. Mmmm, looking forward to that, you domestci goddess you."
Me: Ok, see you later, have a good trip. (Ditto, in Mr W's head: "So you eat your supper as soon as you like because I had a sandwich on the road and am going to the pub when I get home. Hurrah!")
Mr W: See you later then.
So. I stayed in and ate chilli and watched Priscilla Queen of the Desert. Mr WithaY "nipped out for a quick one" and rolled in at 1am, pissed and giggly.
Tch.
Saturday was the big Day of Reckoning in the wardrobe. I dragged out a huge pile of clothes that for one reason or another don't get worn. I was quite strict. Basically if I couldn't remember the last time I wore something, or knew it didn't make me feel good when I wore it, out it went. So I now have a lot of space.
On the plus side I found several things I'd forgotten I had, which I will keep.
Stayed up late late, late, last night watching the first 6 episodes of Heroes, which I'd managed to miss to date. Blimey it was entertaining.
Sadly the next 3 episodes are on late tonight, which means I wil probably have to miss at least one of them as it's a school night.
Big excitement on Friday evening in the village. Was sat here with all the windows open, it being a warm day, and I heard a load of yelling and shouting outside.
Looked out (as you do) but all I could see was a big bloke sitting on next door's front garden wall, and a couple of cars stopped in the road. I assumed it was just some eejits messing about, and went back to my lawful business.
But no, the yelling and screaming went on, and I could hear a couple of guys shouting "Calm down! Calm down!" over and over. So I went to another room (with a better vantage point) and looked again. The bloke who was sitting on the wall was in fact helping to hold down a young lad who was lying on the pavement, while a couple of other blokes did the same.
More and more people joined the throng, and inevitably, after a litle while the police arrived, handcuffed the young bloke, bundled him into their car and sped off into the sunset. No idea what was going on, but it livened up my afternoon no end.
Off to an afternoon party in a bit. Better go and make myself look respectable.
*slowly, mind
Thursday, 13 September 2007
Wardrobe malfunction
Blimey this feels like a long week.
I think it has something to do with Monday's hellishly early start, then a busy (if depressing) day in the office, then a reasonably stressful day in Bath yesterday, and another busy day in the office today.
And I went to the gym on Tuesday, AND had a guitar lesson. So busy.
My new guitar is away being set up, as it has terrible fret buzz which is really irritating. My lovely guitar teacher is taking it to his mate's to have new strings and a bit of technical tweaking done. I am looking forward to getting it back, as I miss playing it. My Strat is great, but I do prefer the Les Paul.
How fantastic to have the choice of two such incredible guitars. Shame my playing isn't really doing either of them justice. Heh.
Working at home tomorrow so at least I can slouch about in my pyjamas all morning whilst drafting job specifications if I feel like it.
The pyjamas, I mean.
I'll be doing the drafting whether I feel like it or not. Well, they pay me, so I ought to make the effort, really.
Realised this morning that I need to wash my car - that time of year already - because when the sun hits the side windows I can't see through them properly due to the layer of filth plastered over the glass. Such a slattern.
On a more positive domestic note, had a bit of a clear-out last night. I took a load of clothes and shoes out of my wardrobe and am going to try them all on tonight (not all at once, you understand) and anything that is too small, too old, too scruffy, too stained or too frumpy will either make its way to the recycling bin or the charity shop, depending on condition.
I have a wardrobe stuffed full of clothes, but always wear the same few things, so this will be a good way of remembering what else I have, and also clearing some space to put new stuff if I need to.
I seldom buy new clothes because I think "I already have loads" but if I don't wear them, I should get rid of them and make space for stuff I will wear.
In fact today I am wearing a pair of shoes I'd forgotten I had. I was wondering why I'd shoved them to the back of the cupboard as they are quite pretty, I can drive in them, and they go well with my work trousers. I kept wondering right up until they rubbed a huge blister on my instep. Ahhhh. THAT'S why I stopped wearing them! Now I remember.
Good job I have a box of plasters in my desk. Why yes, I was in the Girl Guides....how did you guess?
I found some suits from Long Tall Sally that I bought in a sale which still had the tickets on them - not worn once in the last 5 years. All two sizes too small when I bought them.
What a fucking waste of money that was, eh?
I'll try them on tonight and if they don't fit (which they just might as I have lost a bit of weight) off to the charity shop they go. And then instead of seeing a row of half a dozen suits when I open the wardrobe, I will see the three I actually wear.
The same goes for the jumpers I bought which don't suit me, the paint-covered jeans with a busted zip, the T-shirts that are too shabby even for the gym, and the many, many bizarre scarves, gloves and bags I have acquired over the last 20 years that are too mental to ever leave the house.
Mr WithaY is away so I have no fear of being discovered dressed like an inept drag queen on a bad hair day.
I think it has something to do with Monday's hellishly early start, then a busy (if depressing) day in the office, then a reasonably stressful day in Bath yesterday, and another busy day in the office today.
And I went to the gym on Tuesday, AND had a guitar lesson. So busy.
My new guitar is away being set up, as it has terrible fret buzz which is really irritating. My lovely guitar teacher is taking it to his mate's to have new strings and a bit of technical tweaking done. I am looking forward to getting it back, as I miss playing it. My Strat is great, but I do prefer the Les Paul.
How fantastic to have the choice of two such incredible guitars. Shame my playing isn't really doing either of them justice. Heh.
Working at home tomorrow so at least I can slouch about in my pyjamas all morning whilst drafting job specifications if I feel like it.
The pyjamas, I mean.
I'll be doing the drafting whether I feel like it or not. Well, they pay me, so I ought to make the effort, really.
Realised this morning that I need to wash my car - that time of year already - because when the sun hits the side windows I can't see through them properly due to the layer of filth plastered over the glass. Such a slattern.
On a more positive domestic note, had a bit of a clear-out last night. I took a load of clothes and shoes out of my wardrobe and am going to try them all on tonight (not all at once, you understand) and anything that is too small, too old, too scruffy, too stained or too frumpy will either make its way to the recycling bin or the charity shop, depending on condition.
I have a wardrobe stuffed full of clothes, but always wear the same few things, so this will be a good way of remembering what else I have, and also clearing some space to put new stuff if I need to.
I seldom buy new clothes because I think "I already have loads" but if I don't wear them, I should get rid of them and make space for stuff I will wear.
In fact today I am wearing a pair of shoes I'd forgotten I had. I was wondering why I'd shoved them to the back of the cupboard as they are quite pretty, I can drive in them, and they go well with my work trousers. I kept wondering right up until they rubbed a huge blister on my instep. Ahhhh. THAT'S why I stopped wearing them! Now I remember.
Good job I have a box of plasters in my desk. Why yes, I was in the Girl Guides....how did you guess?
I found some suits from Long Tall Sally that I bought in a sale which still had the tickets on them - not worn once in the last 5 years. All two sizes too small when I bought them.
What a fucking waste of money that was, eh?
I'll try them on tonight and if they don't fit (which they just might as I have lost a bit of weight) off to the charity shop they go. And then instead of seeing a row of half a dozen suits when I open the wardrobe, I will see the three I actually wear.
The same goes for the jumpers I bought which don't suit me, the paint-covered jeans with a busted zip, the T-shirts that are too shabby even for the gym, and the many, many bizarre scarves, gloves and bags I have acquired over the last 20 years that are too mental to ever leave the house.
Mr WithaY is away so I have no fear of being discovered dressed like an inept drag queen on a bad hair day.
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