5.15am alarm. Needless to say L doesn't react. Even Doggo doesn't raise an eyebrow, even he doesn't do this time of morning. I crawl out of bed and into the shower; I'm faced with a long trawl down to Maidstone this morning for work. Thankfully I'm not driving.
Three and a quarter hours is pretty good for the drive down and the meeting goes well as well. It's quite an amusing meeting too. There's a chap, I remember from last time, who most women would see as a rather obnoxious type because he's very quick with the crude comments and is all over the women. He's better behaved this time, no x-rated language, perhaps this is because the woman who he was stalking last time has now left. No connection of course. He's now working on another one. Watch out for those situations vacant ads.
Another 'good' three and a quarter hour trip home. Somehow my work colleague and I end up talking alcohol units. I work his out for him and I reckon he's around the 50 unit mark most weeks. He's shocked and appears to be thinking twice about the bottle of wine he was going to open tonight. I'm thrilled that he's practically doubling my units on a weekly basis; I think this could be a reason to celebrate and I consider having a glass of wine myself. After all I did make it under the magic 28 last week.
At home, L does curry and then we head off to bed, the three of us. The four-legged one is on seriously borrowed time. Doggo, in his advanced years, he's nearly seven, has started getting over intimate with the duvet. He never used to do this before. Jumpers and blankets, yes, but not duvets. It's incredibly inconvenient and off putting when you're trying to be intimate yourself.
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
Monday, 9 June 2008
Something To Hang Daughter From
I have a day off work today because I'm expecting a man from E.On to come and change the electric meter. Naturally I don't actually believe he'll turn up but I get up nice and early just in case. So it's quite a surprise when he's outside the front door at 8am, his earliest possible appointment time. He's done the deed and gone by 8.30, so I could have gone into work but naturally if I hadn't booked the day off he would have kept me waiting all day. They're very cunning these people.
I take advantage of the power being off to try and figure out why two of our electrical sockets in the kitchen are dead. I get no closer to solving the problem instead some how I end up frying the power supply unit on my PC. At least I assume it was my fault and not just a strange coincidence that I was messing with the power at the time. Oddly I'd switched both kids' computers off at the wall but not ours.
So rather than spend the day doing a few jobs as I had planned I end up at Maplin buying a new PSU. Although I do get to B&Q as well, getting some Cotswold Stone (oh go on then... gravel) to go along the edges of the new fence, as well as something to hang Daughter from. Oops, sorry I meant something to hang Daughter's hanging basket from. Freudian slip.
Having replaced the PSU there's still no joy with the computer, it seems it's taken the hard disk down with it. So I start the long laborious process of setting up another hard disk from scratch. This lack of a computer is going to somewhat disrupt my blogging, so apologies for the delays between posts.
The whole day is made even more difficult by an impossibly clingy dog who is thrilled to have me at home. Regrettably I find it hard to reciprocate his joy. L always tells me he sleeps all day when she's at home. What's he got against me?
In the evening we visit Doggo's brother again, that's twice in three days; sometimes it goes like that with family. Unfortunately we're missing out on the adulation that we’d get at our normal class but as I say, sometimes it goes like that with family. It also gets us out of buying the celebratory chocolates, as is tradition, until next week that is.
This time we're visiting him at his training class, where his owner is the trainer. We had intending to run the three miles there but it's too hot to run Doggo so we take the car instead. Which is frustrating really because I've been resting my knee for a week now and I could really have done with trying it out.
It's what they call fun night, personally I'd call it purgatory, and it reminds me of why I quit going to the classes. That and the fact that the classes are a social call for gossipy women. Half an hour in we get down to the 'fun' part. We try and get Doggo on a skateboard, without success. Then we try to get him to do figure of eights, without success. Then we try to get him to wave a paw, yep you guessed it, without success. Soon the socialising is over and we head home.
Back home L looks like she's keen for an early night, I am too but sadly not of that sort. I'm so knackered, being at home and not doing any training is far harder than being at work and training.
I take advantage of the power being off to try and figure out why two of our electrical sockets in the kitchen are dead. I get no closer to solving the problem instead some how I end up frying the power supply unit on my PC. At least I assume it was my fault and not just a strange coincidence that I was messing with the power at the time. Oddly I'd switched both kids' computers off at the wall but not ours.
So rather than spend the day doing a few jobs as I had planned I end up at Maplin buying a new PSU. Although I do get to B&Q as well, getting some Cotswold Stone (oh go on then... gravel) to go along the edges of the new fence, as well as something to hang Daughter from. Oops, sorry I meant something to hang Daughter's hanging basket from. Freudian slip.
Having replaced the PSU there's still no joy with the computer, it seems it's taken the hard disk down with it. So I start the long laborious process of setting up another hard disk from scratch. This lack of a computer is going to somewhat disrupt my blogging, so apologies for the delays between posts.
The whole day is made even more difficult by an impossibly clingy dog who is thrilled to have me at home. Regrettably I find it hard to reciprocate his joy. L always tells me he sleeps all day when she's at home. What's he got against me?
In the evening we visit Doggo's brother again, that's twice in three days; sometimes it goes like that with family. Unfortunately we're missing out on the adulation that we’d get at our normal class but as I say, sometimes it goes like that with family. It also gets us out of buying the celebratory chocolates, as is tradition, until next week that is.
This time we're visiting him at his training class, where his owner is the trainer. We had intending to run the three miles there but it's too hot to run Doggo so we take the car instead. Which is frustrating really because I've been resting my knee for a week now and I could really have done with trying it out.
It's what they call fun night, personally I'd call it purgatory, and it reminds me of why I quit going to the classes. That and the fact that the classes are a social call for gossipy women. Half an hour in we get down to the 'fun' part. We try and get Doggo on a skateboard, without success. Then we try to get him to do figure of eights, without success. Then we try to get him to wave a paw, yep you guessed it, without success. Soon the socialising is over and we head home.
Back home L looks like she's keen for an early night, I am too but sadly not of that sort. I'm so knackered, being at home and not doing any training is far harder than being at work and training.
Sunday, 8 June 2008
A Normal Person's Sunday
The chap is supposed to be coming back today to finish the fence, so we can't really go out anywhere. We expect him to turn up early so we don't even get to lounge around in bed until lunchtime like on a normal Sunday. Well that's not actually a normal Sunday, a normal Sunday consists of getting up at the crack of dawn for a race or a dog show but on an event free weekend we do like to linger a bit in bed.
The chap takes his time turning up and then, just as we'd about given up on him, he turns up at 4pm. He finishes the fence and completes what has been an excellent job.
So with all this hanging around, basically marooned at home, we have a rather relaxing Sunday doing nothing in particular. As I say, this is perhaps what normal people do on a Sunday. I'm not sure I could cope with this more than once or twice a year.
When he's gone we go for a walk to check out the remains of the old Nottingham canal on Lambourne Drive that we have only just found about. I've only lived here for 14 years. The Nottingham canal was built in 1789 to connect the River Trent with Nottingham, the pits of Wollaton, and the Erewash Canal. Fourteen locks were built between what is now Crown Island and Trowell Road. The remains of two of these locks and the canal basin can still be seen at Lambourne Drive.
The area has recently been cleaned up by the Nottingham Breathing Places' SWAT team.
The chap takes his time turning up and then, just as we'd about given up on him, he turns up at 4pm. He finishes the fence and completes what has been an excellent job.
So with all this hanging around, basically marooned at home, we have a rather relaxing Sunday doing nothing in particular. As I say, this is perhaps what normal people do on a Sunday. I'm not sure I could cope with this more than once or twice a year.
When he's gone we go for a walk to check out the remains of the old Nottingham canal on Lambourne Drive that we have only just found about. I've only lived here for 14 years. The Nottingham canal was built in 1789 to connect the River Trent with Nottingham, the pits of Wollaton, and the Erewash Canal. Fourteen locks were built between what is now Crown Island and Trowell Road. The remains of two of these locks and the canal basin can still be seen at Lambourne Drive.
The area has recently been cleaned up by the Nottingham Breathing Places' SWAT team.
Saturday, 7 June 2008
OMG, We Are Grade 6
I'm up fairly early this morning for the short-ish drive to the dog show at Osmaston. As we walk our first course of the day most of the other competitors are going around with their heads in their hands cursing the judge for setting what is a tight, tricky and slow course. It looks fine to me, in fact I can barely hide my joy. The judge apparently is well known for such delights and I'm tempted to kiss him because the course will suit us down to the ground. By rights, the course should be testing because the same course is being used for grades 4 through to the experts of grade 7.
I head back to Doggo, who is waiting impatiently in the car, and tell him the good news about the excellent course that the judge has set. I tell him, that if we can go clear we might get among the trophies today because a lot of dogs won't get around it all. Particularly as there are several important 'qualifiers' on elsewhere and so the field isn't quite as high class as it might have been. I think he looks excited as he heads over to pee up the nearest hedge.
An hour or so later, we are on the start line and a tad nervous. One of my trainers is watching, as are several other people from my club, just to add to the pressure. About three quarters of the field have already run and there are only six clear rounds in our grade, proving how tricky it is. So a clear round almost certainly guarantees a top ten rosette but perhaps we can do better than that. The best time so far is around 37 seconds, which doesn't sound particularly fast.
I play safe at the start, making doubly sure he gets his contact at the end of the dog walk but it means I'm not quite in the right position for the next bit. This costs us a bit of time and nearly gets us eliminated as Doggo heads towards the tunnel, which is not the next obstacle. I manage to pull him away from it and we 'storm', as much as Doggo can, around the rest of the course. We cope with the 'wall' and the diagonal weave entry. A clear round, even Doggo looks pleased-ish. The time is under 37 seconds and OMG, we go into the lead. Blimey. Didn't expect it to go quite that well. Must have been the Methi Naan last night.
None of the later competitors beat our time though there is a risk that another dog from my club could beat us. Luckily her owner doesn't want to win, for reasons too complicated to explain, but basically winning would take them into Grade 6 and therefore make them ineligible for a Grade 5 specific event that they are hoping to compete and do well in, in August. So she doesn't run it too fast and in any case they make a mistake that costs them time.
So amazingly victory is ours. Shocked or what. Our only top ten this season in Grade 5 has been a 7th place so to win one is just incredible.
This also moves us up to Grade 6 which will be a real challenge. The downside is that the chances of us getting any trophies in Grade 6 are slim as my trainer demonstrated when on the same course, she won the Grade 6 class with a time of 31 seconds. Five seconds faster than us.
After that, nothing else really matters. We put in good solid performances in our other two events, clocking clear rounds in both but on fast courses we are out of the rosettes on both.
We have all our runs done by lunchtime and we are rather anti-social by not staying for our presentation. We just take the trophy and run because we had promised to go see Doggo's brother do his own dog event at 3pm in Bramcote. We didn't expect to win anything. So we make out apologies and leave.
Little did we expect to add a rosette at the Bramcote show, where we are badgered into entering the 'fastest sit' competition. You have to be careful how you say that. Basically dogs and owners had to walk round in a circle to music and then when the music stopped they had to sit. The dogs that is, not the owners. The last one to sit was eliminated. Skilful agility this is not. All the same, we picked up a rosette for 5th but we were defeated by Doggo's brother partnered by L who came in 3rd. Grrrr.
Today in Austria and Switzerland, Euro 2008 kicks off, of course without England. I watch some of the opening game.
In the evening we rather unfairly head off out to celebrate Doggo's win without him but he does look knackered or so we tell him. We head into town, eating at Broadway before heading out to the Moot Hall and then back via the Dragon to the Ropewalk.
I head back to Doggo, who is waiting impatiently in the car, and tell him the good news about the excellent course that the judge has set. I tell him, that if we can go clear we might get among the trophies today because a lot of dogs won't get around it all. Particularly as there are several important 'qualifiers' on elsewhere and so the field isn't quite as high class as it might have been. I think he looks excited as he heads over to pee up the nearest hedge.
An hour or so later, we are on the start line and a tad nervous. One of my trainers is watching, as are several other people from my club, just to add to the pressure. About three quarters of the field have already run and there are only six clear rounds in our grade, proving how tricky it is. So a clear round almost certainly guarantees a top ten rosette but perhaps we can do better than that. The best time so far is around 37 seconds, which doesn't sound particularly fast.
I play safe at the start, making doubly sure he gets his contact at the end of the dog walk but it means I'm not quite in the right position for the next bit. This costs us a bit of time and nearly gets us eliminated as Doggo heads towards the tunnel, which is not the next obstacle. I manage to pull him away from it and we 'storm', as much as Doggo can, around the rest of the course. We cope with the 'wall' and the diagonal weave entry. A clear round, even Doggo looks pleased-ish. The time is under 37 seconds and OMG, we go into the lead. Blimey. Didn't expect it to go quite that well. Must have been the Methi Naan last night.
None of the later competitors beat our time though there is a risk that another dog from my club could beat us. Luckily her owner doesn't want to win, for reasons too complicated to explain, but basically winning would take them into Grade 6 and therefore make them ineligible for a Grade 5 specific event that they are hoping to compete and do well in, in August. So she doesn't run it too fast and in any case they make a mistake that costs them time.
So amazingly victory is ours. Shocked or what. Our only top ten this season in Grade 5 has been a 7th place so to win one is just incredible.
This also moves us up to Grade 6 which will be a real challenge. The downside is that the chances of us getting any trophies in Grade 6 are slim as my trainer demonstrated when on the same course, she won the Grade 6 class with a time of 31 seconds. Five seconds faster than us.
After that, nothing else really matters. We put in good solid performances in our other two events, clocking clear rounds in both but on fast courses we are out of the rosettes on both.
We have all our runs done by lunchtime and we are rather anti-social by not staying for our presentation. We just take the trophy and run because we had promised to go see Doggo's brother do his own dog event at 3pm in Bramcote. We didn't expect to win anything. So we make out apologies and leave.
Little did we expect to add a rosette at the Bramcote show, where we are badgered into entering the 'fastest sit' competition. You have to be careful how you say that. Basically dogs and owners had to walk round in a circle to music and then when the music stopped they had to sit. The dogs that is, not the owners. The last one to sit was eliminated. Skilful agility this is not. All the same, we picked up a rosette for 5th but we were defeated by Doggo's brother partnered by L who came in 3rd. Grrrr.
Today in Austria and Switzerland, Euro 2008 kicks off, of course without England. I watch some of the opening game.
In the evening we rather unfairly head off out to celebrate Doggo's win without him but he does look knackered or so we tell him. We head into town, eating at Broadway before heading out to the Moot Hall and then back via the Dragon to the Ropewalk.
Friday, 6 June 2008
Getting It Out His System
L leaves just as the workmen arrive this morning. Doggo didn’t notice them, he was too busy having fun with L’s dressing gown. L describes one of the lads as looking about 12. Yes some of them do look rather young, must be cheap labour but they appear to do a good job. One of the youngsters was just firing up the chainsaw as I left for work this morning.
It’s my third day out of five in the car this week, needs must, but it’s shameful really.
The media is full of ‘swim for free by 2012’ headlines. Apparently the government is to give over-60s free admission to public swimming pools next year with under-16s to follow and then everyone else by 2012.
It’s easy to be cynical, and L immediately is, but I like to try and be positive. It’s a very small step and probably far too late if the Government hopes to encourage greater participation in sport ahead of the 2012 Games but it’s something.
Of course it’s going to cost a fair bit of money but as the country’s already broke, what’s another few million on the nation's credit card; it's what everyone else would do. Anyhow they know they’ll be out of power soon, so paying for it won’t be their problem or of course they could just raise the money through mores taxes on alcohol and petrol...
The problem in Nottingham is that the pools are already close to capacity and they’re intending to close some which will make the overcrowding worse. Also, although they’ll get money to fund the free swimmers it could do some financial damage to Nottingham's Flexible Fitness scheme, if its members opt about because the swimming is now free.
There are some good comments on Radio 5 about the new scheme. Serious swimmers email to say that they would swim more if the pools weren't always full of ‘floaters’ e.g. casual swimmers. The casual swimmers email saying they would swim more if the pool wasn't full of over-serious ‘psycho’ swimmers. Oh well, you can't please everyone, or anyone it seems.
One ‘psycho’ compares coming across a ‘floater’ in his lane as akin to finding a flock of sheep in the fast lane of the motorway. I like that analogy.
A contrasting view came from a mother who said her Daughter 'thought' she was a fast swimmer and so always swam in the fast lane but her mother didn't want to disillusion her by telling her she was actually not quick at all.
I have the afternoon off and go home to placate our vicious dog who feels he is being taunted by the workmen. Released to freedom he totally snubs them, goes next door and christens their front drive with a rather large deposit. Consequently, we are not speaking, again. He's been dying to do that for years. Hopefully it's now out of his system, in more ways that one.
Just after I arrive, Son walks in and heads up stairs with a white carrier bag of goodies in one hand and a half eaten pasty in the other. Healthy lunch, not.
I take some drinks out to the workmen and Doggo again takes the opportunity to embarrass me and promptly becomes the first being to wee up the new fence.
In the evening we head over to Derby to meet some friends. L is struggling with her injured thigh and is worried she won't be able to sit down, which means we might have to prop up the bar. I've not got a problem with that but I'm not sure how she can eat her curry standing up.
After missing the first bus, we get the next one and L does manage to take a seat on it. We arrive at the Brunswick, a little late but have just enough time for a pint and a half of stout each.
We half expected it to be morbid in there but it's not. John Evans, who started the Brunswick pub and brewery more than 20 years ago has died this week from a heart attack, aged 58 while he was in China. After the Brunswick he moved on to set up the Flowerpot, the Smithfield and the Headless Brewery. We raise our glasses to him. They are of course going to name a beer in his honour, they’re calling it ‘Legend’.
We move on to the curry house and have an excellent meal before heading home with a Methi Naan for Doggo. I can tell he's disappointed it isn't Keema but eventually he forgives us.
It’s my third day out of five in the car this week, needs must, but it’s shameful really.
The media is full of ‘swim for free by 2012’ headlines. Apparently the government is to give over-60s free admission to public swimming pools next year with under-16s to follow and then everyone else by 2012.
It’s easy to be cynical, and L immediately is, but I like to try and be positive. It’s a very small step and probably far too late if the Government hopes to encourage greater participation in sport ahead of the 2012 Games but it’s something.
Of course it’s going to cost a fair bit of money but as the country’s already broke, what’s another few million on the nation's credit card; it's what everyone else would do. Anyhow they know they’ll be out of power soon, so paying for it won’t be their problem or of course they could just raise the money through mores taxes on alcohol and petrol...
The problem in Nottingham is that the pools are already close to capacity and they’re intending to close some which will make the overcrowding worse. Also, although they’ll get money to fund the free swimmers it could do some financial damage to Nottingham's Flexible Fitness scheme, if its members opt about because the swimming is now free.
There are some good comments on Radio 5 about the new scheme. Serious swimmers email to say that they would swim more if the pools weren't always full of ‘floaters’ e.g. casual swimmers. The casual swimmers email saying they would swim more if the pool wasn't full of over-serious ‘psycho’ swimmers. Oh well, you can't please everyone, or anyone it seems.
One ‘psycho’ compares coming across a ‘floater’ in his lane as akin to finding a flock of sheep in the fast lane of the motorway. I like that analogy.
A contrasting view came from a mother who said her Daughter 'thought' she was a fast swimmer and so always swam in the fast lane but her mother didn't want to disillusion her by telling her she was actually not quick at all.
I have the afternoon off and go home to placate our vicious dog who feels he is being taunted by the workmen. Released to freedom he totally snubs them, goes next door and christens their front drive with a rather large deposit. Consequently, we are not speaking, again. He's been dying to do that for years. Hopefully it's now out of his system, in more ways that one.
Just after I arrive, Son walks in and heads up stairs with a white carrier bag of goodies in one hand and a half eaten pasty in the other. Healthy lunch, not.
I take some drinks out to the workmen and Doggo again takes the opportunity to embarrass me and promptly becomes the first being to wee up the new fence.
In the evening we head over to Derby to meet some friends. L is struggling with her injured thigh and is worried she won't be able to sit down, which means we might have to prop up the bar. I've not got a problem with that but I'm not sure how she can eat her curry standing up.
After missing the first bus, we get the next one and L does manage to take a seat on it. We arrive at the Brunswick, a little late but have just enough time for a pint and a half of stout each.
We half expected it to be morbid in there but it's not. John Evans, who started the Brunswick pub and brewery more than 20 years ago has died this week from a heart attack, aged 58 while he was in China. After the Brunswick he moved on to set up the Flowerpot, the Smithfield and the Headless Brewery. We raise our glasses to him. They are of course going to name a beer in his honour, they’re calling it ‘Legend’.
We move on to the curry house and have an excellent meal before heading home with a Methi Naan for Doggo. I can tell he's disappointed it isn't Keema but eventually he forgives us.
Thursday, 5 June 2008
Women And Wine, Game And Deceit
I have workmen in this morning and with having to wait in until they arrive I don’t really have any option other than to drive to work. I suppose it will at least do my knee good. I’d already promised myself no running this week to give it a rest.
When I make the mid-morning drinks I again do my strengthening exercises on the stairs. It’s a painful procedure though and I ask L whether it's really supposed to hurt this much. L reassures me that it is and it’s definitely doing me some good. Hmmm.
Back home the workmen have done a good job with the new fence, although I think they underestimated the stubbornness of my ivy bush which had taken possession of the old fence.
I take Doggo for a quickie on the park, and then I drop Daughter off at the Tennis Centre where she’s meeting L for a game and I head off to squash.
After another disaster on the squash court I cheer myself up with a pint of Legend in the Globe.
As Benjamin Franklin once supposedly said 'Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy' but I don’t think he played squash.
In fact there are doubts he said those words at all because he was actually a wine drinker. So perhaps it’s kind of appropriate that I switch to wine when I get home (tenuous link or what!), which goes well with one of L’s stir-fry’s. Although not much of the first glass makes it to my lips before Doggo sweeps the glass off with his tail as he was getting over friendly with his fleece blanket.
Benjamin Franklin also said ‘Women and wine, game and deceit, make the wealth small and the wants great.’
What he quite meant by that I’m not sure and in any case I’m too knackered tonight.
When I make the mid-morning drinks I again do my strengthening exercises on the stairs. It’s a painful procedure though and I ask L whether it's really supposed to hurt this much. L reassures me that it is and it’s definitely doing me some good. Hmmm.
Back home the workmen have done a good job with the new fence, although I think they underestimated the stubbornness of my ivy bush which had taken possession of the old fence.
I take Doggo for a quickie on the park, and then I drop Daughter off at the Tennis Centre where she’s meeting L for a game and I head off to squash.
After another disaster on the squash court I cheer myself up with a pint of Legend in the Globe.
As Benjamin Franklin once supposedly said 'Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy' but I don’t think he played squash.
In fact there are doubts he said those words at all because he was actually a wine drinker. So perhaps it’s kind of appropriate that I switch to wine when I get home (tenuous link or what!), which goes well with one of L’s stir-fry’s. Although not much of the first glass makes it to my lips before Doggo sweeps the glass off with his tail as he was getting over friendly with his fleece blanket.
Benjamin Franklin also said ‘Women and wine, game and deceit, make the wealth small and the wants great.’
What he quite meant by that I’m not sure and in any case I’m too knackered tonight.
Wednesday, 4 June 2008
In The Army
L causes me a relapse on my dodgy knee this morning by getting me to fill in another race entry form. Well it’s more the process of bending down to sign it that does it.
Despite the dodgy-ness of my knee, I still bike to work. Unlike yesterday it's a glorious day. I arrive at work to find that L is off ‘us’ cyclists. She says she met a couple of them who had left their brakes and their brains at home as they attempted to wipe her off the canal towpath. Oh dear.
She's also been discussing revision tactics with another parent. This parent has threatened to enlist her son in the army if he fails his ‘A level’ exams. Now there's an idea ... and it would at least get Son a haircut.
I cycle to the pool which is uncomfortably busy. That said, the 'fast' lane is moving quite well until this older gentlemen gets in and proceeds to float from end to end, glued to the bottom of the pool. At first I think he's drowning, as he keeps floating under the ropes and into the next lane but every so often he surfaces, usually feet first, to prove he’s still alive. One of the girl psychos keep stopping mid-length, I think she thinks he's a pervert for swimming underneath her, and eventually she gets out in disgust.
Odd happenings in the changing rooms too. There's this butch looking guy :- shaven head, bulging muscles, covered in tattoos, who can't face getting changed with everyone else. So instead he gets changed in the baby changing area so no one can see him strip off. Ah bless, he's shy.
Home and then dog training where Doggo is brilliant, if very very gobby.
Despite the dodgy-ness of my knee, I still bike to work. Unlike yesterday it's a glorious day. I arrive at work to find that L is off ‘us’ cyclists. She says she met a couple of them who had left their brakes and their brains at home as they attempted to wipe her off the canal towpath. Oh dear.
She's also been discussing revision tactics with another parent. This parent has threatened to enlist her son in the army if he fails his ‘A level’ exams. Now there's an idea ... and it would at least get Son a haircut.
I cycle to the pool which is uncomfortably busy. That said, the 'fast' lane is moving quite well until this older gentlemen gets in and proceeds to float from end to end, glued to the bottom of the pool. At first I think he's drowning, as he keeps floating under the ropes and into the next lane but every so often he surfaces, usually feet first, to prove he’s still alive. One of the girl psychos keep stopping mid-length, I think she thinks he's a pervert for swimming underneath her, and eventually she gets out in disgust.
Odd happenings in the changing rooms too. There's this butch looking guy :- shaven head, bulging muscles, covered in tattoos, who can't face getting changed with everyone else. So instead he gets changed in the baby changing area so no one can see him strip off. Ah bless, he's shy.
Home and then dog training where Doggo is brilliant, if very very gobby.
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
The Birds
The rain saves me from cycling, which is good because it takes the decision out of my hands and my knee needs a rest.
As I walk to the bus, I meet a wet dog and a wet girl in the street. Doggo and L by the way. The bus, as it turns out, is also full of wet females but not wet dogs.
I stand in the bus shelter sheltering from the rain, waiting for the bus along side one of the regulars. He's a grumpy old chap, well he's mid-thirties, but he never smiles probably because he's a Daily Telegraph reader.
When the bus comes he totally stuns me by turning to the person on the other side of him, a young blonde ponytailed female student (I hadn’t noticed her until then!) and offers her the chance to get on first and therefore get least wet. How chivalrous. Unfortunately she's a little slow in taking up his offer and when he steps out into the rain he obviously thinks better of it, barges her out of the way and gets on first. Charming.
The local NHS do come up trumps within 48 hours and Daughter gets her appointment. I would love to tell you about the mis-diagnosis's going around our house but I fear that I may get into trouble with the Blog Police, when she reads it, so I won't.
Talking of medical matters, L has given me some exercises to do to strengthen my dodgy knee. Well it's a list her physio gave her and she's passed it on to me. One of them needs to be performed on a step and every time I go downstairs at work to make a coffee I surreptitiously do them on the stairs. Makes it interesting balancing a tray of coffee cups at the same time. L says this should be done four times a day but unfortunately I only made two rounds of drinks today.
I take the bus home which has hoards of teenagers on it who are heading over to Nottingham for a gig. I don't want to jump to any conclusions but they don't look like Guillemots fans to me, as that is who we're off to see tonight. The Futureheads are also in town tonight, at the Rescue Rooms, but I don't think they'll be seeing them either.
I get home, cook up some pasta for all of us and then head on to the park with Doggo. L gets back from pilates just before we get back. Then it's down to Rock City. On the way we pass the same bunch of teenagers, that I saw on the bus, hanging around outside Junktion 7. Turns out Azriel are playing there. Who? Exactly. Turns out they're another of those hardcore metal bands who seem to appeal to the teens of today.
Rock City isn't full and the balcony is closed for added intimacy. We head up the staircase and get a good spot, perched at the top, like, well like a guillemot or should I say guiLLeMoT, as they prefer to write it.
First though, London's Royworld and their mainstream pop rock, promoting their debut album 'Man In The Machine'. It's a terrible name and none of the band are even called Roy, in fact what's worse is the lead singer is called Rod, so why not Rodworld? Can't be any worse, or can it? Or Robworld after the guitarist? Tim and Jerry-world, the other two members, conjures up cat and mouse games...
They play some pretty standard stuff that seemed ok but nothing stood out or grabbed my attention. After a few tracks, my mind and eyes soon started to wander elsewhere.
As the roadies set up for the Guillemots, I conclude that the sound check could take a while, as a huge array of equipment is wheeled out on to the stage including more effects pedals than I've ever seen before. They also bring out a stuffed lion, which looks like the King John character from Disney's Robin Hood.
The lights go down and the baggy suited Fyfe Antony Dangerfield Hutchins takes to the stage clutching a hand held keyboard that I'm not sure he's actually playing. He sings the first verse of 'Made-up Lovesong #43' solo, sounding a little like Stevie Wonder. Fyfe it appears is a man of many voices and has a truly great vocal range. He sings about something he got 'off the paper round', hopefully not from round our way. Then he takes a seat at his keyboards and coloured lights go on everywhere, including a tube of red lights running all around the stage and the other band members join in for the rest of the song.
There are several birds on stage, there's one perched on Fyfe's keyboards, a guillemot I assume, and then there's Aristazabal Hawkes looking good in a near backless black dress with a double bass between her legs.
They drift into 'Clarion' without a pause with Arista now banging on a set of drums. Guitarist MC Lord Magrão is rocking out, as he does all night, even when the tempo of the song doesn't warrant it. Fyfe stays at his keyboards, side on to the audience, which isn't very rock n roll and annoys the hell out of me. Face your audience! He doesn't talk a lot but oddly asks what people's favourite paint was. Some bright spark replies with a yell of 'Green'.
The title track to their Mercury Music Prize nominated debut album 'Through The Windowpane' follows as we get a sequence of slowish songs to open including their rather twee new single 'Falling out of Reach'.
'Falling out of Reach' would sit well on their first album but some of the other stuff on the new album 'Red' would not. Some of the tracks are very different for sure and all hell breaks lose when the band employ a major change of pace and play 'Last Kiss'.
Arista timidly shuffles forward to take main vocal duties, a more reluctant vocalist I don't think I've ever seen. She mumbles something, I think she says the songs about marriage. Oh dear. Major assertiveness lessons required and as for her dancing, well...
Putting all that and her rather quiet vocals aside, its still an outstanding moment. Also for Arista's dress, for which L has now placed an order.
Then they go from being completely manic back to soft and gentle although Fyfe briefly ditches his keyboards in favour of a guitar, for 'Standing On The Last Star' for which he sounds far too like Mika for my liking. He encourages everyone to clap and sing along to the ending.
The band are continually swapping instruments, often even mid-song. Fyfe's on harmonica for the intro to 'Words' which rather unfairly reminds me of that French-Tunisian crooner FR David and his awful schmaltz of the same name which sold by the skip-full in 1982. Thankfully it's not the same track but shockingly similar in sentiment.
Arista shows what a diverse girl she is by picking up bass guitar for the brooding 'Don't Look Down', which is my favourite track from 'Red'. It's a captivating song that picks up speed as it goes along until it gets insanely fast towards the end. My highlight of the night.
'Annie, Let's Not Wait', another of my favourites, has possibly too much drumbeat on it but its still good. Then Fyfe dons some very silly sunglasses as their punchy recent single 'Get Over It' picks up the pace again, dramatically so. When I first heard this being played on the radio, I couldn't believe it was the Guillemots gone all pop.
He tells us it's about being a bitter old man. Bitter it seems at ending up with the wrong girl and still longing for his unrequited love but hey, at least he's getting over it.
Fyfe is left alone to play a solo 'We're Here'. It's a quiet moment but initially the crowd are too busy chattering, still abuzz from a cracking 'Get Over It' which just needed to be commented on. Probably not a good time to play a slowie.
The rest of the band return with Arista now at the keyboards for the raucous Scissor Sisters sound of 'Kriss Kross' which closes the set.
The band leave the stage but the audience had barely finished applauding when they return. Oddly drummer Greig Stewart is now stripped to the waist with a face drawn on his torso, dancing madly, and waving a bell above his head while Fyfe plays the drums. What was that all about then? Quite surreal. Someone shouts out their perverse appreciation for Greig, Fyfe tells them to 'get over it'.
Normality is restored for 'Trains to Brazil'. Their debut record, that made a name for the band. A sad but clever song commenting on the threat of terrorism in the world these days. They re-named the song in tribute to Jean Charles de Menezes, who was shot by the police on the London Underground.
Fyfe introduces all the band members, including the lion. We even got a few words from the lion but he mumbled too much into his microphone for us to be able to make them out.
They end with a hyperactive 'Sao Paulo' with lots of percussion, with all the roadies joining in and Fyfe banging a dustbin lid.
A good gig but too many slow moments for me but then they're that sort of band. L compares them a little to Elbow, although not as witty or crowd friendly. Equally, if not more, nod-off-able at times. The new, dare I say 'disco', stuff doesn't really quite fit in their repertoire but gives an interesting contrast and possibly widens their appeal. I think perhaps, Fyfe is going through a mid-life crisis. You're supposed to start doing more slow songs when you get older but he's going the other way.
Home for a bit of pudding and passion.
(Photos pinched off the Guillemots forum. Sorry)
As I walk to the bus, I meet a wet dog and a wet girl in the street. Doggo and L by the way. The bus, as it turns out, is also full of wet females but not wet dogs.
I stand in the bus shelter sheltering from the rain, waiting for the bus along side one of the regulars. He's a grumpy old chap, well he's mid-thirties, but he never smiles probably because he's a Daily Telegraph reader.
When the bus comes he totally stuns me by turning to the person on the other side of him, a young blonde ponytailed female student (I hadn’t noticed her until then!) and offers her the chance to get on first and therefore get least wet. How chivalrous. Unfortunately she's a little slow in taking up his offer and when he steps out into the rain he obviously thinks better of it, barges her out of the way and gets on first. Charming.
The local NHS do come up trumps within 48 hours and Daughter gets her appointment. I would love to tell you about the mis-diagnosis's going around our house but I fear that I may get into trouble with the Blog Police, when she reads it, so I won't.
Talking of medical matters, L has given me some exercises to do to strengthen my dodgy knee. Well it's a list her physio gave her and she's passed it on to me. One of them needs to be performed on a step and every time I go downstairs at work to make a coffee I surreptitiously do them on the stairs. Makes it interesting balancing a tray of coffee cups at the same time. L says this should be done four times a day but unfortunately I only made two rounds of drinks today.
I take the bus home which has hoards of teenagers on it who are heading over to Nottingham for a gig. I don't want to jump to any conclusions but they don't look like Guillemots fans to me, as that is who we're off to see tonight. The Futureheads are also in town tonight, at the Rescue Rooms, but I don't think they'll be seeing them either.
I get home, cook up some pasta for all of us and then head on to the park with Doggo. L gets back from pilates just before we get back. Then it's down to Rock City. On the way we pass the same bunch of teenagers, that I saw on the bus, hanging around outside Junktion 7. Turns out Azriel are playing there. Who? Exactly. Turns out they're another of those hardcore metal bands who seem to appeal to the teens of today.
Rock City isn't full and the balcony is closed for added intimacy. We head up the staircase and get a good spot, perched at the top, like, well like a guillemot or should I say guiLLeMoT, as they prefer to write it.
First though, London's Royworld and their mainstream pop rock, promoting their debut album 'Man In The Machine'. It's a terrible name and none of the band are even called Roy, in fact what's worse is the lead singer is called Rod, so why not Rodworld? Can't be any worse, or can it? Or Robworld after the guitarist? Tim and Jerry-world, the other two members, conjures up cat and mouse games...
They play some pretty standard stuff that seemed ok but nothing stood out or grabbed my attention. After a few tracks, my mind and eyes soon started to wander elsewhere.
As the roadies set up for the Guillemots, I conclude that the sound check could take a while, as a huge array of equipment is wheeled out on to the stage including more effects pedals than I've ever seen before. They also bring out a stuffed lion, which looks like the King John character from Disney's Robin Hood.
The lights go down and the baggy suited Fyfe Antony Dangerfield Hutchins takes to the stage clutching a hand held keyboard that I'm not sure he's actually playing. He sings the first verse of 'Made-up Lovesong #43' solo, sounding a little like Stevie Wonder. Fyfe it appears is a man of many voices and has a truly great vocal range. He sings about something he got 'off the paper round', hopefully not from round our way. Then he takes a seat at his keyboards and coloured lights go on everywhere, including a tube of red lights running all around the stage and the other band members join in for the rest of the song.
There are several birds on stage, there's one perched on Fyfe's keyboards, a guillemot I assume, and then there's Aristazabal Hawkes looking good in a near backless black dress with a double bass between her legs.
They drift into 'Clarion' without a pause with Arista now banging on a set of drums. Guitarist MC Lord Magrão is rocking out, as he does all night, even when the tempo of the song doesn't warrant it. Fyfe stays at his keyboards, side on to the audience, which isn't very rock n roll and annoys the hell out of me. Face your audience! He doesn't talk a lot but oddly asks what people's favourite paint was. Some bright spark replies with a yell of 'Green'.
The title track to their Mercury Music Prize nominated debut album 'Through The Windowpane' follows as we get a sequence of slowish songs to open including their rather twee new single 'Falling out of Reach'.
'Falling out of Reach' would sit well on their first album but some of the other stuff on the new album 'Red' would not. Some of the tracks are very different for sure and all hell breaks lose when the band employ a major change of pace and play 'Last Kiss'.
Arista timidly shuffles forward to take main vocal duties, a more reluctant vocalist I don't think I've ever seen. She mumbles something, I think she says the songs about marriage. Oh dear. Major assertiveness lessons required and as for her dancing, well...
Putting all that and her rather quiet vocals aside, its still an outstanding moment. Also for Arista's dress, for which L has now placed an order.
Then they go from being completely manic back to soft and gentle although Fyfe briefly ditches his keyboards in favour of a guitar, for 'Standing On The Last Star' for which he sounds far too like Mika for my liking. He encourages everyone to clap and sing along to the ending.
The band are continually swapping instruments, often even mid-song. Fyfe's on harmonica for the intro to 'Words' which rather unfairly reminds me of that French-Tunisian crooner FR David and his awful schmaltz of the same name which sold by the skip-full in 1982. Thankfully it's not the same track but shockingly similar in sentiment.
Arista shows what a diverse girl she is by picking up bass guitar for the brooding 'Don't Look Down', which is my favourite track from 'Red'. It's a captivating song that picks up speed as it goes along until it gets insanely fast towards the end. My highlight of the night.
'Annie, Let's Not Wait', another of my favourites, has possibly too much drumbeat on it but its still good. Then Fyfe dons some very silly sunglasses as their punchy recent single 'Get Over It' picks up the pace again, dramatically so. When I first heard this being played on the radio, I couldn't believe it was the Guillemots gone all pop.
He tells us it's about being a bitter old man. Bitter it seems at ending up with the wrong girl and still longing for his unrequited love but hey, at least he's getting over it.
Fyfe is left alone to play a solo 'We're Here'. It's a quiet moment but initially the crowd are too busy chattering, still abuzz from a cracking 'Get Over It' which just needed to be commented on. Probably not a good time to play a slowie.
The rest of the band return with Arista now at the keyboards for the raucous Scissor Sisters sound of 'Kriss Kross' which closes the set.
The band leave the stage but the audience had barely finished applauding when they return. Oddly drummer Greig Stewart is now stripped to the waist with a face drawn on his torso, dancing madly, and waving a bell above his head while Fyfe plays the drums. What was that all about then? Quite surreal. Someone shouts out their perverse appreciation for Greig, Fyfe tells them to 'get over it'.
Normality is restored for 'Trains to Brazil'. Their debut record, that made a name for the band. A sad but clever song commenting on the threat of terrorism in the world these days. They re-named the song in tribute to Jean Charles de Menezes, who was shot by the police on the London Underground.
Fyfe introduces all the band members, including the lion. We even got a few words from the lion but he mumbled too much into his microphone for us to be able to make them out.
They end with a hyperactive 'Sao Paulo' with lots of percussion, with all the roadies joining in and Fyfe banging a dustbin lid.
A good gig but too many slow moments for me but then they're that sort of band. L compares them a little to Elbow, although not as witty or crowd friendly. Equally, if not more, nod-off-able at times. The new, dare I say 'disco', stuff doesn't really quite fit in their repertoire but gives an interesting contrast and possibly widens their appeal. I think perhaps, Fyfe is going through a mid-life crisis. You're supposed to start doing more slow songs when you get older but he's going the other way.
Home for a bit of pudding and passion.
(Photos pinched off the Guillemots forum. Sorry)
Monday, 2 June 2008
In Need Of Counselling
I get a better than expected reaction when I tell my work colleagues of my sub-40 performance. The downside of course is that if ever there was a slim chance that I may have been invited out running with them again this has now gone. How to make yourself unpopular.
I drive in to work but L is feeling fit enough to go to the gym, presumably doing everything standing up again. This is confirmed when she lets me know that she is having to sit on her chair at work perched on only one cheek.
L tried to get Daughter a doctors appointment this morning but failed. I tell her that if they can't fit her in tomorrow then she's to quote the Government's target of seeing all patients within 48 hours to them. That may do the trick, if not she should report it to www.48hourgp.com.
Before I left for work I peeled yet another pair of ipod headphones out of the floor tiles in our hall where it appears they have met with a gruesome death. I take them to work and start the delicate counselling process, de-traumatising them, trying to persuade them that life is still worth living, and that not all owners are so brutal. Sometimes this works and I manage to rescue a decent pair of headphones. On this occasion they throw themselves off my desk into the wastebasket. Sadly another life has ended.
I get home and get ready to take Doggo to dog class but L's got home before me and seems to have kicked the dog close to death in the garden. He's slumped in a heap under the kitchen table recovering. If he's slow at class they'll be trouble, hang on, he's always slow at class.
I drive in to work but L is feeling fit enough to go to the gym, presumably doing everything standing up again. This is confirmed when she lets me know that she is having to sit on her chair at work perched on only one cheek.
L tried to get Daughter a doctors appointment this morning but failed. I tell her that if they can't fit her in tomorrow then she's to quote the Government's target of seeing all patients within 48 hours to them. That may do the trick, if not she should report it to www.48hourgp.com.
Before I left for work I peeled yet another pair of ipod headphones out of the floor tiles in our hall where it appears they have met with a gruesome death. I take them to work and start the delicate counselling process, de-traumatising them, trying to persuade them that life is still worth living, and that not all owners are so brutal. Sometimes this works and I manage to rescue a decent pair of headphones. On this occasion they throw themselves off my desk into the wastebasket. Sadly another life has ended.
I get home and get ready to take Doggo to dog class but L's got home before me and seems to have kicked the dog close to death in the garden. He's slumped in a heap under the kitchen table recovering. If he's slow at class they'll be trouble, hang on, he's always slow at class.
Sunday, 1 June 2008
Redefining 'Mad'
Today redefines 'mad'. I'd already booked into a dog show at Elvaston Castle when L noticed that there was a 10k there on the same day. So, as it would have been rude not to, we both entered into that as well.
The day starts nice and early with us outside the paper shop, waiting for it to open so that we can do Son's paper round. Just to add to the enjoyment, it starts to rain. Task number one completed, we load up the car and head over to Derby. Just to drive home the 'mad' theme, L's bike is on the roof, as she intends to cycle home later.
At the dog show the weather is dry and there's no sign of the rain we've had in Nottingham. It duly arrives just after we do.
The scheduling has been kind to me as regards the dog show, giving me three early morning runs and two late afternoon runs. I also have to work on a ring and I manage to negotiate an afternoon-only shift. This sorted I set about getting the three runs in before we have to head off to the race which starts at 10.30.
It's good to have the rare treat of L there supporting us but we don't put on a very good show for her in our first event. We mess it up big time, well I do. I try and straighten Doggo up for his weaves but make a total hash of it causing him to miss the first pole and we are faulted. Perhaps I should have just trusted him to do them on his own.
Our second event is better and we post a clear round but in a small field we finish outside the top eight and the rosettes.
The fan club, my parents, turn up in time for our third event. Which goes really well, on a tough course, until I make a mess of a tricky sequence of jumps which results in Doggo jumped sideways over the long jump. My fault again, so I can't blame Doggo for anything yet.
We're all done by 9.45 and we head off across the road to the race. I think with hindsight, trying to cram three events into such a short space of time didn't work but it's a busy day and you can't do everything to perfection.
All morning the rain has been on and off but it eases for the start of the run. I try not to go with what appears to be a very fast pace but this just makes me distraught at the sheer amount of people who are ahead of me right from the off. This is clearly a better quality field than the one at Aston two weeks ago.
The first two kilometres are utterly horrible as they take us through the castle courtyards which consist of stone cobbles which prove very slippery in the wet. Not at all pleasant. The course does improve, although it's not the course they sent me a map of. Obviously all part of a sinister plot to unnerve me.
We come to a bottleneck where they take us through a narrow gate. A member of the 'fairer sex' barges everyone out of the way. She's impossibly skinny, right down to her elbows which come rather 'keen' when they land in your ribs. I'm sure the chap in front of me has a go at legging her down but she's far too fleet footed for him.
My pace is good, despite the cobbles, and for some reason I don't fade as much as in my previous races. When I do notice that my speed is slowing, as usual around the 7km point, I manage to force myself to lift it again. Good running, they say, is 80% mental. Ha, I assume they mean as in mind over matter, not just as in 'nuts'.
I can hear a dog barking hysterically somewhere, it sounds so like Doggo, but I'm sure he can't possibly have escaped from his internment in the boot of the car.
At 8km, it appears I might be on for a sub-40. I'm divided on whether this would be a good thing or not, actually I'd be happy for a mid-40 as that would be a good improvement on my previous best and save that sub-40 moment for another day.
I run past my charmer of a father, who spurs me on (not) with shouts of 'get a move on'. Not sure if that supposed to be motivational talk or not.
At 9km my pace has slipped a little but the sub-40 is still on. My knee, still reeling from it's encounter with the floor of the squash court, is now starting to throb and I'm beginning to struggle a bit.
Finally I approach the line, I can see the clock which says '39:'. I can't see the rest because someone is stood in front of it. So I can't see it counting up and daren't look down at my watch. I give them my best hard stare; words are not possible. Can't they see that I need to be able to see how long I've got to live.
I focus on the '39:' as the line draws closer. Finally, as I cross the line, I can see it. I reckon it says '39:57' but the results give me '39:55'. Bravo.
Job done, sub-40, so now I can retire. No targets left to achieve...
I collect a 'red' t-shirt, not really my colour, and go find the fan club. My father is stood at the line still waiting for me to come in. He's so reliable... I wander up the course to look for L, who looks like she's hobbling and struggling a bit with her injury. Naturally she'll deny it. She's also less than impressed with my father's cheerleading when he yells 'hurry up' at her. Hmmm.
Afterwards I head back to the dog show, while L manages to cycle home. Doggo and I clock up two clears in our afternoon runs but no rosettes. Both are fast courses for fast dogs, not for us.
Distressingly my finishing position in the run is down in the 40's, out of 334. Still though a pretty successful day.
In the evening we have L's brother and his partner round for Sunday dinner. It's a pleasant evening and the wine flows, although mainly down the necks of L and me. We've earned it.
The day starts nice and early with us outside the paper shop, waiting for it to open so that we can do Son's paper round. Just to add to the enjoyment, it starts to rain. Task number one completed, we load up the car and head over to Derby. Just to drive home the 'mad' theme, L's bike is on the roof, as she intends to cycle home later.
At the dog show the weather is dry and there's no sign of the rain we've had in Nottingham. It duly arrives just after we do.
The scheduling has been kind to me as regards the dog show, giving me three early morning runs and two late afternoon runs. I also have to work on a ring and I manage to negotiate an afternoon-only shift. This sorted I set about getting the three runs in before we have to head off to the race which starts at 10.30.
It's good to have the rare treat of L there supporting us but we don't put on a very good show for her in our first event. We mess it up big time, well I do. I try and straighten Doggo up for his weaves but make a total hash of it causing him to miss the first pole and we are faulted. Perhaps I should have just trusted him to do them on his own.
Our second event is better and we post a clear round but in a small field we finish outside the top eight and the rosettes.
The fan club, my parents, turn up in time for our third event. Which goes really well, on a tough course, until I make a mess of a tricky sequence of jumps which results in Doggo jumped sideways over the long jump. My fault again, so I can't blame Doggo for anything yet.
We're all done by 9.45 and we head off across the road to the race. I think with hindsight, trying to cram three events into such a short space of time didn't work but it's a busy day and you can't do everything to perfection.
All morning the rain has been on and off but it eases for the start of the run. I try not to go with what appears to be a very fast pace but this just makes me distraught at the sheer amount of people who are ahead of me right from the off. This is clearly a better quality field than the one at Aston two weeks ago.
The first two kilometres are utterly horrible as they take us through the castle courtyards which consist of stone cobbles which prove very slippery in the wet. Not at all pleasant. The course does improve, although it's not the course they sent me a map of. Obviously all part of a sinister plot to unnerve me.
We come to a bottleneck where they take us through a narrow gate. A member of the 'fairer sex' barges everyone out of the way. She's impossibly skinny, right down to her elbows which come rather 'keen' when they land in your ribs. I'm sure the chap in front of me has a go at legging her down but she's far too fleet footed for him.
My pace is good, despite the cobbles, and for some reason I don't fade as much as in my previous races. When I do notice that my speed is slowing, as usual around the 7km point, I manage to force myself to lift it again. Good running, they say, is 80% mental. Ha, I assume they mean as in mind over matter, not just as in 'nuts'.
I can hear a dog barking hysterically somewhere, it sounds so like Doggo, but I'm sure he can't possibly have escaped from his internment in the boot of the car.
At 8km, it appears I might be on for a sub-40. I'm divided on whether this would be a good thing or not, actually I'd be happy for a mid-40 as that would be a good improvement on my previous best and save that sub-40 moment for another day.
I run past my charmer of a father, who spurs me on (not) with shouts of 'get a move on'. Not sure if that supposed to be motivational talk or not.
At 9km my pace has slipped a little but the sub-40 is still on. My knee, still reeling from it's encounter with the floor of the squash court, is now starting to throb and I'm beginning to struggle a bit.
Finally I approach the line, I can see the clock which says '39:'. I can't see the rest because someone is stood in front of it. So I can't see it counting up and daren't look down at my watch. I give them my best hard stare; words are not possible. Can't they see that I need to be able to see how long I've got to live.
I focus on the '39:' as the line draws closer. Finally, as I cross the line, I can see it. I reckon it says '39:57' but the results give me '39:55'. Bravo.
Job done, sub-40, so now I can retire. No targets left to achieve...
I collect a 'red' t-shirt, not really my colour, and go find the fan club. My father is stood at the line still waiting for me to come in. He's so reliable... I wander up the course to look for L, who looks like she's hobbling and struggling a bit with her injury. Naturally she'll deny it. She's also less than impressed with my father's cheerleading when he yells 'hurry up' at her. Hmmm.
Afterwards I head back to the dog show, while L manages to cycle home. Doggo and I clock up two clears in our afternoon runs but no rosettes. Both are fast courses for fast dogs, not for us.
Distressingly my finishing position in the run is down in the 40's, out of 334. Still though a pretty successful day.
In the evening we have L's brother and his partner round for Sunday dinner. It's a pleasant evening and the wine flows, although mainly down the necks of L and me. We've earned it.
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