It's raining when I get up but the sky does look fairly bright so I risk jogging to the bus stop in running kit, hoping it will fine up by the time the bus gets to Borrowash.
The R4 turns up three minutes early. It wasn’t a normal R4 bus and it didn't have the GPS tracking. This I assume means that the driver's time keeping isn't being 'monitored' and I think he was taking advantage of the situation which gave him a longer fag break where the bus always pauses in Sandiacre.
Once off the bus, it has fined up, and the run in was good. The old knee's still a bit stiff but not too bad. I should be fit for Sunday. Time wise, I was a minute quicker than last week, which isn't bad as I did detour via the cashpoint. Although it's not even close to a PB.
After work I'm back on the Signalman's Stout at the Brunswick where I meet a friend of mine. I daren't tell L in case she's jealous, she did rather like the Stout on Saturday but tonight she's drawn the short straw of walking 'that silly hound' as she calls him.
My friend, in the two months since I last saw him, still hasn't got around to sorting out the lycra clad damsel at his cycling club. Well things have moved on I suppose. I did wonder last time what was wrong with the rest of the cycling club, why hadn't someone else stepped in while he was dithering? Well the rest of the club now seem to have alerted to the fact that there's a vacancy in her personal life and now she's got not one but three indecisive cyclists circling above her and bickering amongst themselves about it. Unfortunately they all appear to be equally hopeless. They'll give the male gender a bad name. Guys are supposed to be programmed by nature to try practically anything in these situations... you know pretend they've got some impressive job, that their granny has just died for the sympathy vote, naturally lie that they are single when they're not or even pretend to be a super-fit cyclist... scrub that last bit, I've no idea if that works or not. Watch this space for news, or rather don't. Big Brother will be up to series 100 before this particular reality show is concluded.
After a Chinese buffet that is over fried, heavy on the sugar and the fat. I head homeward bound aboard the Red Rocket. L says Doggo is curled up in his corner but will surely spring into life for me. I could do without that but hopefully L might spring into life too.
Bad news on my dying computer, the replacement hard disk, that was an old one anyway and it had been in Son's possession, enough said, appears to be dying too. Daughter's not happy about this, as the printer is out of commission; I think she assumes I've trashed it deliberately.
Later, under interrogation by pillow talk, I tell L all about the lycra clad maiden and the dithering cyclists. L's asks me if this girl has a name. I'm not sure she has, well he hasn’t mentioned it; perhaps he’s not got around to asking her yet, it's only been six months. L reckons the girl will be loving all the attention. Hmmm, L's not met the cyclists; you wouldn't want any of that lot squabbling over you.