Where did you wish you were at lunchtime today?

I've just about recovered from the run, but still have a bit of a clicky shoulder from the swim. There is a rather down at heel herbalist/therapy type place near where I work, advertising shoulder massages for £5. When I walked past the make-shift board they had placed outside, I was somewhat put off by the unusual offer of 'Back Pain Gift Tokens'. I spent an interesting few moments wondering whether I would like to give anyone back pain for their next birthday.

It was pouring with rain, that lovely, seriously wet rain, with hefty mean-what-they-say clouds doing their stuff. It smelt nice. I wished I was in Scotland, with sodden earth beneath my feet instead of cracked concrete paving stones and tarmac. I wanted to hold my umbrella to one side and turn my face to the sky and let the water splash on my face and drench me. Sadly, this wouldn't be a good look in the office, so I kept my umbrella in the sensible place and felt dismal and boring. I'd have to make do with the poster of a castle on Mull and my little calendar of Iona opposite my desk. April has a nice sunset.

Minimum Bounce Marathon

Flushed with my recent success in the swimming pool, I decided to branch out into running. I have always harboured an urge to do a triathlon, being fine with the cycling and fine with the swimming, but always struggling with the running. I'm not built for speed.

Enthused by the marathon taking place this very morning, I dug around in my wardrobe and found my jogging bottoms, retrieved my mangled trainers from behind a shoe box and, very relieved, found my M&S 'athletic minimum bounce' bra at the back of a drawer.

I took off into the park at a steady (and exceptionally slow) rate. It went OK at first, but then I started to pant heavily. I was very pleased to see other runners with headphones on, so a) I didn't have to waste precious breath with a greeting and b) they couldn't hear my cheyne stoking. A bit further on and I was starting to struggle, and tried to distract myself by wondering who was sitting in the low flying aeroplane overhead. Disappointingly quickly, I was fighting the voice in my head saying, 'give up now, why don't you just walk, walking is nice, walking is gooood, just give up'. I decided to just keep my eyes on the next tree, then the next tree, and so on. There are a lot of trees in the park. After ten minutes I was pleased to remember that I had been listening to my favourite 'angelic' music with younger son, and had explained that this was what was to be played at my funeral. With my heart thumping away in my chest, I inwardly applauded my forethought and began to plan other aspects of my funeral. There wouldn't be a dry eye in the house as the letter I had written for the occasion was read out (note to self to write this, although when do you find the right moment to pen your own funeral address - when drunk? When happy? When depressed?). Luckily, this line of thought had taken me quite a few trees further on. My left knee was complaining a bit, and I was getting fed up with my chest shaking up and down in spite of the promises made by the foundation garment packaging. It was quite disconcerting that my stomach was also shaking quite a lot too - that never used to happen. Another mental note to self to get the ab roller going again.

I eventually made it to the wrought iron fence with important looking newell post that I have to tap with my hand before I can stop. I felt quite smug as I went through my stretches like a proper runner. I hoped I had created the impression that instead of having just jogged a mile, I had circumnavigated the park at impressive speed. I'm not sure anyone was fooled.

St George at the Traffic Lights

The three lane gyratory system round my office briefly became a place of laughter and joviality this morning as two flat bed trucks rumbled past with a load of jolly red and white clad people jiggling around in the back. There was a lot of hooting and waving and something of a carnival atmosphere for about 2 minutes while they waited for the traffic lights to change (slow phasing). Someone was wearing what looked like woolly chain mail and there was a lot of flag waving going on. I think woolly chain mail is only ever going to work with those wobbly arrows with suckers on the end (I mean rubber suckers, not oblivious victims being perforated).

Talking of perforation, I was in sore need of my two minutes of jolliness as I had had the long awaited rabies injection this morning. The leaflet cheerfully mentioned the possibility of anaphylactic shock, but what it didn’t mention was that this could happen in the pharmacy when you saw the bill - £100! I suppose it’s worth it not to turn into a foaming, mad woman.

(I know what some of you thought then and IT’S NOT FUNNY).

Oh, and the swim

I did my 5K (200 lengths - yes, that's 200 lengths) in two hours and fifteen minutes. The bottom of the pool gets extremely dull after the first two lengths. The 'fun' sculptures in the children's area take on a menacing look after twenty. The man in front's feet start to irritate after about sixty. The clock apparently refusing to move its hands becomes frustrating at about ninety. Everything starts to ache after about one hundred and ten. And so on, and so on, and so on and so on............

Today though, I'm feeling smug. When things got a bit stressful at work, I sat back and thought about how totally fabulous I am at swimming and what an amazing success I am. It won't last long. Probably just as well as they would have to rebuild the doorframes to make room for my head.

I suspect my fabulousness feelings will peter out somewhere between the hepatitis B and rabies injections on Wednesday morning. Oh well, I'll enjoy it until then. By the way, if you see me foaming at the mouth at the end of the week, give me a wide berth.

Requiem for a Snail

There's something about the tiles on my front doorstep that become totally irresistable to snails when it's been raining. They come from all directions and try to get in the front door. Usually I'm careful to remember this, and move them out of the way. Sadly, the other evening, coming back late from a very cheery evening out with friends, I tripped up the steps, doorkey in hand, to hear an ominous crunch, and a gluey feeling on the sole of my shoe. I didn't dare look down to inspect the carnage, and surreptitiously scraped my shoe before I went into the hall. The next morning, there it was, evidence of the snail massacre the night before. There seemed to be little substance left, so I think a bird might have enjoyed a late night snack.

Poor snail, I hope he/she was happy while alive. Come to think of it, life is probably quite interesting with that he/she thing snails have going on.

Sport for the Sluggish

I've been feeling a bit dopey all week, so things aren't looking too good for the three mile swim tomorrow. I reckon that if I can do at least two miles, the rest I can do by lying on my back and just swirling my arms gently back and forth like jellyfish tentacles. I think my silicone hat and goggles will complete the Cnidaria look too (sorry, little showy off moment there - look it up). The swim starts at 1pm, I might just be back at home in time for dinner if I'm lucky!

After this, I'll need to take up another sport that doesn't turn my hair to straw and strip my body of its epidermal layer. Badminton has always seemed like gentle fun (as long as you stay at the lower echelons of the game). The big benefit of a shuttlecock is that it doesn't roll away like those annoying tennis balls, so you expend less energy around the court. You don't tend to get a bruise where it hits you either. It isn't really very difficult to swing those nice, light racquets around, you don't get wet, you don't get cold, and chances are, there will be a bar somewhere nearby to recover in when the first bead of sweat appears on the brow.

Oh yes, the sporting life for me.

Sartorial Swimming

I finally managed to get to the outdoor pool again yesterday. Taking the advice of my hairdresser I bought a silicone swimming hat, and decided to splash out (pardon the pun) on the £15 goggles to make sure I could read the Sunday papers when I got home again. My head is quite large (no jokes please), and the silicone 'sheath' didn't want to go on. It had to be wedged firmly into place, giving me a permanent frown. I topped this with the gorgeous goggles, which after a few minutes suck your eyes out to fill the vacuum, so I ended up looking like a bad-tempered lizard. I don't think Claudia Schieffer has anything to worry about yet. Every couple of lengths the hat started to slide upwards and filled with air, so I looked like a surprised lizard with a balloon on my head. The only consolation in all this is that no-one would recognise me. I think I'll avoid the nose clips, there are limits.

I did manage to do the mile in about 48 minutes, so I should be able to do three miles next weekend within the session time of 3 hours. Watch this space!

Swimming down the Road

I'm swimming three miles in about 8 days time, and I haven't been swimming for about two weeks. Should I be worried? Hmmmm. Some helpful advice I've had in order to avoid the tedium of the lengths is to imagine I'm swimming somewhere three miles away. So, I'm going to pretend I'm swimming to Twickenham. It will feel a bit odd swimming down the main road with the buses, but I'm willing to give it a go. I'm not entirely sure Twickenham is actually the full three miles, so might do a detour en route. I could swim past Tesco's in Teddington and wave at all the shoppers. It will be an interesting extension of my dance technique, which usually involves a lot of swimming movements.

I know, I know, 'It was only funny for the first twenty years!' I hear you shout, I do need to learn to throw some new shapes now.

My other news is that the Skip has been a) serviced and goes very nicely again and b) has had some Mr Sheen squirted around inside to celebrate. I even found some loose change lying on the floor as my reward. I'll spend it in the pub tonight.


'Anyone know where the deep end is?'

Blue Stripe Paint

I am fed up with my bathroom. Since I decorated it, and put the new floor down, we need to have a bucket in the sitting room when someone has a shower. I can't say this is much of an improvement on the undecorated bathroom, where the old bit of cheap carpet was obviously holding all the water back. Because the ceiling has been leaking it is now sporting a series of irritating brown stains. I had another bad decorating experience a year or so ago when I tried to paint out some brown stains on the ceiling from another leak. I foolishly bought blue stripe white paint (blue stripe denoting the brand rather than the pattern of the paint - although stripey paint would be very jolly). After about six coats I decided that blue stripe paint was actually invisible paint as the brown stain was still showing through just as clearly. I think I need to invent a new fashion in decorating where brown stains are seen as a decorative asset. Talking of which, the pub across the road spent a lot of money redecorating a few years back, but strangely chose nicotine coloured paint for the ceiling. It didn't look any different by the time they finished. I've since seen quite a few pubs with nicotine coloured paintwork.

It must be time for a new range of colours from Dulux. Out with 'warm neutrals' or 'rich reds' and in with 'nearly nicotine', and 'isn't it time we got the plumber in brown'.

Anarchy and Marks and Spencer

I've just bought a pair of very bright, patchwork hippy style trousers they are so bright I think I might embarrass my children if I wear them while in their company. Maybe, after years of loyalty, I'm breaking out of the Marks and Spencers mode at last. Does this mark a new beginning in anarchic wear? Do I need to get a black balaclava to go with my new outfit? Will I start waving placards with words that rhyme with 'banker' on them? Will I experience being coralled like a bucking broncho while quietly walking around Trafalgar Square, purely based on my outfit? Will Marks and Spencers start a new line of clothes (bovver boots and black hoodies) to keep up with anti-establishment trends? They would have to think of something other than 'St Michael' as a brand name. You can't go throwing computers through bank windows wearing saintly attire.

I quite like the idea of the balaclava - you could throw away the sun cream and stop worrying about the crows feet around the eyes. You could even couple it with sunglasses for the complete incognito effect - although this would reduce the power of the 'Paddington Hard Stare' when confronting the police. Yes, I think all non-violent protest should be based on the 'Paddington Hard Stare'. Nothing would get broken and no-one would be arrested and the police would be reduced to going for elevenses, whatever time it was.

Double Doh

I've just got my car back from a service, and how wonderful it is not to have to get on buses for a while. The few days I was without the car I seemed to live on public transport. Some of this was my fault as one morning I did manage to get on the wrong bus and ended up having a very convoluted journey to work. I had rushed out of the station, seen my bus was 'due' and hopped on the first one to come along. Doh! I thought when I realised. 'Double Doh' I thought when I also noticed I had left my card key and office key at home (the last time that happened I spent quite a lot of the day waiting in corridors to be let through doors by anyone that took pity on me). Some days should just be spent lying in bed with the duvet pulled over your eyes waiting for the day to pass uneventfully.

Things perked up when I went to London for a very nice lunch in a very smart place, and then visited a Van Dyke exhibition on the way back.


'Anyone got a penny or two for one of me loverly oil paintings?'

Smarties

I'm feeling guilty because I haven't swum a mile for a week, and the sponsored swim is coming up sooner than I had realised. Trouble is the chlorine is turning my hair into straw. I thought I'd do lots of walking instead and have been stomping a three mile circuit round the park regularly. There were some deer having a meeting by a stream today, and a heron chasing a crow. I haven't seen any bunnies for a while, which is a shame as I do like seeing them lolloping along.

Talking of bunnies, the Easter bunny came to Tesco's with me yesterday and threw three Smartie eggs into the trolley (I tried to fight him off but he wasn't having any of it). I automatically buy three eggs anyway, having three children and over twenty years of conditioning. Today, I was feeling a bit peckish and realised that one child is away until June and therefore will probably not notice not having an egg at Easter. I did enjoy eating it (apart from the modicum of guilt I was feeling at stealing from my child). There is something particularly satisfying about a Smartie. When I was a child, I used to sort all the colours into a type of Smartie bar graph (this was obviously when the poltegeists didn't want to play). It was always disappointing when the brown ones made the tallest column, which was often as in those days there were two shades of brown (interesting statistical angle to add to the fun). Another sad thing about Smarties is that you used to get the carboard tube and plastic lid combo with a letter on the back of the lid. Now you have those cardboard hexagonal tubes with a meagre opening that isn't quite big enough to get a good scoop of Smarties out in one go. You can't assuage that sad feeling of having run out of Smarties by trying to spell your name without half the letters you need. No wonder numeracy and literacy standards are going downhill in this country. Forget SATS, Smartie bar graphs and letter lids would sort it all out. Maybe that's why they're called Smarties!

'Did anyone remember to deliver Fibonacci's Easter egg?'

This is Going to Hurt Your Purse Just a Little Bit

I thought the dentist had been a bit slow sending out my 17 month check up reminder letter, so I made an appointment and went along this morning. I was a bit surprised to find that it was not 18 or 20 months since my last visit, but 5 years. How did that happen? Another shock was that the cost seemed to have escalated rather dramatically. £50 for the check up and another £50 tomorrow with the hygienist - and I hate going to the hygienist. She never seems happy until she has started a haemorrhage from between each pair of teeth with her gouging and scouring. Just as you start to gag on your own blood she tries to make polite chit chat. When you try to agree that the weather is indeed looking up, trickles of blood escape from the corners of your mouth, making you look like you've wandered off the set of a Dracula movie. For reasons I won't go into now, I do have a dracula cape in the wardrobe upstairs. Maybe I should get it out and wear it tomorrow.


'I say, fifty pounds seems a bit steep, but at least I have my lovely smile back!'

Anyone for Braised Fennell?

I went to the dump this morning, but arrived a bit too early. I sat in the car and read the Sunday Times and drank a cappuccino with lumps in it from a machine in the newsagents. Yes, lumps. Not sure how cappuccino can get lumps in it, but there we are.

So, as I inhaled fumes from the lorry waiting in front, and wondered what the ominous liquid was dripping down by its numberplate, I flicked through pages of glossy nonsense. Why wasn't I the sort of sophisticate that offered braised fennell to my dinner guests? Have my friends all been disappointed that this dish hasn't been offered to them over the years? Why don't I want to enlarge my breasts with stem cell therapy or spend £350 on a handbag? Why do I spend £2 every week on this stuff?

Once the gates to the dump opened and let us all in, I flung my TV over the edge, imagining for a brief but joyful moment that I was the lead singer in a rock band and the TV was flying over a balcony in a Caribbean resort rather than the retaining wall at the Council tip.

I strutted back to the car, dusting my hands off.

Back home for a decent coffee and the serious bits of the paper.

Hurry up, the clock is ticking!

I've just been to a performance of the St John Passion by Bach (well, Bach wasn't performing it, but you know what I mean). It was very stirring and inspirational. How could he have written so much fantastic music and how many people has he brought happiness to over all those centuries. What have I done? How annoying are these talented people as, although they make us feel happy, they also make us feel inadequate. It's a double whammy.

The wine and pizza afterwards helped.

So if you haven't reinvented music or strummed tunes that people will be playing for the next four centuries, quickly think of something you can do to make your presence on the planet worthwhile. Time is running out!


'I just can't be bothered to restructure western music today, I think I'll catch up on Eastenders.'

Blue Sky Thinking II

Read part I first silly!

I've just had a bath and while I was waiting for the conditioner to try to repair some of the damage chlorine has done to my hair, I contemplated what you can do to stave off the boredom of a tedious lecture.

a) You can have a rich inner life and retreat into it while wearing an expression of casual concern, which will be read by the lecturer as 'how can I improve my HR knowledge?'

b) Do your pelvic floor muscle exercises, you know you've been meaning to do them for some time. This will result in an expression of inward concentration, which will make the lecturer pleased.

c) Imagine the lecturer is actually a Matador, wearing snug trousers, broad red cummerbund and a bolero encrusted with bling. The bull is pawing the sand as the Matador cuts a flamboyant swathe with the cloak. Lots of concentration is required to keep this vision alive as the lecturer makes remarks about paragraph b subsection 19(i). The Matador will fling his tricorn hat in the air as he stamps his feet in an arrogant manner:

'take sprocket B squared and apply moderate torque' (yes, you might even find your brain re-lives sections of the Ford Anglia Owner's Manual to avoid the rules of electronic submission of form 9D(iii)).

The crowd get to their feet, roaring their approval, as the tea trolley comes in with one of those seriously disappointing hot water containers that just can't keep the water hot enough to make a decent cup of tea.

Blue Sky Thinking

Today was spent listening to a monochrome man with a monotone drone impart dull information in a dull room on a dull day. It was all a farce as he was very obviously bored delivering the lecture for what must have been the umpteenth time. We were all very obviously struggling to hide our yawns, especially as the room became overly warm.

The best thing about these sessions is that it feels really fantastic to escape at the end. I went on a brisk three mile walk around the park, delighting in the breeze on my face; looking at the sticky buds starting to open, the courting parakeets and the wild and windy sky.

Maybe it's all an elaborate bluff about improving efficiency, and corporate procedures are really there just to make sure we enjoy the rest of our lives better.



'I wish I could spend more time listening to lectures on HR procedures'.

Punching the Air and Shouting 'YAY!'

My bin was smelling a bit yucky, so I invested in some bin liners from Marks and Spencer that were not only scented, but decorated like a bone china teaset. I think the roses are meant to cheer you up when you try to remove your festering garbage from under the kitchen sink, and I admit, they are jollier than the usual funereal black. The scent really doesn't work, the combination of cloying floral hints from the plastic and the dust thrown off the green bits of bread make uneasy companions in my nasal passages. This morning the uplifting effect of the roses was lost fairly quickly by the smell and as I staggered to the front door the gooey lid of the marmalade made an escape onto the living room carpet.

I'm actually being very dynamic today. I always wake up way to early, and someone at work suggested I go in later as a) I've got lots of time owing and b) I must have lots I could do around the house before I go in. (This was said somewhat cheekily as I'm not known for having the cleanest house around).

Well, this morning I woke up at 4.30am, yes, that's 4.30am. I couldn't get back to sleep so read a chapter of a rather depressing book about a teenager dying, made a cup of tea and got back into bed with a Suduko (too easy today). By 5.30am I'm feeling restless and get up. I realised that the open air pool started an early birds swim at 6am, so, (be prepared to be impressed here) I had swum a mile before 7am this morning! It's still only 8.20am and I'm determined not to be at work before 10am. I have vacuumed, done a load of washing, filled up the dishwasher and put out the rubbish (see above). And now I am writing my blog! How much more can I achieve today? It's so exciting! I'm saying all this because I've read a self help book recently, in actual fact I will be prone on the settee by 7.30pm this evening (with a box of chocs in one hand and glass of wine in the other watching something that is unlikely to improve my mind).

So, how's your day going?

Big Bellies and Big Pants

I went on a tribal style belly dancing workshop yesterday. I can now undulate like a python and choo choo with alluring hip movements while I float diagonally across a room. That’s the image I had of myself anyway. The reality was I could feel each vertebrae in my upper back grinding away which gave me an expression not so much of inner serenity, but more of grimacing anxiety. The saucy, undulating movements looked more like I was suffering from stomach cramps and the hip flicks made me appear to walk with a bad limp.

It was my first session and I was pleased to spot that even bearing in mind the above I was still better than the tattooed lady who held her arms out like a policeman directing traffic, who had apparently been going for quite a long time. I enjoyed a smug moment. You need to enjoy these at every opportunity because I suspect that as you get older, they get less frequent.

I thought that belly dancing might be a good way to get fitter and slimmer. This seemed unlikely given that the two instructors sported a) plenty of belly to dance with after decades of doing the ‘Egyptian’ and b) bad backs.

To conceal a moment of gasping exhaustion I checked out the stall of harem clothes. There was a lovely looking ‘ashes of roses’ bra top and skirt. On closer inspection I spotted that the top had been sewn onto an M& S bra that looked like it had been worn for quite a while previously and was hoping to enjoy a new lease of life shimmying. It was a bit off-putting. The harem pants were voluminous and quite sheer. You’d need some Bridget Jones pants to ensure your modesty was left intact after doing the ‘Arabic’.

All in all we decided that the beautifully sunny afternoon might have been better spent with an ice cream on the beach, at least it would ensure we kept our bellies in a state of readiness if we wanted to take up the dancing again.

Sparkling water and Sugar Highs

I'm feeling quite virtuous, having cycled across the park to the pool for a swim and cycled home again. Everything was glowing in the spring sunshine, and the water was sparkling nicely. The swim was lovely, apart from an irritating person who did slow breast-stroke in the fast lane. This was annoying as I couldn't actually swim as slowly as she was going, so had to tread water with breast-stroke arms behind her. When she turned at the end, she saw me swimming very slowly and very badly and assumed she was faster, so didn't let me go ahead. Apart from that it felt quite easy, but I do need some goggles as everything is a bit fuzzy now. I'm also very hungry but resisted the urge to buy some of those seriously yummy Cadbury's mini-eggs on the way home. Once you open a packet it's hard to stop eating them, even though your mouth becomes clogged up with sugaryness. I find a cup of strong tea helps to keep them going down smoothly. You can get quite a lot done in the sugar high afterwards too.


I just can't wait to get to those mini-eggs, and get the vacuuming done