A bit of the old in-out

Firstly an apology again for no blog yesterday. With blogging late on Tuesday I didn't feel like it in the morning; in the evening I actually got a seat on the first train back so I could watch some of my tele programmes (and fall asleep) so didn't get the opportunity to in the evening.

Anyway, last night was one of those uncomfortable nights. It was too warm to sleep under the covers; yet not quite hot enough to sleep comfortably on top. The windows were open: it was too stuffy to breathe otherwise. I am lucky, the road I live on is quiet with very little through traffic. Maybe that actually makes me unlucky as any traffic is then a considerable disturbance rather than a ubiquitous background humm. Perhaps also it means that the dawn chorus of tits in my bush starting up is also more noticeable. But I can sleep, albeit slightly, with the windows open.

The windows open also exposes me to risk. In some areas of town, such as where my brother lives for example, that risk is one of burglary and buggery; having all your worldly goods - and decency - removed whilst you are in your own home. Fortunately for me the damage is merely physical as all the wee beasties of the world (well, certainly those breeding in my pond) smell my exposed fresh, clean flesh; can tell from my breathing that I am in full slumber and therefore utterly undefendable and mass, plague together to feast upon me. Well, it's either that or the moths gain accesss to the bedroom and proceed to throw themselves vigorously and repeatedly against anything which will make a noise. Or just buzz, replacing the constant humm of a traffic stream with the annoying, intermittent zip-zip-zip as they wander blindly around hitting into or landing on anything in its path.

This is where the light sheet comes in: an effective mosquito net. But that is only really suitable on the hottest of nights. And there are not many of those in England. So, this is where I have the old in-out. A bit of leg-over. Well, leg over the top of the cover. This is the thermostatic leg: the human regulator. It keeps the body cool, but only just cool enough. It is easy to draw back in should the room cool enough, or to roll further around the duvet to expose a litte more thigh should the temperature rise...or you find yourself as a lusty, fiesty babe who will almost certainly end up as the first victim in a horror movie.

You still have to be a bit careful with the leg. You don't want it hanging onto the floor. Whilst there is the very obvious reason in that the rapist or burglar or vampire hiding under the bed could very easily grab the leg (though if you are on your bed clearly they will not be able to touch you); or that the spiders that swarm the floor whilst you sleep would be able to crawl - no, not crawl, RUN - up your leg and interfere with you in he way in which only spiders can. But also, the last thing you want is to make a movement in your sleep and wake up with a numb leg or, worse still, snapped off because of the position you have managed to get into.

Anyhow, I really should go and defrost this leg...

And so for Christmas...

Never EVER go on holiday when you are going with a couple who are going to split up.

Firstly, apologies. I had hoped to blog on Thursday, but didn't get time what with trying to sleep on the train in the morning, and the last train journey with someone who I originally thought was a train fitty, but then realised I was just tricking myself but still ended up chatting to after a month or so. And we've been train chatties ever since.

We had a fantastic Christmas, back in December. Some friends came up from London because they would rather spend New Year with us in Nottingham. They're not normal friends. Whilst enjoying that time, the idea formulated... celebrate another Christmas, six months later. The original plan was to spend it in London, whoever when we realised our London frinds lived as far apart as London was from Brighton we thought ... well, why not velebrate in Brighton.

As ever these plans ended up changing. One of the London crew pulled out last minute. One of the Nottingham crew pulled out, was replaced then the replacement pulled out so we ended up down to six. Not a bad number really.

Another change to plans - original plan was to meet at the pub on the Thursday night, then come back to mine to stay the night until around 4am when we would leave to avoid the rush hour. That's ok, I like the pub and only have to knock up the sofabed. Only then we weren't, we were staying at Laura's. Fine. I still get to go to the pub. And to Brighton. we all got to the pub, only then the plan changed again - why not go straight down to Brighton from the pub? After all, we owuld only get 3 hours or so sleep in Nottingham, we could have the same sleep down in Brighton. Lovely logic, only surely there is a diference to sleeping in a bed or on a semi-comfortable sofa, to sleeping in the world's most uncomfortable car seat? Yes. But I got some lovely early morning photos of Brighton when I got so uncomfortable I thought it would be better to doze on the beach. It isn't much - the beach is pebble, not sand, and if it isn't one pebble digging into your head it's another in the back. And the sea is so blummin noisy! And it doesn't stop at all. Ever.

The weekend though was phenomenal. Absolutely phenomenal. Well, aside from one minor point alluded to earlier.

One of my friends who went down to Brighton regularly confides in me. A few days before Brighton he confided that he had been sleeping with someone who wasn't his girlfriend. Both of the girls - his long-term girlfriend of 10 years, and his sex toy of 10 months were going to Brighton. How annoying is that - I can't hold down a relationship for 10 weeks, yet he can get two to last for ten months concurrently!

Anyhow, I knew this was a bad thing. I don't know how, but sometimes you just know that if you go on holiday - even if only for a long weekend within your domestic country - with both of the people you are having sex with, that something may go wrong.

Immediately.

That's how long it took, if anyone asks "how long does it take for the affair to be a problem?" I don't know how it came out - there were lots of private discussions, and I - as always - ended up getting stuck in the middle, offering advice to all five of the other people there including infidel, vixen and victim, as well as support for the other two.

There were many private discussions. Fortunately, for the majority of the time we were still very much able to enjoy the weekend. But yes, as a general piece of advice, don't go on holiday with a couple you konw are going to split up.

Anyhow, on the Monday we were to leave. Were to leave. I knew it was a bad thing the moment I said that we had not been given a specific time to be out of the apartment we had rented. This was, almost certainly, because there was no-one staying in it that night.

I had to be at work.

We went for a lovely long walk along the beach in the blazing hot sunshine, and sat in a bar and had a pint and discussed the plans for the remainderment. What time we should leave - I was in favour of 7pm. Being up at 5:45 in the morning, if we left at 7 I would be home shortly after midnight, just time enough to sleep. But they were in favour of 8pm, allowing more time for the traffic to die down. Anyhow, whilst the discussions were still ongoing twe went to the pub. Fatal mistake. FATAL.

At 7 I threatened to walk to the train station to catch a train. And I would have, but for Just One More.

Just One More is a terrible game. Just One More is regularly played by my friend, knowing full well that I can't lose. I will never lose at something like that. So we keep having Just One More drink. Then it got to 8pn. And I put my foot down, that we should go. Only then one of my friends came back from the bar with raspberry sambucas. Well, it'd have been rude to say no. And now technically I was in a round. So I had to buy some. And the next thing we knew we were illegally squatting in the flat for an extra night free-of-charge but only after winning the local pub quiz with a further 12 bottles of beer, and the massively huge "jackpot" of £16.

And so I had to ring in to work the next morning to say I wouldn't be in. Goodness garateful 'sunstroke' is almost a legitimate reason not to go to work and yet still to go in with a suntan. It''s kind of the holiday-hangover excuse.

And we couldn't have picked a better day for it - hottest day of the year so far! Although surely there must be a decent 100=-150 of those in the run up after winter...

The Morning After....

Why does it take so long for people to reply to a text? Particularly an important text that could have the weight of the world attached to it? Or at least the weight of an average-sized apple.

Well, last night didn't go too badly after all. We just did dinner - neither of us had reviewed the film synopses or times and by the time we had finished dinner it is highly likely that the films would have started (I did hold a judgement that I thought timeliwise it would be difficult to achieve both tasks). Further, we just wanted a chat and a drink.

Dinner was very nice - Thai. I had something with duck in. Amusingly, pork is 'moo' in Thai. You would think it would be 'oink' or that 'moo' would be beef. Chicken was 'gai'. Tee hee hee. Unfortunately it does mean I am producing some pretty nasty gases today, but what's new. It took us quite a while to actually order because we just talked and talked and talked. That is good. Often with new people I can be too nervous to talk much, but we chatted away merrily and I was able to be funny without being offensive. Well, too offensive. And it was good.

There were also no commentes about my haircut.

I cut my own hair - I have done so for the last ten years or so. I bought a pair of clippers which cost the same amount as a haircut, and since then I have saved myself the cost of between two and four haircuts a year. That could be anything up to the value of a night on the tiles! And I have gradually gotten better at doing it. But somehow, regardless of how good I get and despite the amount of time I take on the haircut, there are always some problems. One haircut it was a particuarly sizeable amount of hair accidentally removed from around the ears. More usually it is a patch which I have missed leaving me with longer hair there, or a wonky fringe. This time it was both, although I did start cutting the hair at around 10:30pm after a few cans of lager under not-the-most-startling of lights. And the day before my first ever client presentation and a few days before a date probably wasn't the most sensible of timings.

We didn't really get chance to snog though. That disappoints a little. There is nothing quite like a good snog. We had a quick kiss goodbye, but couldn't really prolong it as we were in the street and there were some ruffians hanging around and neither of us particularly has a perchant for being duffed up.

On an entertaining point, during the evening he rubbed his nose quite a bit. This set me off - you can never quite tell if it is that they have a twitch, or if they are trying to tell you that you have something on your nose and to rub it off. So I rubbed my nose. Well, that set off a vicious cycle - my rub would inspire him to rub his nose, which got me rubbing my nose and was only stopped when I went to the toilet and whilst in there used the mirror to ascertain that there was, in fact, nothing wrong with my nose.

Anyhow, I then got home and sent a nice, polite "thanks for a nice evening, hope you got back ok" text.

Nothing.

Not last night, and not this morning.

What does that mean? That it didn't go as well as I thought? That I was being given not just the cold-shoulder, but a positive freeze-out? Was I really that offensive? Surprisingly for me I didn't get stalkerish about it, sending a text when I woke up at 5:27 (for some reason I woke during the night and turned off my 5:30 alarm thinking it was the weekend; but luckily woke up early enough anyway) enquiring as to whether he was dead, or offended, or in bed with someone else?

Maybe I had been that offensive. Maybe I had been 'nice enough but not for me' or 'nice enough but not right now' and it was just taking time to soften the blow. Maybe his mobile had run out of battery. Or gotten lost. Or gotten stolen. Or maybe as he was walking back to his car a minor tremor occured and opened up a fissure in the earth into which he accidentally dropped it whilst looking in to see how deep it was. Or maybe he was walking back and a giant bird of prey swooped down and carried him off to an area with no mobile phone signal.

Anyhow, eventually I did get a reply just before lunch apologising for the delay (!) and being nice and chatty again. Who knows, maybe I might even get asked on a second date. Now that would be a first.

Now, I really should reply to that text I got an hour or so ago...

First Date

I don't know why I do it to myself, really I don't.

I have already identified back in May that I am incompatible with relationships. Why I am such a glutton for punishment that I should therefore willingly submit myself to a first date is utterly unbelieveable. I really am a fool. But so it is that tonight I have a date. And not just a date, a first date.

There are two reasons why I have committed to this. Firstly, I do actually quite fancy the chap. I have had my eye on him for quite a while; and then a couple of weekends ago I woke up with him naked in bed next to me. Result.

The other is that the naked-next-to-me incident was the culmination of a rather whorey weekend. It is not rare for me to wake up naked next to people. In fact it occurs on a scarily frequent basis - usually at least once a month. That particular weekend it happened twice. On the Friday I woke up with someone who had, until just a few hours previously, been a virgin. Ooops.

It is not something that I should be proud of, and I'm not going to repeat thisblog
But I rather felt that, in order to justify the sex, certainly on the second night, I should probably try and make a go of it.

I would love to be able to say that I amazed and entertained with my witty banter in a cocktail bar or that my knowledge or intellect was sufficient to secure the date; or even that my technological flirtations on the internet accompanied by suitably spurious photo had convinced the poor sod to meet me, but no - it was one of my usual nightclub-wonders.

Quite how we ended up in bed naked with each other is still somewhat a mystery to me. It is another of my quirks. I never have known how it happens. And it is not because I am too inebreated to remember what happens. I fully remembered being in the nightclub - I always do - but the next point which my recollection avails is being conveyed in a carriage of convenience back to my humble abode. And believe me, it is humble. No, there exists a permanent lacuna in respect of any nightclub acquisition.

Perhaps there is a reason - some form of natural protection which prevents me divulging my secrets. Maybe I have a particular way to look at people, a knowing nod or glance. Maybe I say a succinct, poetically indulgent form of words which instantly wins people over like a spell. Maybe I just fall on top of them and they are happy at that. Whatever it is, some cruel twist of fate means that I forget. It may be that my methods are so successful they simply cannot be disseminated to the public at large, otherwise the whole foundation of relationships, natural selection and evolution will be destroyed in a wild abandon of sexual hedonism. Or maybe, if I were to understand how it happens, the spell would be broken and I would be forever incapable of nightclub-copulation. And if that happens, then I am doomed.

In terms of my longest relationship, this was equally true. Throughout the relationship I had to be reminded quite how we met - my ex telling a slightly different story each time, depending on his mood. I'm still not entirely sure it was true.

So, tonight I have first date. And it's not a good thing. I get nervous. I'm not a confident person at the best of times - I'm very self-deprecating and really don't have a good perception of myself. I always imagine that - if my date even turns up - I will be met with some comment along the lines of "Oh, you're not how I remember" or, worse still "Oh, you're not who I remember".

So I get very worked up. And it's one thing having bedroom conversation or even morning conversation, but actual social conversation is a whole different matter. Maybe we won't relax, cohease with ease. Maybe we will have to spend hours, minutes in silence whilst we eat. First date is crucial; even despite having already had your willy up their bum. Hence why I get nervous.

Tonight is dinner and cinema. That seems almost to be combining two dates into one. Surely it should be either dinner or cinema? Cinema is good for a first date - you get time for polite conversation; get an insight into their psyche and your compatibility depending on which film you each choose; and have the option - if it all goes well - to extend it with a post-film drink. Dinner is full-on focus on conversation and on the two of you. Possibly the best first date I ever picked was to a stand-up comedy club. You barely get any time to talk, yet still get a full analysis of their sense of humour. Just don't get sat near the front where you can get picked on.

On a final note, I am rather annoyed that this is the second time I have had to write this. I got half-way through on the train, but the buggy Blogger app then decided to force close on me, losing a considerably better first draft.

Lazy

I don't know quite what it is, but recently I have become inherantly lazy.

Not during the week, obviously. During the week I am non-stop. On Mondays I wash-up, clean the kitchen and either clean the bathroom and vacuum; or dust and change the bedsheets. Tuesdays I do five-a-side football. And Thursdays I do the washing up, a good tidy for the weekend and usually other bits of domestic goddery. This leaves Wednesday. Or at least one day of the week.

Usually it is Wednesday, but I am flexible. Just because I have a routine it doesn't mean that it can't change. But on the day of the week that I have no plans I do other things. Once a month I do charity work on a night. Sometimes I have to go on dates (see tomorrow's post). Or there is ironing to be done. Or gardening during summer, DIY during winter. Or a particular job that needs doing. Or some of my art. Or I might get to play the piano. Or work intrudes into my private life. Or I have to pack for a weekend away. Or some sort of emergency crops up. Or someone invites me to the pub. There could be anything which occupies The Fourth Night.

Fridays I don't plan anything. If I am even at home, I will either be out with friends, or I will be having a night in, chilling by myself (almost certainly by myself) watching a film or three until I convince myself to go to bed.

Packing all my jobs into the four-nights ensures that my weekends are free of routine. This is essential. If routine were to be introduced into weekends, routine would get thrown into disarray on so many occasions because of trips away. Or, most probably, a family occasion. On the weekends when I am not away or otherwise engaged, they are assigned to a project. A garden project during summer, a DIY project during the winter (again). Or I will be catching up on some culture - the local contemporary art museum has rotating installments or there are a billion and one places I can walk to take photos of unknown or underacknowledged areas of the city.

From winter through to Easter I undertook quite a substantial project. The bathroom project. The bathroom has been a huge project (see another blog post at some stage) but basically for the last few years I have spent the time with a bath, sink and toilet - no proper airing cuboard sealing the bath from the immersion tank; and there has been a huge empty space next to the toilet where the shower was to go. And the shower was bought, downstairs in the work room. All I needed was to be able to afford the timber for the cupboard and woodwork; the tiles for the walls; and generally construction materials. Anyhow, after a few months of saving up after the last projects - the front and back doors - I was able to afford all these various bits (it is surprising how much - after the main articles such as tiles - the periferal items add up to) and so it was all guns blazing on the project.

I set myself deadlines. I had to have the shower fully installed and working by the weekend when my friend was coming up from London. Then I had some time off in the run up to Easter and decided the bathroom had to achieve 'substantial completion' by then - all the tiling done and practical everything sorted aside from a few minor projects.

Having sorted that though, I allowed myself a few weekends off. The first weekend was a perfectly legitimate reward for all the hard work, proper relaxation. Then I was away. Then the next weekend I rewarded myself again. Then the next weekend I was wallowing in misery having made myself single again. The following weekend I spent having sex both nights and therefore being too tired to do anything. And so it has continued - for one reason or another I have allowed myself to stay in bed for hours. Last weekend for example I stayed in bed because it was raining, and therefore I could not do any gardening.

It has gotten so bad that this weekend I was rather chuffed with myself for getting up at 1pm and spending the majority of the afternoon on my new garden project - Centrepoint. Woo. 1pm. Fantastic. One of the reasons for this is that my 'relaxing' Friday ended with me pottering off to bed at around 5am after watching my 3 films whilst undertaking various tidying tasks (including ironing and trying to hem some trousers; only giving up when I realised that I couldn't see what I was doing because of the wine and finding out the next morning that I had hemmed the wrong side of the trousers). I was rather pleased with all the various little jobs that I managed to get sorted out, however that did mean that 1pm was therefore a self-satisfying time to get up the next day. Despite the fact that half the day had gone.

Sunday was the worst. Sunday I played Just One More with the radio. Just One More is usually a game that is played in the pub with my friends. Usually they play it with me because I am the first to try to leave. Then we start on with Just One More and I end up staggering out of the pub (with my bicycle) at a silly time in the morning. But Just One More with the radio involves staying in bed for just one more programme. When the programme ends I honestly intend to get up. But then they give you a tease, a trailer for what is happening next. And the next thing you know it is 3pm and there is no point starting on a project because you have to start getting ready for 11-a-side training at 4pm.

Quite why these weekends have started becoming so unproductive is a mystery, but it needs to stop, and very very soon. But maybe first there should be Just One More...

The Umbrella Dilemma Ema Ema...

What dilemma?

Further insights into the bizarre brain of Basil-logic.

So, during summer - in accordance with my previously stated rule of absolute de minimis - I wear as little as possible. Certainly when it comes to outerwear I am loathe to wear a coat unless it is absolutely necessary. Unfortunately sometimes the absolute necessity only makes itself apparent when I am already committed coatless. I just end up wetter than actual water.

During summer - obviously with Britain being how it is - the days can change quite quickly. I have a tendancy to carry in my enormous work rucksack three items of protection (in addition to an emergency condom, in case a train-fitty should find me irresistible and jump on me, ripping off my clothes or dragging me to the rather cramped travelling toilets). I have a coat. A decent, smart yet light-weight number which occupies little space yet maximises the space/protection ratio. I also carry a cap, and an umbrella. The dilemma comes as to when to use either of these. I don't like using an umbrella unless it is necessary - it takes a hand out of action in case I need to carry an additional bag or my Toy Story lunchbag, which is actually quite frequent as I regularly seem to purchase more than my enormous rucksack has capacity for from the supermarket. It is also awkward to walk with an umbrella, it adds weight to that hand and makes me feel lop-sided. I then have to compensate, otherwise I end up walking in circles. Any gust of wind makes it even more of an incovenience to carry or worse flips it around meaning it provides no protection at all and is worse than useless - it is a hinderance. And no-one looks cool carrying an umbrella

On Tuesday it rained. No. That isn't right. That is an understatement. On Tuesday a vast amount of solid water fell upon the earth. Actually, that isn't right. Whilst it fell on the town where I work; where I live it didn't rain at all and my washing was dry and plants very thirsty. But whilst Noah was putting the finishing touches to his boat, in Hinckley I was auctioning off my clothes to which ever third-world country would pay the most for the many tonnes of water in them. That was an umbrella day.

Where the weather is just a brief, light shower it is cap weather. Again, I'm not a fan of the cap. It stops my head breathing (the top, obviously. If it stopped the mouth breathing I'd be wearing it wrong. And not for very long either), makes my hair itch, and - worst thing in the world - messes my hair up. I don't have much hair anyway, so what there is is quite precious to me. I am also a rather stylish, debonnair character (well, I don't like getting confused with hobos at least) and enjoy arriving appropriately. Also hairwax is trading high on the commodities market at the minute and I don't want to be spending any more than necessary by coating the inside of the cap with a slick thick enough to kill a seabird. But the cap does protect the exposed parts of me from the light sprinkling of fluids (ok, that just looks wrong) and has a peak keeping those fluids out of my eye (if only there was such protection during sex!). Assuming that my jacket is sufficiently protecting of the shower, then the cap also meets the requirement and the umbrella is superfluous - the trade off for having my hands free being a slight decrease in style.

But there is that middle bit. Just as at the beginning of the rain, you have to make a decision as to whether the rain quantifiably justifies simple evasionary tactics (a quick dash) or full-on protection; so there is also the grey-point at which it may be necessary to switch from cap to umbrella - or even accumulate umbrella with pre-existing cap and lose convenience, dexterity, facility and style. Ah well.

Following on from my saturation on Tuesday I had to take a trip to the toilets to dry off under a hand-dryer. Who makes the decision as to how many hand-dryers there are in a toilet? There always seem to me to be the wrong ratio of dryers to sinks (or taps for the trough sink). I know not everyone uses the hand-dryers, some preferring a moist bottom or lap as they rub or wipe themselves off. But I know full well that those who do use the dryers spend considerably longer drying their hands than washing them. There should therefore be a greater number hand-dryers than sinks, not fewer. The number of times the taps are free whilst I am stood around waiting for a hand-dryer to become available doesn't even bare thinking about.

And don't even get me started on the chap at work who doesn't wash his hands but still uses the dryer after he has peed!

Clocks

I had a haircut last night.

Correction - I gave myself a haircut last night. I haven't actually 'gone' anywhere for a haircut since university. I bought a pair of clippers which cost around the same as a haircut and have cut my own hair ever since.

The clippers plug into one of the kitchen sockets. I don't know why I have always chosen the kitchen sockets. I presume it must be because they are higher up the wall than any of the other sockets in the house. The kitchen also tends to be better lit and has a hook for when I used to hook a mirror on it. It's not that I don't use a mirror any more - cutting my hair without a mirror would be a very dangerous idea - but I use a different mirror which I don't need to hook up. Anyhow, to use one of the kitchen sockets I have to unplug something.

Whatever I unplug is going to need to be reset. The sockets I use are not the ones for the toaster or the electric can-opener (surely the most indulgent and lazy of gadgets if ever there was one); but the ones either for the microwave or the smart meter. The sockets for the toaster are under a cupboard and do not afford a very good hair-cutting arena; similarly the ones for the electric can-opener are right next to the hob, which is overshadowed by the extractor hood. The smell of singeing hair the next time I cook is also slightly off-putting and another detractor from that location.

So it's microwave or the smart meter. Despite it's name, the smart meter actually isn't that smart. You would think it would be able to set itself, that maybe it had some link, if not to the caesium atomic clock in Rugby, then at least to an internet clock or even the speaking clock. But no, nothing. You have to manually set it. And then manually set the rates again. And you lose your history. All in all it is easier to unplug the microwave as that simply requires the clock setting correctly in the 24 hour format.

But this got me thinking - it wasn't that long ago that my clocks would be set fast as a matter of habit. The fastness and reasoning varied, but for a considerable period of my life I was always ahead of everyone else.

It started off at university. I had my clocks set 20 minutes fast because I knew that was how long it took me to get to lectures, or to the cinema where I worked. I'm still hazy on the logic as to why I set my clock 20 minutes fast rather than just factor in a 20minute travel time into my agenda; but then a lot of university was hazy. One of the benefits though - particularly at the cinema - was that if anyone should craftily try to look at my watch they would get a shock. Their surruptitious attempt at my subsidising their lack of timekeep would lead them to believe they weren't just late, they were very late. Particularly in the cinema. As a pure chance of coincidence, 20 minutes was also the combined length of the adverts and trailers on any particular screening. But I would be entertained as they would scurry off to the screen in a panic, usually with the girlfriend receiving some rebuke about 'if she hadn't had to straighten her hair... which was perfectly straight in the first place anyway... and the first dress was fine the first time round, why she had to try on every other dress before going back to the first dress'; or the boyfriend being berated about 'not being able to park in that first space despite it being big enough for a bus, and everyone knew that street was a one way street, and it was totally unnecessary to watch the end of the football match as it was clear they were going to lose anyway.'

But so it was that my clocks went forward.

When I started work - proper work, professional work, suit work - the clocks were adjusted to 'just' ten minutes fast. The logic for this is that I would think I was running late and hurry myself along - turning the tables and using the same trick against myself. Or so you would think. Obviously it ends up a bluff. I am fully aware of the fact the clock is ten minutes fast and that I have an extra 10 minutes to fanny around abluting myself. Rather than half past, my leaving time would be automatically corrected to twenty-to in my head. Not back-firing, just not achieving the correct result. I really am too intelligent for my own good sometimes. Any double-bluff to increase the advance further would also back-fire as I would then become even more aware of how fast each clock was.

The cards were stacking up against the principle - the arguments in favour steadily crumbling as the tides of time eroded their foundations like sandstone. I actually quite like that analogy. But just as the arguments in favour of fast-setting deteriorated, so the arguments against were bolstered. Increasing numbers of clocks around the house insipidly took control of themselves. The bedroom alarm clock had always been radio controlled; but it was joined - after a slight accident with a glass of water in the middle of the night to the predecessor - by a radio alarm clock which also took the hidden signal to reset itself. My mobile phone (by the time they started coming with alarms as standard) did exactly what it wanted. Then, as I got a bit more mature, I got a big clock. I said CLOCK. It was for my lounge. All very nice, all very black, all very stylish. All very independent - suddenly all of this technology didn't need me any more. I was passive. And not entirely in a good way. But with all of these clocks deciding what time they wanted it to be, I was becoming overruled. And in my own house. By inanimate objects.

The big clock in the lounge checks itself every day to ensure good time. It does this at 1am. It is a bit of an odd thing, if you still happen to be up at 1am, to see the clock suddenly spring into action, hands a whirl as it resets and then sets itself. And if you happen to look up in the ten or fifteen minutes whilst it contacts the radio signal, you might believe it to be midnight - a clock actually behind the times - and possibly allowing another hour to justify starting another film.

But they have not thought this through. 1am is a daft time. It may not appear to be from the outset - surely the time it checks itself is neither here nor there? Except ensuring that it happens during the night, when most people won't be put-out with 15minutes of down-time (or worse, back-time) whilst the clock checks itself, maybe? For two day of the year the clock is wrong. When British Summer Time begins at the end of March, the clocks go forward one hour. From 2am to 3am. So, the clock having already checked itself at 1am will not do so until the following day - 23 hours of wrongness. And again as we return to British Winter Time, the clock drops back from 2am to 1am. Only the clock doesn't know that it is 1am again - afterall, it only checked itself an hour ago; it's not going to do so for another 24 hours. Wrong again. Grrr.

Anyhow, all of this meant that last night as I was setting the microwave clock, my anal tendencies sprung into action and now - rather than having my clocks deliberately wrong - they must be absolutely perfect to the second.

It did get me thinking though, I aim to leave the house at 6:30. Why? Why not aim to leave at 6:33? It would be more sensible for me - I would have an extra three minutes in the house. That is time to clean my teeth. And leaving at 6:30 always makes me easily early enough for the train. 6:33 would be much more sensible. But no - it's always 15s. If I am going to the pub and miss leaving the house at 9pm, the next target is 9:15. No particular reason - it just has to be. Of course, when leaving in the morning I tend to leave at 6:33, despite the 6:30 target, so if I aimed to leave at 6:33 I would probably actually leave at 6:36 and that would be pushing it.

On a final, more sombre note, I analysed and monologued about my red trainers. Well, last night they gave up the ghost. After a torrential rainstorm, the sole of the shoe gave in and a hole enough for water-seepage occurred. The writing was on the wall. But worse was to come - as I tried to take them off later, the base and the upper decided enough was enough and parted company. This was not just the sole, this was the whole base. Being a man of material, I would normally have glued it all together to get a few more months out of the potentially heritage gear; but with them no longer providing a barrier to squelchiness there was no point. My soliloquy turned into a eulogy. No flowers.

Early riser

So it's Tuesday and i'm on my early rise. I have previously explained the need to get the early train because of having to shower at work.

I don't mind the earlier rise. It gives me a sense of achievement - ever so slightly bizarre bearing in mind I managed to spend pretty much all day Sunday lounging round in bed. But managing to get the early train; exercising the body, and doing so much earlier than normal.

This sense of achievement is somewhat tarnished, though, because of an odd phenomenon. The odd phenomenon of everyone-else-also-running-early. It's a phenomenon closely associated with the phenomenon of everyone-also-running-late.

Weirdly you will notice that, on the day you are running early or late. The woman that you always pass at the crossroad at the top of the hill, her with the red bag and blue shoes that really don't match: you will pass her at the crossroads at the top of the road as per usual. Yet it should be - and actually is - twenty minutes earlier, of twelve minutes late. The short, muscular hispanic chap with the very hairy but neatly trimmed chest - the one who always wears slim-fit shirts despite them being too tight - will get the same train as you, despite it being entirely the wrong train. And when that train pulls in at the next stop, exactly the usual contingent of commuters in the same suits or tanktops or overalls will get on or off as usual.

It's very disorientating. If you're running early, you start to panic that maybe you aren't actually early, you are on time (but therefore, in the circumstances, late). But if you're late it throws you even more because you're not sure if you are actually late: it can give you an undeserved sense of rectification, that you have somehow corrected the error of delay. You risk slacking back to ordinary routine despite actually still being late, along with - apparently - the rest of the country.

But what it does do, when running early, is to smudge the smile. Yes, you are still early, you have still achieved exactly what you set out to achieve; you just don't seem to have beaten the competition. You've done well, but not better than anyone else. A pat on the back, but in a somewhat condescending manner.

Red Shoes

I saw someone looking me up this morning. Not just a bit, but very blatantly looking me up. They could hardly see anything else, other than me. Or at least that's what I thought (hoped).

Turns out it wasn't me at all. It was my shoes. Currently I have red trainers on. They are a very sensible choice of footwear. They are comfortable. I walk long distances at either end of my commute. As such I need footwear which
1) have the lasting power to cope with the distances and not wear out;
2) offer me comfort and support which hard leather shoes don't
3) be cheap enough to sacrifice in place of the decent shoes.

Fine. Trainers justified. But red ones? I had too many shoes in my shoe cupboard. The mere fact that I have a shoe cupboard should be concern enough for a man, even one with homosexual tendancies. But one of the shoe-reduction strategies was to use an existing pair each time one of the other pairs expired.

The red shoes were fashionable in the early part of the century. Or at least 'fun'. I have since found out that 'fun' is not a good reason to buy shoes. Not that these weren't good trainers. They were nice: my friend with whom I was shopping with wanted a pair. But then the nation slipped into the 'bland' end of the decade. It still feels odd to refer to the years 2000-5 as 'the turn of the century'. Everything was just plimsoles. Plain white plimsoles. Although I could jazz them up with some funky laces, even odd laces.

So they slipped out of favour, shuffled to the lower shelves, replaced by a pair of shiny white plimsoles with one pink and one green lace. Until, that is, fashion was suspended for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening out of cheapness and necessity.

I'm surprised by how long they are lasting actually. They are doing very well indeed. Too well, almost. Every day that they last is another day I attract the attention of ever-so-slightly concerned people.

Maybe I should see it as an opportunity, not an embarrassment. It provides me with an opening gambit, a glance to which I can smile. That is how it worked with the Toy Story lunchbox, at least. If I attract the glances of more people, then it increases the chances that one of them will be attractive and fancy me. It also increases the number of freaks and loons who believe I'm an appropriate target for a witty retort. It also increases the number of people who think that I am an ever-so-slightly nutty fruitloop just a slight accident away from incarceration in a suitably secure establishment.

Still, at least it stops people looking at my incredibly enormous penis. Not that that is entirely on show in the same way as the trainers. Or on show at all, in fact, in case the authorities are reading. And at least they are comfortable.

Those three little letters...

I was on heat this weekend.

It's not big and it's not clever. Well, it's not clever at least.

The worst thing is that I knew it on Friday. It was going to be impossible to hold me back. I knew on Friday that I was going to go out (which is slightly unusual for me as I normally stay in and watch movies on a Friday night) and I knew as I left the house I was not coming back alone. I was either bringing someone back, or I was going back with someone.

Damned virgins. Everyone knows I am not supposed go with virgins. I am not a 'training model'. I am not emotionally capable of leading people through the transition from virgin to ... er... not virgin. Nor am I in any way appropriate for 'breaking them in'. Breaking them, maybe, but not breaking them in. But that was Friday night and Saturday morning.

We didn't exchange numbers. We didn't even exchange names, which is bad, but in a fun way. Annoyingly I had already run through the conversation in my head whilst washing: "So, what's your number... and what do you want to go in my phone as". This has backfired once when the response that came back was "Er... My name, surely?"

Anyway, when I got out of the bathroom he was already changed and ready to go, made polite excuses and went.

I knew I shouldn't go out on Saturday night. I like to have one night a weekend in to try to conserve money if nothing else. But again, I knew I could not be contained. I was a caged animal ready to explode. Not that that works as a metaphor or in any ways gives a pleasant mental image of me exploding all over someone like a lion. One of my friends sent me a text asking if I was out. Regardless of whether I had plans or not I knew I was out.

So yes, I pulled again. This time I did get a name and a number. Which was good because this was someone I had seen and admired from afar. Well, fancied at least. This can be dangerous - often it can only be a let-down. You get them back and you realise they look different under the flourescent lighting of a kitchen, or more lumpy without clothes on, or that they are more socially-inept than anyonee thought was possible.

But on this occasion it didn't work like that and we swapped numbers.

It can't work out. I know that aleady. And not just because of my usual impossibility with relationships. He is called Dan. Three letters. Three letters is hardly even a name. It's more of a noise. I don't think I have ever been out with anyone with three letters in their name. Gary, Neil, Karl, Carl, John, Paul, John-Paul, Paul (again and again), Adam, Matt, Alex, Kate, Anna. All four-letter names. There have been a couple with longer names too, but practically everyone I have dated has four letters. Maybe that is why they haven't worked out. Daniel. It will have to be Daniel.

But anyhow, I have tentatively arranged a date. Over a week's time though, a million and one changes happen in a week, let alone over a week. Ah well, at least it gives me time to change the sheets

Wind

Yep, very base subject today.

Anyone who knows me will know I am a gassy person. I don't know why. I can't think that I eat anything which makes me so much more windy, I have a good diet, don't drink too many fizzy drinks or any of the multitude of suggestions that people have come up with. I just fart. A lot.

The reason this is pertinent today particularly is that I have been stuck in a very small, very enclosed IT room with ladies. And for some reason today seems to have been more breezy than most. This is a compoundation of factors; a multiple of elements not usually present; a comedy of errors, were it funny.

I don't work with ladies. It is not that I am incapable of doing so, it is just that my team - legal - is entirely male-populated. The team next to us is tax, again with a heavy preponderance of chaps.

And yes, it is just that: an area. It is within an open-plan office. It is not an enclosed space. If an urgent release is required, it dissipates very quickly. And if there is any smell, it can easily be blamed on the very close toilets.

But I don't know what made today more windy than normal. Perhaps bread: I had pizza for tea last night. But then again I am a naturally breezy person. At football I have been put in defence because a well-timed fart can be enough to put strikers off. That is pretty much the only reason.

Bringing someone back for sex can be terrible. I try to hold it in so far as possible, containing any gas until an appropriate bathroom break can be orchestrated. But yes, I have trumped in someone's mouth whilst they were trying to lick my bumhole. Though goodness only knows why they wanted to do that in the first place.

The 'first thing fart' which must surely be some sort of gravitational related phenomenon to standing erect for the first time in hours is usually something to celebrate. It creates a noise which nothing else can replicate, echoing throughout the entire house, reverberating walls and bowels. It heralds one of the best feelings in the body, yet the morning after sex it is more forbidden than walking round the house naked before realising it isn't your house.

A good arse-rattler is also one of the funniest things in the world. It is the prudest of people who can't giggle at a guff. Not that that is a decent reason to let off, but it surely helps.

The Last of the Blacksocks

THE END IS NIGH!

Please, save our souls. Or at least socks.

Today is the last day of the black socks. They have been diminishing in quantity recently, threatened by the somewhat more resplendent and determined greater-spotted crested sock; and as of today they will finally be extinct.

Allow me to explain. Ever since I hit the age of man (around sixteen) and started buying my own socks I have been a black sock man. The idea was very sensible. I am a chap of extraordinary proportions. They seem even more exaggerated in the lengthiness of my legs. Ridiculously so. Despite the wearing of a decent, ankle-heighted boot, such as the traditional Chelsea; and trousers as long as can be bought without someone else having to go short(s), my socks make a regular appearance.

When I bought my first socks... let us take a moment... there. When I bought my first socks I was somewhat considerably more shy, so opted for black. But not just any black. These socks had a vital, hidden excitement: coloured toes and heels. Everyone may think that I was very plain and boring, but underneath it all, I knew I was exciting, I knew I was fun, I had coloured toes! And to make it even more exciting - if it is even possible - I didn't even put the same colours on! Fun and random! And no-one knew! Intentionally odd socks, yet always from the same series  of socks.

When I grew up and got a job my choice of substatially black became even more a sensible choice. They suited my suits on the occasions of their appearance to the world at large. Very good. And I obviously still knew I was fun.

But it never quite felt right to me. I felt constrained by society, unable to express myself and ashamed that I had such a huge hidden secret. Not that there are many other types of secret. I wanted to be me, to go out into the street and shout 'I am what I am! I have needs, cravings that simply cannot be satisfied by one of six combinations of red, blue and green.'

I tried. Really I did. I allowed myself slight variances: coloured blocks on the sole instead of the toes-and-heels; thin, coloured bands around the top of the sock; but it was no good: I was deeply unsatisfied and I was living a lie. I was not a black sock man. I needed something more. And worse still, by introducing the subtle variances I had actually stoked the flames. I had some more choice but now I needed more. And I knew there were other socks out there that could satisfy me.

I used to talk to a train fitty once upon a time. We used to get on very well and even got to th e stage where we started going for drinks. On one of these occasions we discussed socks: a very important conversation to have early on in any relationship, lest you should realise that you are incompatible. The last thing you want is to find out one of you is a baller and the other isn't; but to only find out when you commit to moving in together. And so it was then that my eyes were opened to the idea of stripey socks. Stripes: I had neve rv thought of this before. I had presumed I woul a have to be an 'all or nothing' chap. But stripes could be subtle - let me dip my toe in the water, as it were.

Well, that was the seed sown. There was a release from my frustrations on the horizon. And not just that but a release which would satisfy us both, draw me closer to the object of my affections, endear me further to that delicious train fitty and show I was acting directly on advice.

And so it was that weekend I set off into town on my illicit mission. I knew what I wanted and I wanted - nay, needed it - now. I knew where I was going for it. I was going to get some decent stuff first time, not just any socks off a street corner, or the market, but some nice, decent high-street lines.

There really is nothing quite like it: slipping in for the first time, in the comfort of your own home after a quick shower and pumice. Lovely. And the colours: they were phenomenal; and so much more than just red, green and blue. There was yellow. Orange. Turquoise even. How had I missed all of this in ny strait-jacket of smart resepctability?

And so, with gay abandon, I proudly flaunted my new socks on the train on Monday. And I couldn't stop smiling and giggling all day. I felt great!

And, of course, that was the start of the downhill path I now find myself towards the end of. Stripes weren't enough. The colours had to be brighter, more vivid, more contrasting. They could be plain, checked, different heels, toes AND tops. All the socks in the world couldn't satisfy me.

But that was the end for the blacks. Not that I have anything against them. But it was now for the digital switchover, and 'blacks' were out and 'coloureds' in. They had had a good life, and the transition has been gradual as each pair has worn out, but now is the last and tomorrow they will be no more (it is also bin day tomorrow, just to make a clean break). And so it is the end of an era, or maybe the start of a mid-life crisis. Maybe I should buy some flowers?

And yes, it does make me giggle how close 'our souls' is to 'arseholes'.

The Work Anti-Social

I had to go to a work 'do' last night.

I'm not a fan of extra-employment activities. I prefer a work-life balance: I do my work, and then I live my life. And spending, as I do, over 12 hours of the five days I work engaged in work or the commute, I feel I commit enough of my time to work. Therefore when work seeks to ingress further into my own time, I am more than reluctant to submit.

I felt obligated on this occasion. It was billed not so much as a social occasion (and believe me, the people I work with are not people with whom I would choose to socialise) but as a team-building yet fun evening. Hmmm. Anyhow, the suggestion was very strongly put to me that I would be seen as an at-best-reluctant, and maybe even resistant member of the team. So yes, I was blackmailed in all but name.

I was further hampered in my avoidance strategy by the organisation of my employer. On a previous occasion I was able to escape the commitment on the basis that the location was not just inconvenient, but practically impossible. On another arrangement the timing was unsuitable, meaning I wouldn't have gotten home until the very early morning. And they also gave me such sufficient notice that I could not olead prior engagement.

They really had thought of almost anything.

My frustrations were compounded further by the non-appearance of a single Office-Fitty. Previously I have waxed about the Train-Fitty. The Office-Fitty is the same phenomenon translocated to the office. So my cloud didn't even have that silver lining.

Ah well, at least it was a free meal. And one of the benefits of hob-nobbing with the execs is that they are the ones holding the free booze vouchers. The only way to reduce friction or resistance is indeed to ensure sufficient lubrication. And, of course, you are incredibly present and noticeable as a team-player.

Bags and keys

I have a stupid nasty horrible and very anti-social 'work social'. You can tell I am looking forward to it. But this has necessitated a change of daily bag.

If I could get away without having to use any bag, I would. I am a man of ADM: absolute de minimis. And yes, it annoys me that I use the acronym. But if I could get away with taking nothing, I would. I can't. Or at least not without bulking out my pockets which would be even more annoying. Bulky pockets making walking awkward and sitting even more so, particularly with skinny trousers, muscled legs and an enormous penis. But it isn't just the necessities of wallet and keys. Obviously these days there is also the mobile to carry. And the work security pass. And then lunch. Lunch is probably the primary reason for a bag: the remainder can probably be just about comfortably carried around on a daily basis, and deposited in a draw at work, but unless I am to carry lunch in an annoying carrier bag, a proper bag is needed.

Unfortunately, as well as being a man of ADM, I am also a man of any eventualities. So the bag also carries a coat and umbrella, just in case. Also the bag contains the notebook: my life. It contains all my music which wirelessly connects to my headphones, giving me my constant fix of noise. The notebook also provides my with my tele watching on the train.

And then there are the other bits: a notebook and pen, just in case I am grabbed by an urgent thought or need to make a list. And my digital camera, in case I stumble on a fantastic opportunity for which the mobile camera is not sufficient. And then the cable to connect the camera to the notebook. And an mp3 player, in case there should be a need for it rather than the notebook. And spare batteries, because you don't want to get caught short.

And obviously if I am using the big, usual, daily bag it will also carry substantial quantities of groceries (or beer) back home. So the big bag is my usual daily bag. But, in all fairness, I don't really like the big bag. If I do not have to transport shopping back, or if I am not running into work (and therefore needing the big bag to carry my change of clothes) then I forego any fripperous or extraneous cables, batteries or any such, and downsize to a more comfortable, smaller, more fashionable bag, just the essentials to prevent any trouser bulges, to allow me to eat at lunch, and to keep myself entertained and out of mischief on the train. That is today.

This does require a good bit of organisation. The day before I need to be aware of what is happening the next day: whether the big bag is required or whether I am able (or indeed required) to sacrifice it for compacity. This is no problem, I am an organised person any way.

But it doesn't stop there. As part of my ADM principles, my keyring holds just my front door key, unless I need to take my other keys. My other keys include the backdoor keys, the shed keys, the work locker keys and such like. The reasoning behind this other setvis that when I cycle to work I need to leave by the back door, use the shed, lock the bicycle at work, shower and use my locker. And I don't need my front door key. The front door key being abandonned on its own also means that it alone can be carried on a night out, reducing trouser-chattelling and bulging.

Of course, these are not the only set of keys. In my organised way I have a spare set inside, should I lose one set or need to leave a set with a workman or neighbour. Then I have a spare set outside incase I lock myself out. And of course there is a spare set with my parents, just in case.

Let's just hope this work event tonight isn't as bad as I expect, despite the couple of cans of lager stashed at the bottom of the bag.

Smugness

Well that's the weekend break well and truly out of the way.

Smugness is not an endearing trait, but it is self-validation, a reassurance to one's self that one is correct, logical, forethinking or such like. A short while ago I started my preparation for the presentations I was to give on a new topic. I was given the company party line to present on this development. I understood the logic of the company party line and presented it as I was expected to. What I also did was identify the flaws with the party line, criticised those flaws and made a prediction: that the party line would change. And it did, despite my presentations not being to any of the team who were to decide the party line. What this does, as well as breed the smugness, is reaffirm my position within the heirachy on the basis of my logic, my intellect, my reasoning (or argumentative criticisms if you prefer).

I was quite smugly entertained by a news story today. For a while now one of the local bus companies has been advertising itself on the basis that whilst petrol prices are rising, bus fares are not. At the time I questionned (in my own head) the logic behind this. By all means argue that your prices, say per mile, are less expensive, but do not ever suggest your prices are not rising. Inflation says otherwise. Today, of course, the said bus company had to raise its fares. Due to fuel prices. So now that previous advertising is not just wrong, but directly contradictory and self-demonising.

Finally, I have been re-watching This Life from a long time ago. Aside from issues regarding rubbish writing, basic plot lines and one-dimensional characters, one of the most entertaining things to look out for is the degree of change. From simple things like cola or cornflake packet labels to things like the Millennium Bridge not having even been built, the changes may seem very aesthetic and superfluous but realistically they are huge massive changes striking at the very heart of technology.

And that's before you even start to analyse the fashions...

A rather delightful treat

Quick apology: I didn't blog yesterday. This is because of a number of reasons, mostly connected to tiredness, a couple of examples of reasonings are that when i'm tired I prefer to sleep on the train (when I ususally blog) and also that I just can't think of anything inspiring when i'm tired.

Anyhow, today has been a good day so far.

When I got to my desk at work, feeling tired, worn, and definitely ready for a weekend. And there on the desk was a bottle of lovely wine and a large box of very nice chocolates. I had helped someone out at work with a problem with their bed. Nothing kinky, the bed had broken (again, nothing kinky I think, though I didn't pry too deeply on that) and the retailer was reluctant to refund or repair it. Anyhow, after I wrote a few letters the retailer backed down, and I was showered with a display of gratitude. Although one of my colleagues had rather cheekily scoped me out as to what wines I preferred on the pretence of organising a dinner party and - flatteringly - seeking my advice as to what wine was best to serve.

Add to that I got 7/7 on the quiz of the week's news and I was rather chuffed with the morning. The afternoon then involved completing a couple of su doku puzzles. And not just any su dokus, 'fiendish' su dokus. Good work.

One of the things I notice whilst doing the puzzles was that I favour certain numbers. With these particular puzzles I favoured 2, 5 and 9 and I kept returning to those numbers regardless of any of the others, and also regardless of the fact I had completed all of the 9s very early in one particular puzzle. I don't know why. In life I don't have favourite numbers (as with any superstition ibid) nor are the numbers always the same. I just get stuck on them. Who knows why.

Anyhow, combine all of this with a lovely hot, sunny day and it sets it all up for a lovely night... of nothingness. I have no plans for tonight. Well, except maybe the ironing which i've been putting off for weeks (nay, maybe even months)

Bank Holiday Wednesday

Bleugh.

Yes, I know, it shouldn't be so. Having had a bank holiday on Monday means this week is a shorter week of four working days. And yet for some reason these weeks seem all the more bleugh.

Well, the early part at least. Anyone who knows me will know that Tuesdays are my least favourite day of the week. Mondays are copeable. Just. You're still on just enough of a high after the weekend to get through it. Wednesdays are the mid-week day: you know after Wednesday lunch that you have broken the back of the week. Thursday is so very nearly Friday and Friday is practically the weekend. But Tuesdays have nothing. They are as far away from a weekend as you can imagine.

And for some reason Bank Holiday Tuesdays are worse still. They are the worst bits of being back in on a Monday, bundled in with the nasty bits of Tuesday. You can't even think of Wednesday as being half-way through the week, because it's not. Only at Thursday do you start the downhill straight.

And I think Bank Holiday Tuesdays are exaggerated all the more because you know the weekend coming is a day shorter. You get a third less time off work than you've just had. It's just an anti-climax.

So that is why today is more bleugh than normal. But I have made it this far into the week so it can't all be bad. I was surprised at being able to get out of bed to be fair. I had a very energetic day yesterday. I have returned to jogging a couple of times a week for the summer. I don't particularly enjoy it, I do it purely to keep and feel fit. On a Thursday this involves jogging the 2miles from home to the train station, the two miles from the train station to work, and then the return in the evening.

On a Tuesday it differs when I have intentions to go to five-a-side because I need to get home even quicker. I have a very short amount of time to cook, ready myself and get out to the leisure centre that I have to maximise this by cycling to and from the train station at the home end. So, I cycle the two miles to the station, jog the two miles at the other, jog then cycle back at the end of the day; eat a small, quick meal, then cycle the 5 miles to football, play for 90 minutes, and cycle back. Thursdays are comparitively sedate! But I managed it. And I got some ironing done too.

Not bad for the worst day of the week.