Day 152, Monday June 1, 10.30am: I spent much of this weekend immersed in bad golf and great conversation.
I'd rather not dwell on the golf. It's still too painful. Suffice to say I rather let down Jolly Adam in our team matchplay event. He hit 280-yard drives and I duffed mine onto the ladies' tee. Again and again and again.
The conversation, though, in blazing evening sun in our garden, was a revelation. One-Lung Mike is always good value. He puts things in ways that surprise me.
He talked about Neuro-linguistic programming and the notion of 're-framing'. I don't know what the official definition is, but I see it as setting your life into a different, more positive context - breaking out of one box and finding a bigger and better one to inhabit.
No one is doing more reframing at the moment than One-Lung Mike and Lubricious Linda. Since the start of this blog, they have rented their house out and set up an alternative home in France. The idea is for One-Lung to continue with occasional English sojourns in bedsits, raking in heady computer-programming cash, while spending most of his year with Linda, dallying among the Wine-And-Baguette-Folk.
Actually, I think I am re-framing too, only less dramatically and, of course, less successfully. I have re-framed my body to an extent (I'm definitely lighter), I have reframed my diet (it's definitely better), I have reframed my golf (it's got a lot worse, but I'm clinging to the hope that it's all to do with the hernia) and I have reframed my musical ability (I can play a couple of arpeggios and scales). The swimming seems to have sunk but I am in the process of framing, rather than re-framing, a website.
Not bad, really, for a fat 50-year-old. Not exactly in One-Lung's league, though.
Monday, 1 June 2009
My Shoulders Have Moved
Day 152, Monday, June 1, 10am: I am walking back from dropping off Eight-Year-Old at school and I notice my shoulders are not where they should be.
Or rather, they're where they should be but not where they used to be.
They're lower, and further back.
This is what a week in Crete does for you. This is what a week of lazing in the
sun by the pool does for you. It reminds you how to relax and just be. It reminds you that there is no such thing as time (apart from lunchtime), only watches and clocks and chimes and alarms.
I wonder how long it will take for my shoulders to revert to their usual, hunched, knotted situation?
School pick-up time this afternoon, I fancy... In fact, I think my shoulders are on the move already.
Or rather, they're where they should be but not where they used to be.
They're lower, and further back.
This is what a week in Crete does for you. This is what a week of lazing in the
sun by the pool does for you. It reminds you how to relax and just be. It reminds you that there is no such thing as time (apart from lunchtime), only watches and clocks and chimes and alarms.
I wonder how long it will take for my shoulders to revert to their usual, hunched, knotted situation?
School pick-up time this afternoon, I fancy... In fact, I think my shoulders are on the move already.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Risking A Bit Of Heart-Felt
Day 140,Wednesday, May 20, 7am: I am feeling so, so, so, so good. Despite feeling pretty lousy. In fact, I'm feeling so good that I sometimes forget about the cold, the sore throat and the head full of cotton wool.
This, by the way, is not an advert, it's just a bit of Heart-Felt. Which, admittedly, is not to be encouraged, not too often anyway, and preferably not in public. But here goes. I'll risk it...
To date, I have had five reactions to my book and they've all been overwhelmingly generous. And, do you know, that is enough. That is all, and probably more, than I ever hoped for. I wanted somebody - just one somebody, not five of them - to get something out of it. I put a fair bit of feeling into the book, in between the flippancy, and I wanted somebody to notice.
I have never much rated what I do. I was a jobbing journalist for years. I wrote as well as I could but it didn't seem to add up to much. As a wire journalist, you wrote against the clock - or rather, against the unmerciless tick-tock of the second hand - and you never saw your audience. Your texts disappeared into the ether, never to be re-visited again. And, try as I could, I never considered that writing about sport could be termed as anything much more than froth.
But here I am with a book, and with five people who liked it. Bloody hell. That's a serious, serious highlight. So to Matthew, Martin, Juliet, Godfather John and Chris - thank you so much. You have made an old, decrepit, fat, burnt-out excuse of a house dad very happy indeed.
It won't last, of course.
In fact, I feel the Heart-Felt getting a bit over-bearing already. Back to the tried-and tested general grumpiness... it's so much comfortable to deal with.
This, by the way, is not an advert, it's just a bit of Heart-Felt. Which, admittedly, is not to be encouraged, not too often anyway, and preferably not in public. But here goes. I'll risk it...
To date, I have had five reactions to my book and they've all been overwhelmingly generous. And, do you know, that is enough. That is all, and probably more, than I ever hoped for. I wanted somebody - just one somebody, not five of them - to get something out of it. I put a fair bit of feeling into the book, in between the flippancy, and I wanted somebody to notice.
I have never much rated what I do. I was a jobbing journalist for years. I wrote as well as I could but it didn't seem to add up to much. As a wire journalist, you wrote against the clock - or rather, against the unmerciless tick-tock of the second hand - and you never saw your audience. Your texts disappeared into the ether, never to be re-visited again. And, try as I could, I never considered that writing about sport could be termed as anything much more than froth.
But here I am with a book, and with five people who liked it. Bloody hell. That's a serious, serious highlight. So to Matthew, Martin, Juliet, Godfather John and Chris - thank you so much. You have made an old, decrepit, fat, burnt-out excuse of a house dad very happy indeed.
It won't last, of course.
In fact, I feel the Heart-Felt getting a bit over-bearing already. Back to the tried-and tested general grumpiness... it's so much comfortable to deal with.
Monday, 18 May 2009
In Praise of Glen The Human Fish (With Apologies to John The Fish)
Day 139, Tuesday May 19, 8.15am: Guys, this blog - thanks to Glen, and to you - has achieved something of value.
Which, frankly, is something of a surprise.
Having struggled with my health in recent weeks, I was beginning to doubt that it was worth carrying on these jottings - it's hard to be an achiever, after all, when you feel like you've been run over by a truck. But then Glen came along. This man is an achiever. For the record, he had intended to swim 10,000 metres over six hours at the weekend in memory of his wife Tamsin but ended up by storming to 14,000. That's 8.7 miles, I'm told. Absolutely incredible. He could barely move afterwards. He's raised more than 1,000 pounds at the last count. TRSNYRC helped raise 485 pounds.
Quod erat demonstrandum - this blog is worth 485 quid. Which is about 485 more than it was worth a few weeks ago. Actually, 486, if we're completely honest. Perhaps we should try and float it on the FTSE. Bagsee be Fred the Shred...
Having not achieved anything myself for a fair while, I shall resort instead to a joke for my conclusion.
Eight-Year-Old Know-It-All Daughter overheard speaking to her friend the other day: "Don't worry, you won't die of swine 'flu because you've just washed your hands."
Newsround has a lot to answer for.
Which, frankly, is something of a surprise.
Having struggled with my health in recent weeks, I was beginning to doubt that it was worth carrying on these jottings - it's hard to be an achiever, after all, when you feel like you've been run over by a truck. But then Glen came along. This man is an achiever. For the record, he had intended to swim 10,000 metres over six hours at the weekend in memory of his wife Tamsin but ended up by storming to 14,000. That's 8.7 miles, I'm told. Absolutely incredible. He could barely move afterwards. He's raised more than 1,000 pounds at the last count. TRSNYRC helped raise 485 pounds.
Quod erat demonstrandum - this blog is worth 485 quid. Which is about 485 more than it was worth a few weeks ago. Actually, 486, if we're completely honest. Perhaps we should try and float it on the FTSE. Bagsee be Fred the Shred...
Having not achieved anything myself for a fair while, I shall resort instead to a joke for my conclusion.
Eight-Year-Old Know-It-All Daughter overheard speaking to her friend the other day: "Don't worry, you won't die of swine 'flu because you've just washed your hands."
Newsround has a lot to answer for.
Monday, 11 May 2009
Introducing Jolly Adam...
I’ve gone off Jolly Adam and I’m rapidly going off Chris The Tooth too.
You may recall that it was my intention to win a Lindfield Golf Club medal this year, or at least go round the course in six over or less. Since when, I’ve lost two medals, scored 18 over, 21 over and 16 over in my last three lamentable efforts and got a hernia.
Adam, as far as I know, does not have any New Year’s Resolutions to speak of.
But he happily joins Lindfield Golf Club and, in his first monthly medal, goes round in something too preposterous to mention – was it six over, Adam? Off a handicap of 10? All I can recall from our phone conversation on the subject – I was weeping uncontrollably at the time, so I could not hear particularly clearly – was that he was THREE UNDER after FOUR HOLES! And that, apart from winning the medal, he also got his hands on two cash prizes for hitting birdies on two of the par threes. And his handicap got cut to 9.6. I would kill for a handicap of 9.6.
We are not talking at present.
I’m still talking to Chris The Tooth, but only frostily. His resolutions involve dissertations and learning to pluck his guitar but he had the gall to go round his local course in 79 the other day.
Makes you sick. Seriously sick I'd say Swine Flu sick if that didn't betray a suspect sense of humour.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
In Memory Of Tamsin
Day 127, May 7, 10.30pm - Tamsin was my godfather's daughter. A super lass. She died a year ago from cancer, aged 46. By the time she was diagnosed it was so far advanced that she only had two months to live.
Her husband Glen is about to undertake a six-hour swim for charity. He's doing it on May 17 - Tamsin's birthday.
I have decided to sponsor him and urge you to join me. I will then ask Glen for swimming tips. I have not been swimming or gone to the gym for three weeks. Last time I swam I managed two lengths before giving up. I blame my hernia, and my never-ending cold.
I suspect that Glen, who's also got two young kids to bring up, doesn't waste too much time on excuses.
I shall go to the gym tomorrow - promise. In memory of Tamsin, and in honour of Glen. In the meantime, let me know if you'd like to make it a TRSNYRC sponsorship campaign. We have 10 days.
My godfather John, by the way, has the greatest laugh. That's not strictly relevant, but I thought I'd mention it. As a boy, I remember him listening to recordings of American comedian Bob Newhart while tears of laughter rolled down his face.
Apologies for the recent blog silence, by the way. I've had a lot on. But that, as usual, is just an excuse. I swear by excuses. Which is probably why I can't swim for six minutes, let alone six hours.
Her husband Glen is about to undertake a six-hour swim for charity. He's doing it on May 17 - Tamsin's birthday.
I have decided to sponsor him and urge you to join me. I will then ask Glen for swimming tips. I have not been swimming or gone to the gym for three weeks. Last time I swam I managed two lengths before giving up. I blame my hernia, and my never-ending cold.
I suspect that Glen, who's also got two young kids to bring up, doesn't waste too much time on excuses.
I shall go to the gym tomorrow - promise. In memory of Tamsin, and in honour of Glen. In the meantime, let me know if you'd like to make it a TRSNYRC sponsorship campaign. We have 10 days.
My godfather John, by the way, has the greatest laugh. That's not strictly relevant, but I thought I'd mention it. As a boy, I remember him listening to recordings of American comedian Bob Newhart while tears of laughter rolled down his face.
Apologies for the recent blog silence, by the way. I've had a lot on. But that, as usual, is just an excuse. I swear by excuses. Which is probably why I can't swim for six minutes, let alone six hours.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Hernias Aren't All Bad
Day 111, Tuesday April 21, 10am: It's been a bad, bad few weeks.
I've a) got badly-paid work coming out of my ears b) had yet another another another cold c) so my ME is absolutely rubbish and d) if that wasn't enough, I've gone and got myself a hernia. Oh, and e), a trapped nerve in my left shoulder to boot. Otherwise, things are just great.
At least I'm not Brother Roger. He's just had his appendix whipped out and has requested he be released from his TRSNYRC pledges. Our second faller. That we know of.
I feel a bit like a fall-guy myself right now. This is the first blog entry for about 10 days, for which I apologise (to myself in particular, on the assumption that I am the only one reading it anyway). I have been snowed under writing sports internet pages on rugby and cricket. It's interesting, I can fit it in around family life, but I'd earn more per hour at Tesco's. Mind you, did you know that William Webb Ellis's grave was only re-discovered in 1958? He's buried in the south east of France, apparently. And did you know that Barry Richards only played four Test matches, all against Australia, averaging 72.57? And Graeme Pollock only played 23, all against England and Australia, and his average was only surpassed by one Sir Donald Bradman? And did you know that New Zealand took 26 years to win a Test match? No, neither did I.
Anyway, back to the hernia. Hernias, it turns out, are quite interesting too. Did you know that men are predisposed to having weaknesses in their muscle wall around the groin area? And that you can get a hernia by coughing? I think I got mine from writing sports internet pages. Anyway, I'm due for an op at the start of June. Which has rather curtailed my resolutions. I haven't been to the gym for a week, but that's mainly due to the cold. I shall go back today and do a light bike session, while wincing. Hernias, my piano teacher informs me, should not impinge on my keyboard practice (damn - there goes another excuse!).
Golf, though, is out. It's pretty painful. As for swimming, I've not tried that for a few weeks either (cold, and internet sports pages, and hernia, and shoulder) but I'll give it a go on Wednesday. Right. I can't chat on like this. I have to write the history of Pakistan cricket. Did you know that...
I've a) got badly-paid work coming out of my ears b) had yet another another another cold c) so my ME is absolutely rubbish and d) if that wasn't enough, I've gone and got myself a hernia. Oh, and e), a trapped nerve in my left shoulder to boot. Otherwise, things are just great.
At least I'm not Brother Roger. He's just had his appendix whipped out and has requested he be released from his TRSNYRC pledges. Our second faller. That we know of.
I feel a bit like a fall-guy myself right now. This is the first blog entry for about 10 days, for which I apologise (to myself in particular, on the assumption that I am the only one reading it anyway). I have been snowed under writing sports internet pages on rugby and cricket. It's interesting, I can fit it in around family life, but I'd earn more per hour at Tesco's. Mind you, did you know that William Webb Ellis's grave was only re-discovered in 1958? He's buried in the south east of France, apparently. And did you know that Barry Richards only played four Test matches, all against Australia, averaging 72.57? And Graeme Pollock only played 23, all against England and Australia, and his average was only surpassed by one Sir Donald Bradman? And did you know that New Zealand took 26 years to win a Test match? No, neither did I.
Anyway, back to the hernia. Hernias, it turns out, are quite interesting too. Did you know that men are predisposed to having weaknesses in their muscle wall around the groin area? And that you can get a hernia by coughing? I think I got mine from writing sports internet pages. Anyway, I'm due for an op at the start of June. Which has rather curtailed my resolutions. I haven't been to the gym for a week, but that's mainly due to the cold. I shall go back today and do a light bike session, while wincing. Hernias, my piano teacher informs me, should not impinge on my keyboard practice (damn - there goes another excuse!).
Golf, though, is out. It's pretty painful. As for swimming, I've not tried that for a few weeks either (cold, and internet sports pages, and hernia, and shoulder) but I'll give it a go on Wednesday. Right. I can't chat on like this. I have to write the history of Pakistan cricket. Did you know that...
Saturday, 11 April 2009
Some More Updates...
Day 101, Saturday April11, 11.5
Stopcock Clare: Resolutions - Take plumbing course/do more knitting/regular
To date - Completed plumbing course.
Fragrant Wife: Resolution - One sketch a day.
To date (I quote Burgess Hill Boot Boy, Fragrant Wife’s less fragrant husband) - “My dearest wife (who does not have access to this email account) has crafted a veritable Sistine Chapel of pictures. Some quite good and some, frankly, obscene. She's popping 'em out like rabbits pop out poo and I fear that she'll get RSI and/or the police will shut down my house as an artistic sweat shop.)
Burgess Hill Boot Boy: Resolution – To make no resolutions whatsoever.
To date - “You might be interested to hear that, due to excessive and tearful pressure from a brain-washed Son One, I have not had a fag since around 2200 on
Babak The Potter: Resolution – To do something artistic, like taking up pottery.
To date – “I'm struggling to find head space. Now that the days are a bit longer, anything is possible!”
Ramrod Rachel: Resolution - sort out weak back.
To date - Stopped going to the gym after doctor’s advice. Now taking up Pilates.
Kate The Toe Throb: Resolution – Do some serious running.
To date – “Hi Tony. Yes running still (ask recently witnessed by David Walker if you need confirmation!) All going well, still throbbing toe though!”
Sleepless Ruth (mother of nine, at the last count):
Resolution - To get some more sleep.
To date – No more sleep, not because of children but because of plumbing and electrical work on her and her husband’s work-in-progress house in
Bill The Board: Resolution - To learn to surf before his new-born son.
To date – “Alright alright....I'll readily concede that my progress has been pitiful. I have, though, managed to fix a roof rack to my jeep for the yet-to-be purchased second-hand surfboard (please note I am learning to surf, not windsurf, bodysurf or anyothertypeofsurf). I have also selected my venue, the rather large and scary Gwithian beach near Hayle in west
Roger The Thespian: Resolutions: 1. To adapt a one-man play for radio and hopefully get it produced and made. 2. To reacquaint myself with the piano. 3. Since I need to get one failure out of the way, to not be 43 years old in 105 minutes time. 4. To do the London-Brighton cycle ride.
To date: “Still waiting to hear if I've been accepted for bike ride. Er... that's about it. What were my other resolutions?!”
Cricketing Kuldip: Resolution - Do some walking, do some yoga every morning, in an attempt to lose weight.
To date – Walking/yoga each morning, but no weight loss. “Am told it took years to put on the weight, so don't expect it go so soon. Logical I suppose. But I am not giving up. Cant let this group down, can I ????"
Jenny The Penguin: Resolutions – Get on Facebook and try and keep in touch with people/get head around Twitter/learn how to put tunes on iPod.
Resume dieting. Become a filmgoer again after 9 years of children's films only.
To date – Going to the cinema regularly (seen Australia, Slumdog Millionaire, Frost Nixon and Revolutionary Road, Milk, The Damned United, Young Victoria ). Not got head around new technology at all.
First-Tee Juliet: Resolutions - Dyslexia teaching course/Nurturing old friendships/say ‘do more, dream less’ at least 100 times a year/learn to play golf (one lesson a week).
To date – On target with everything, even the dreaming.
Six-foot Laurie: Resolution - Hole more six-foot putts than he misses.
To date - Still missing the majority.
Matt the Mad Magistrate: Resolutions -1) ride 100 miles in a day on the way to losing weight (while eating and drinking whatever he wants – cakes and alcohol most welcome). 2) Prepare for a Masters degree in Maths. So as to carry out research at the Dept of Cosmology and Gravitation. So as to get a Phd. So as to stick two fingers up the doctors, consultant and anaesthetists living in his road (if Brian May can do it, why can’t Matt?)
3) Climb
To date: 1) Magistrate application. “This is in, locked and loaded. I have been to court several times to observe the proceedings (hangings) and now it is up to the Magistrate service to accept or reject my application, which may take more than this year.” 2)
3) “Cycling still up around the 60-70 miles level, but am sure I will get to 100 miles. 4) Health – “My kidneys have taken a big step down in the last two months and I have to be realistic that I might be on for a transplant in the next couple of months. 5) Maths Masters degree – “Revision on hold on the pure math’s as I have diverted my attention into more study on Cosmology at present. Hoping to attend a course in MIT (
Sarah La Française: Resolution – Brush up French.
To date: “Little progress. I did dust down my Teach Yourself French CDs last week.”
Monday, 6 April 2009
Try Laughing Now, Scornful Suzuki Four-Year-Olds!
Day 96, Monday April 6, 11.30am: From now on, I shall answer to the name of Amadeus. I passed my Initial Grade Keyboard Exam (capital letters to try and make it sound more impressive) last week. No, I didn't just pass - no hiding of lights under bushels here - I got a merit.
Not that it was that smooth a ride. In fact, I felt like a schoolboy in short trousers for most of the day as a result. The examiners were dead-pan officious and that threw me from the very start. Then I began making more and more mistakes, the longer I warmed up. Then the keyboard stand was at the wrong height. Then my hands seized up and felt like they were playing through treacle. Then I botched my first arpeggio. Then…
But at least there were no frilly pigtailed four-year-olds present. I’d been warned that I might be surrounded by some rather young fellow examinees – Neil, my teacher, said I would probably raise the average age to about seven - but fortunately I was alone. Not a single Suzuki kid to be seen.
I walked out of the exam thinking I might have just squeezed a pass, so I’m very chuffed. I’ve seen the examiner’s notes. The best thing was that he did not mention my nodding head or make any reference to pigeons.
Ha! Try to laugh at me now, scornful four-year-olds! See you for the grade two exam in June! And just remember to call me Amadeus in future…
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Introducing Chris The Tooth and Siobhan the Songster
Day 94, Saturday April 4, midnight: We have two new members! Well, one, to be honest. Chris is bona fide, Siobhan is mere coincidence.
Chris The Tooth, Lindfield Primary parent and useful golfer, says he’s been reading the blog since the start, but has chosen to keep his quest(s) quiet, in the hope of avoiding too much scrutiny. Chris is a dentist. His resolutions are 1) to finish his MSc (in some subject loosely related to teeth, I fancy) and 2) to learn the guitar part to “Under The Bridge” by The Chili Peppers.
Apparently, the two are closely intertwined. As close, in fact, as his guitar is to his home computer. Every time he gets ready to sit down to work, Chris finds himself drawn to strumming instead.
As he puts it… “I figure that by the end of the year you will either have to add some extra letters after my name if you wish to address me or you will be regaled by a haunting rendition of a drug abuse song. I feel the way things are going it will be one or the other but definitely not both.”
Siobhan The Songster, meanwhile, Lindfield Primary nanny and would-be rock chick, began the year by joining a band after taking singing lessons. The bank is called “Keef”. She’s been told it’s thus named because of Rolling Stone Keith Richard. I looked the word up on the internet and found it is related to the preparation of cannabis. Keith Richard - and rock chick - my hat.
Anyway, Siobhan is making her public debut as a backing vocalist this weekend, I believe. After years of singing to her admiring Dad at Christmas, she faces a wider public. I believe Shrinking Sarah is also one of the singers.
I told Siobhan that if Keef were ever in need of a keyboard player… Perhaps she did not get my text. I have not yet received a reply. Despite staying up late in anticipation.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Quarterly Update: Like Sand Through Fingers...
Day 91, Wednesday April 1,
So...
I am still overweight. And useless at the piano. And I still swim like a brick. And I don't have a website. And I've only managed one golf game all year, which was an unmitigated disaster. And I'm not sure I've managed to chew my food 30 times more than once (you remember, that day that I took 57 minutes to get through a small bowl of soup).
Actually, no, let's be fair. It just feels like that. I'm a bit down after having been dogged by one
My weight is down from 13st 4lbs to about 12st 5. Wow. That's actually rather good, even if I have almost a stone to go to my target. I have taken a piano exam (alright, I probably failed, but at least I turned up for the darned thing). I have managed to swim eight lengths of crawl in a row (I began on one), which is more than a quarter of the way to my goal of 20. I've had five glasses of wine this year. I eat porridge most days, and walk to school with 8-Year-Old (she's just had her birthday - sleepover with three invited friends - don't, ever!). And I've thought quite a bit about the website, even if I haven't much progressed.
Now how's everybody else getting on?
Well, to date, I only have a handful of replies from TRSNYRC. So either 1) people are too busy to blog/email (understandable) 2) people have all given up (even more understandable) or 3) my pleading email for information has been filtered out as spam (also understandable - not the first time something I have thought/suggested/communicated has been treated as unsolicited junk). Never mind. I shall just send out the emails personally to the other 40-odd of you today.
But anyway...
1) John The Fish
A real success story! He has yet to succumb to a single drop of alcohol, continues with his gym workouts (well, when I say gym, I mean the living room, which he has now filled with benches and weight and dumbells). He walks up to 10 miles three times a week and continues to have cunning plans to catch that 20lb pike.
2) Kate The Tech
Kate has proudly overcome her technical phobias and has now downloaded several albums. She continues to sketch.
3) Motorman Mike and Yogi Clare
Motorman is turning into a monster! He's given up work (an month earlier than planned) to have a re-think n what this living lark is all about. He's managed a 36-mile training bike ride (and a couple of 20+ milers) with the team who plan to go from
Clare's major achievements appear to be 1) staying sane (quite an achievement considering her recent turmoils) and 2) putting up with Mike and his sweaty bike training gear (a major achievement, no doubt). Her music has yet to take off again although she has been playing recorder and piano (just the left hand, I think) pieces with her daughter.
Due to the falling-off- the-wagon bit, he will henceforth be called Head Vacillator.
Sarah, meanwhile, continues to work out with her personal trainer (if that does not sound too improper...)
Right, I'd better send off some of those emails again...
Sunday, 29 March 2009
At Least The Four-Year-Old Suzukis Didn't Turn Up
Day 89, Monday March 30, 8.30 am: I'm not saying I failed my first piano exam. I'm just saying that, whatever the result, it was a close-run thing. I'll just have to wait and see.
Which is, of course absurd. I mean, I've been practssing assiduously for three months. All I had to do was play three pre-prepared pieces, answer a few questions and do a couple of scales and arpeggios. But as soon as I got there I got nervous My hands suddenly solidified, as if they were stuck in treacle. The examiner was nice enough, but distant-officious. That threw me. The last time I'd done an exam was as a schoolchild and that is what the environment made me feel like - a short-trousered, long-socked schoolchild.
It is no exaggeration to say that the score began to swim in front of my eyes. I could not see the music as I played - it simply blurred. That was no great problem as such - I knew it all by heart anyway - but it was very disconcerting. Worse still, my first practice was perfect. So, with a little time on my hands, I played the pieces again and made a mistake or two. So I had another go and made two or three, then three and four errors. The more I warmed up, the worse I got.
When the exam proper got underway, I played too fast, particularly the second piece, the Rumba, and botched notes all over the place.
Perhaps I should blame my piano teacher. Neal is a lovely fellow. But he says I nod my head like a pigeon when I play. During the exam, I could not get the image of a pigeon out of my head. He also told me that none of his pupils have ever failed the Initial Exam before. What he was saying, in effect, is that it's idiot-proof. But then, he's never tried to teach a pigeon encased in treacle before, has he? Pressure or what?
Neal's wife didn't exactly help either, choosing - rather thoughtlessly, it seemed to me - to have their second baby a week before my exam and thus meaning I missed out on my final lesson before the exam. Honestly - you'd think people could organise their diaries better and avoid such date clashes, wouldn't you?
At least the four-year-olds didn't turn up. Children as young as four take this exam. Bloody Dr Suzuki! Neal said I might find myself warming up for the exam with four and five and six-year-olds. I wonder what we would have talked about? The effect of the credit crunch? Global warming? The price of rusks and our favourite CBBC programme?
Fortunately I was at least spared that embarrassment. I was the only 'child' there.
I am not sure I did TRSNYRC particularly proud on Friday, for which I apologise. I'm still hoping I may have just scraped a pass. But I'm not convinced.
Which is, of course absurd. I mean, I've been practssing assiduously for three months. All I had to do was play three pre-prepared pieces, answer a few questions and do a couple of scales and arpeggios. But as soon as I got there I got nervous My hands suddenly solidified, as if they were stuck in treacle. The examiner was nice enough, but distant-officious. That threw me. The last time I'd done an exam was as a schoolchild and that is what the environment made me feel like - a short-trousered, long-socked schoolchild.
It is no exaggeration to say that the score began to swim in front of my eyes. I could not see the music as I played - it simply blurred. That was no great problem as such - I knew it all by heart anyway - but it was very disconcerting. Worse still, my first practice was perfect. So, with a little time on my hands, I played the pieces again and made a mistake or two. So I had another go and made two or three, then three and four errors. The more I warmed up, the worse I got.
When the exam proper got underway, I played too fast, particularly the second piece, the Rumba, and botched notes all over the place.
Perhaps I should blame my piano teacher. Neal is a lovely fellow. But he says I nod my head like a pigeon when I play. During the exam, I could not get the image of a pigeon out of my head. He also told me that none of his pupils have ever failed the Initial Exam before. What he was saying, in effect, is that it's idiot-proof. But then, he's never tried to teach a pigeon encased in treacle before, has he? Pressure or what?
Neal's wife didn't exactly help either, choosing - rather thoughtlessly, it seemed to me - to have their second baby a week before my exam and thus meaning I missed out on my final lesson before the exam. Honestly - you'd think people could organise their diaries better and avoid such date clashes, wouldn't you?
At least the four-year-olds didn't turn up. Children as young as four take this exam. Bloody Dr Suzuki! Neal said I might find myself warming up for the exam with four and five and six-year-olds. I wonder what we would have talked about? The effect of the credit crunch? Global warming? The price of rusks and our favourite CBBC programme?
Fortunately I was at least spared that embarrassment. I was the only 'child' there.
I am not sure I did TRSNYRC particularly proud on Friday, for which I apologise. I'm still hoping I may have just scraped a pass. But I'm not convinced.
Friday, 27 March 2009
Big Mouth Unleashes A Storm Again
Day 85, Friday March 27, 7.30 am: The worst thing is that I knew this would happen. I knew exactly. I knew I was unleashing a storm.
I tell brother Roger about my new gym bike record - 244 calories burnt off in 20 sweat-laden minutes - and he immediately goes out to beat it again. Like he did last week.
Exactly the same thing happened to me a few years back with a younge, fitter office colleague. I ended up getting spanked on every single machine in the entire gym.
This story will now run and run, until my legs fall off. Which, small mercies, will be sooner rather than later.
I did, though, have a laugh. Roger, as I said, went out to beat the record yesterday and scored... wait for it.. 244. A dead heat! Superb. 20 minutes of slog for a dead heat! You have to feel sorry for the man...
PS : Another storm I've gone and unleashed - my first piano exam is this afternoon in Horsham, which I will take along with a bunch of other four-year-olds. Can you believe it - I'm taking exams aged 49 and feeling nervous... I think it's the four-year-olds who are unnerving me, not the piano playing.
I tell brother Roger about my new gym bike record - 244 calories burnt off in 20 sweat-laden minutes - and he immediately goes out to beat it again. Like he did last week.
Exactly the same thing happened to me a few years back with a younge, fitter office colleague. I ended up getting spanked on every single machine in the entire gym.
This story will now run and run, until my legs fall off. Which, small mercies, will be sooner rather than later.
I did, though, have a laugh. Roger, as I said, went out to beat the record yesterday and scored... wait for it.. 244. A dead heat! Superb. 20 minutes of slog for a dead heat! You have to feel sorry for the man...
PS : Another storm I've gone and unleashed - my first piano exam is this afternoon in Horsham, which I will take along with a bunch of other four-year-olds. Can you believe it - I'm taking exams aged 49 and feeling nervous... I think it's the four-year-olds who are unnerving me, not the piano playing.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
One Day You Fly, The Next You Eat Dirt
Day 84, Thursday March 26, 12.30pm: Funny thing, my body. Or is it my head?
Yesterday I got on the gym bike and I absolutely flew. My brother Roger had just set a new world record for 20 minutes on the gym bike and I massacred my personal best to pip it.
Jan says it's because I'm competitive. Me, competitive? I used to be, but now my joints make strange noises when I bend down to pick up 7-Year-Old's discarded clothes and I take afternoon naps. Me, competitive? Roger, years younger and lither, longer legs and without pacemaker, could regain the world record within days if he wanted to.
No, it's not that. I just felt good and I pedalled and I didn't seem to get tired. So, enjoying the sensation, I pedalled even faster. And there you have it.
So today I went for my swimming lesson, apparently determined to beat my eight consecutive lengths of crawl. And I gave up. After five and a half. I spluttered to a stop. I just felt lousy and I seemed to get tired and, not enjoying the sensation one little bit, I headed for the side of the pool.
Was it my body or was it my head? I don't know. Funny things, bodies and heads. One day you fly, the next you eat dirt. Or, more accurately, swallow more chlorinated water than is good for you.
Yesterday I got on the gym bike and I absolutely flew. My brother Roger had just set a new world record for 20 minutes on the gym bike and I massacred my personal best to pip it.
Jan says it's because I'm competitive. Me, competitive? I used to be, but now my joints make strange noises when I bend down to pick up 7-Year-Old's discarded clothes and I take afternoon naps. Me, competitive? Roger, years younger and lither, longer legs and without pacemaker, could regain the world record within days if he wanted to.
No, it's not that. I just felt good and I pedalled and I didn't seem to get tired. So, enjoying the sensation, I pedalled even faster. And there you have it.
So today I went for my swimming lesson, apparently determined to beat my eight consecutive lengths of crawl. And I gave up. After five and a half. I spluttered to a stop. I just felt lousy and I seemed to get tired and, not enjoying the sensation one little bit, I headed for the side of the pool.
Was it my body or was it my head? I don't know. Funny things, bodies and heads. One day you fly, the next you eat dirt. Or, more accurately, swallow more chlorinated water than is good for you.
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Introducing Yogi Clare and Motorman Mike...
Day 84, Thursday March 26, 6.30am: Yesterday was the first day of Motorman Mike's new life. I'll have to ask him how it went.
Mike - and Yogi Clare, his short-term, long-term partner - are sub-radar members of TRSNYRC.
They've been busy resolving, but quietly. I'm still awaiting the details. It's just that they've both been rather busy to chat to a blogger, that's all. It's understandable. They've both been trying to make sense of their new lives together.
Mike and Clare offer us real romance - they were together, weren't together, are back together - as well as real drama. Like One-Lung-Is-Better-Than-None Mike and Not-At-All-Lubricious Linda (see Day 71) and Matt The Mildly Mad Magistrate (Day 44), they have decided to turn things upside down in a very big way.
Clare and Mike began, like many of us, by cutting back on the alcohol and, in Mike's case, doing a bit of cycling - 36 miles in one go the other day, he tells me. I think weight loss may also be involved. And Clare is also a marvellously talented musician and talks about reviving her piano.
But then Mike decided to go the whole hog and quit his job. He decided he didn't need the stress. We're right in the middle of a credit crunch, when everybody tells us to be worried about money and work, and he goes and jumps ship! The man's a legend.
Yesterday was his first day of freedom. The first thing he did - well, on the evening before, to be honest, as he was taking off his office tie and suit for the last time - was to break one of his earlier resolutions and get through a bottle of wine. We'll overlook it, Mike, this one time.
Clare, meanwhile, still has a few hurdles in her attempts to sort out her life. It's all a bit complicated and rather tiring.
But then, I'm sure, we can expect a few more details.
Mike - and Yogi Clare, his short-term, long-term partner - are sub-radar members of TRSNYRC.
They've been busy resolving, but quietly. I'm still awaiting the details. It's just that they've both been rather busy to chat to a blogger, that's all. It's understandable. They've both been trying to make sense of their new lives together.
Mike and Clare offer us real romance - they were together, weren't together, are back together - as well as real drama. Like One-Lung-Is-Better-Than-None Mike and Not-At-All-Lubricious Linda (see Day 71) and Matt The Mildly Mad Magistrate (Day 44), they have decided to turn things upside down in a very big way.
Clare and Mike began, like many of us, by cutting back on the alcohol and, in Mike's case, doing a bit of cycling - 36 miles in one go the other day, he tells me. I think weight loss may also be involved. And Clare is also a marvellously talented musician and talks about reviving her piano.
But then Mike decided to go the whole hog and quit his job. He decided he didn't need the stress. We're right in the middle of a credit crunch, when everybody tells us to be worried about money and work, and he goes and jumps ship! The man's a legend.
Yesterday was his first day of freedom. The first thing he did - well, on the evening before, to be honest, as he was taking off his office tie and suit for the last time - was to break one of his earlier resolutions and get through a bottle of wine. We'll overlook it, Mike, this one time.
Clare, meanwhile, still has a few hurdles in her attempts to sort out her life. It's all a bit complicated and rather tiring.
But then, I'm sure, we can expect a few more details.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
The Two Exceptions That Prove The Rule
Day 83, Tuesday March 24, 8.30pm: My theory - that TRSNYRC is a real force for good and a real force for change - has lasted intact this far, despite the fact that I have not been able to convince everyone - that's everyone as in the world population of 6,895,313,008 (it will, I grant, have gone up a shade by the time that you read this) - to take an active part in my quietly ambitious social experiment of transforming the face of utterly everything forever and forever.
But then along came Gary and along came Daniel.
Gary is another Lindfield Primary house dad. We've stood within touching distance at school pick-up time for the best part of a year but only just got to conversing in the last few weeks.
Gary smokes. Gary knows he should give up. Excellent, says I. Join the TRSNYRC and you'll crack it in no time.
No, thanks awfully, says Gary. If it's all the same with you, I'd rather not.
You see, in the past few years he's gone through a liver and kidney transplant - if he hadn't had it he would have died within a matter of weeks, he's since learnt - a messy split with his wife and an ugly court custody battle over his young son. For good measure, he's even managed to give up drinking along the way.
Gary knows he should give up smoking. But, all things considered, he's not sure he's got the energy yet to make the break. He's happy to puff on for the moment.
Argue with that if you can.
Daniel's my cousin.
Unlike Gary, Daniel does not have a lot of problems and difficulties on his plate. Arguably, indeed, he doesn't have any at all.
Daniel is a transcendental meditation devotee. He does yoga each morning. He seeks a balanced life. He is as fit as fiddle, without an ounce of fat and walks up New Zealand mountains on his days off while contemplating his beautiful world.
It would be silly to ask him, surely, to make a New Year's resolution? He's been cleaning up his act for so long that grime is no longer an issue. There is not even a suggestion of a speck of the stuff left upon his person. What the heck would Daniel resolve that has not already been resolved and sorted?
Gary has too many problems for resolutions just now, and Daniel too few.
I take their points. I'm not sure I envy either of them, but I'm in serious awe of both.
PS The world population now stands at 6,895,325,752...
But then along came Gary and along came Daniel.
Gary is another Lindfield Primary house dad. We've stood within touching distance at school pick-up time for the best part of a year but only just got to conversing in the last few weeks.
Gary smokes. Gary knows he should give up. Excellent, says I. Join the TRSNYRC and you'll crack it in no time.
No, thanks awfully, says Gary. If it's all the same with you, I'd rather not.
You see, in the past few years he's gone through a liver and kidney transplant - if he hadn't had it he would have died within a matter of weeks, he's since learnt - a messy split with his wife and an ugly court custody battle over his young son. For good measure, he's even managed to give up drinking along the way.
Gary knows he should give up smoking. But, all things considered, he's not sure he's got the energy yet to make the break. He's happy to puff on for the moment.
Argue with that if you can.
Daniel's my cousin.
Unlike Gary, Daniel does not have a lot of problems and difficulties on his plate. Arguably, indeed, he doesn't have any at all.
Daniel is a transcendental meditation devotee. He does yoga each morning. He seeks a balanced life. He is as fit as fiddle, without an ounce of fat and walks up New Zealand mountains on his days off while contemplating his beautiful world.
It would be silly to ask him, surely, to make a New Year's resolution? He's been cleaning up his act for so long that grime is no longer an issue. There is not even a suggestion of a speck of the stuff left upon his person. What the heck would Daniel resolve that has not already been resolved and sorted?
Gary has too many problems for resolutions just now, and Daniel too few.
I take their points. I'm not sure I envy either of them, but I'm in serious awe of both.
PS The world population now stands at 6,895,325,752...
Monday, 23 March 2009
A 24-Hour Reprieve From Obesity
Day 82, Monday March 23, 10pm: Yesterday, for the first time this year, I was not overweight. Today I am again. It's a vague science, this calorie counting.
Yes, yesterday, for 24 very short hours, I was - just, and with a little poetic licence - within my recommended weight range.
Actually, probably, to be honest, quite a lot of poetic licence.
First I had to make the decision that that I am, in fact, 5ft 9ins (I'm probably 5ft 8 1/2 ins, but if I learnt to stand up properly...). Then I decided that I'm of large rather than medium build. In which case 79.4kg (12st 5lbs) is the maxium acceptable. I came in at 78.9! Hurrah!
(If I had admitted to being 5ft 8 ins and a medium build my maximum would have been 70.3kg but I'll let that pass).
Actually, it gets even better. Reading a little further in my Reader's Digest "Eat Better Live Better" bible I discovered: "Because muscle weighs more than fat, it is possible for a muscular athlete who has very little body fat to be above his maximum desired weight".
Perfect. Henceforth I am a 5ft 9ins, large build muscular athlete with very little body fat and I spit in the face of those daring to contradict me.
Yes, yesterday, for 24 very short hours, I was - just, and with a little poetic licence - within my recommended weight range.
Actually, probably, to be honest, quite a lot of poetic licence.
First I had to make the decision that that I am, in fact, 5ft 9ins (I'm probably 5ft 8 1/2 ins, but if I learnt to stand up properly...). Then I decided that I'm of large rather than medium build. In which case 79.4kg (12st 5lbs) is the maxium acceptable. I came in at 78.9! Hurrah!
(If I had admitted to being 5ft 8 ins and a medium build my maximum would have been 70.3kg but I'll let that pass).
Actually, it gets even better. Reading a little further in my Reader's Digest "Eat Better Live Better" bible I discovered: "Because muscle weighs more than fat, it is possible for a muscular athlete who has very little body fat to be above his maximum desired weight".
Perfect. Henceforth I am a 5ft 9ins, large build muscular athlete with very little body fat and I spit in the face of those daring to contradict me.
Thursday, 19 March 2009
It Only Took Five Short Words... And An Exclamation Mark!
Day 79, Friday March 20, 8.45pm: I must admit, I was wavering.
I'm not saying I was losing the faith. I know I'd have been okay.
But John The Fish just made it a lot easier to find my feet again.
It only took him a few words, after I had suggested I was finding my resolutions somewhat tough to keep in the last few weeks. Five words, to be exact. Short ones. Plus an explanation mark. 'Tony don't let me down!' he wrote in his comment to 'The First Big Hiccup' posting of day 76.
Which is what TRSNYRC is meant to be all about. We are meant to be supporting each other.
So thanks for that, John The Fish. I'm back in the gym and swimming again and attempting to chew my food 36 times (it now takes me one and a half hours to get through my breakfast porridge).
It was good to know that somebody is out there.
I may have mentioned this before, by the way, but it's the same supportive principle which led to the creation of the Sacred Band of Thebes. Just much more proper, and platonic and British, of course.
The Sacred Band, in case you didn't know, was established by Gorgidas, a military leader in far-gone ancient Greece, some 2,300 years back.
The band was made up of 300 warriors - or rather, 150 pairs of pederastic lovers. Not gay, exactly, as I understand it, but that way inclined, one chap a mentor and the other one a young buck. I surely don't have to spell it out. You know what the ancient Greeks were like.
The idea, though, was obviously a sound one. Gorgidas had worked out that his men may not be that keen to die for King and Country, but they'd do their best for their best mate standing at their side.
Which is why, I gather, the British army regularly recruited its World War I soldiers in pre-established groups - rugger XVs, darts teams, troupes of actors, stamp collecting societies, village drinking mates and fellow trainspotters - and kept them together in the same units. Thus organised, they were much better at dying together. All because of their shared passion for treble 20s, Shakespeare and the Penny Black.
The Sacred Band were pretty good at copping it together, too. Considered Thebes' finest battle group, they met a gallant, bloody end at the Battle of Chaeronea, in 338 BC, at the hands of Philip II of Macedon.
Amazing what you learn, blogging.
PS: Note from our legal department - please be assured, by the way, that the above refereences to the Sacred Band in no way reflect on the sexual preferences of any members of TRSNYRC. Each to his or her own. Live and let live.
(I see nothing strange in someone being more interested in pike than human beings, John. Really I don't).
I'm not saying I was losing the faith. I know I'd have been okay.
But John The Fish just made it a lot easier to find my feet again.
It only took him a few words, after I had suggested I was finding my resolutions somewhat tough to keep in the last few weeks. Five words, to be exact. Short ones. Plus an explanation mark. 'Tony don't let me down!' he wrote in his comment to 'The First Big Hiccup' posting of day 76.
Which is what TRSNYRC is meant to be all about. We are meant to be supporting each other.
So thanks for that, John The Fish. I'm back in the gym and swimming again and attempting to chew my food 36 times (it now takes me one and a half hours to get through my breakfast porridge).
It was good to know that somebody is out there.
I may have mentioned this before, by the way, but it's the same supportive principle which led to the creation of the Sacred Band of Thebes. Just much more proper, and platonic and British, of course.
The Sacred Band, in case you didn't know, was established by Gorgidas, a military leader in far-gone ancient Greece, some 2,300 years back.
The band was made up of 300 warriors - or rather, 150 pairs of pederastic lovers. Not gay, exactly, as I understand it, but that way inclined, one chap a mentor and the other one a young buck. I surely don't have to spell it out. You know what the ancient Greeks were like.
The idea, though, was obviously a sound one. Gorgidas had worked out that his men may not be that keen to die for King and Country, but they'd do their best for their best mate standing at their side.
Which is why, I gather, the British army regularly recruited its World War I soldiers in pre-established groups - rugger XVs, darts teams, troupes of actors, stamp collecting societies, village drinking mates and fellow trainspotters - and kept them together in the same units. Thus organised, they were much better at dying together. All because of their shared passion for treble 20s, Shakespeare and the Penny Black.
The Sacred Band were pretty good at copping it together, too. Considered Thebes' finest battle group, they met a gallant, bloody end at the Battle of Chaeronea, in 338 BC, at the hands of Philip II of Macedon.
Amazing what you learn, blogging.
PS: Note from our legal department - please be assured, by the way, that the above refereences to the Sacred Band in no way reflect on the sexual preferences of any members of TRSNYRC. Each to his or her own. Live and let live.
(I see nothing strange in someone being more interested in pike than human beings, John. Really I don't).
Introducing Fellow Flounderers Colin and Davis...
Day 78, Thursday March 19, 9.30 pm: The real story of my day, though, was Colin and Davis.
Colin and Davis are fellow flounderers at Thursday's adult swimming class at the Dolphin Leisure Centre. I have met them before but we got talking today, in between crawl, breaststroke, doggy paddle and general floundering.
Davis is half Bulgarian, half Russian. Today he swam a full width of crawl for the first time. We all cheered. Davis says he wants to enter the Olympics. I'm not too conversant with the Bulgarian sense of irony, so I remained dead-pan. So did Davis. Perhaps he is indeed bound for London 2012, but I don't expect it to be as a swimmer. Perhaps, on the quiet, he's rather good at skeet shooting. Yes, that must be what he means.
Colin, meanwhile, said a few weeks back that he could only manage one length of crawl. Today he did two in a row, and looked rather good, as well as a lot less purple than normal after the event. He says I egged him on, which makes me happy.
Watching him, I realised we all begin to thrash about a bit as we get tired, gasping for air and shortening our strokes. You have to keep your technique and relax, says Margaret, our guru.
I duly got tired, gasped, shortened my stroke, thrashed and doggy paddled my way to a world record eight lengths of consecutive crawl (having managed seven the day before). Eat your heart out, Phelps. I felt immensely proud (it does not take much), went home and slept for two hours solid as the water cleared slowly from my ears.
Eight lengths! That's more than a third of my goal - in two and a half months!
Colin, meanwhile, says he will try and swim six consecutive lengths of crawl by the end of the year. A new TRSNYRC recruit! Grand.
I reckon I'll put him down for seven, though. Actually, let's make that eight.
Colin and Davis are fellow flounderers at Thursday's adult swimming class at the Dolphin Leisure Centre. I have met them before but we got talking today, in between crawl, breaststroke, doggy paddle and general floundering.
Davis is half Bulgarian, half Russian. Today he swam a full width of crawl for the first time. We all cheered. Davis says he wants to enter the Olympics. I'm not too conversant with the Bulgarian sense of irony, so I remained dead-pan. So did Davis. Perhaps he is indeed bound for London 2012, but I don't expect it to be as a swimmer. Perhaps, on the quiet, he's rather good at skeet shooting. Yes, that must be what he means.
Colin, meanwhile, said a few weeks back that he could only manage one length of crawl. Today he did two in a row, and looked rather good, as well as a lot less purple than normal after the event. He says I egged him on, which makes me happy.
Watching him, I realised we all begin to thrash about a bit as we get tired, gasping for air and shortening our strokes. You have to keep your technique and relax, says Margaret, our guru.
I duly got tired, gasped, shortened my stroke, thrashed and doggy paddled my way to a world record eight lengths of consecutive crawl (having managed seven the day before). Eat your heart out, Phelps. I felt immensely proud (it does not take much), went home and slept for two hours solid as the water cleared slowly from my ears.
Eight lengths! That's more than a third of my goal - in two and a half months!
Colin, meanwhile, says he will try and swim six consecutive lengths of crawl by the end of the year. A new TRSNYRC recruit! Grand.
I reckon I'll put him down for seven, though. Actually, let's make that eight.
Admission Of A Chicken Cheat
Day 78, Thursday, March 19, 4.30pm: Okay, okay, so I cheated a bit on the chickens.
I was just trying to make my dreary existence a little more palatable.
In fact, I saved my two chickens yesterday.
I found them walking in the middle of the road down - appropriately - Gander Hill. So I ushered them off to the side, then rang a nearby doorbell, then checked out the garden after getting no reply. Hey presto - there was a chicken coup. At least. I think that is what it was. I duly shooed the offending foul into the coup and departed, feeling rather grand and Good Samaritan-pleased with myself. I hope it was the right house. And I hope it was a coup, rather than a Guinea pig enclosure.
Anyway, that's about the most exciting off-diary thing to have happened to me recently. Which may say something about house-husbandry.
I'm serious about catching a fish, though. I have decided to ask for John The Fish to train me. In return, I'll show him how to fade a seven iron. If he wants to fade a seven iron, that is, which I rather doubt.
I was just trying to make my dreary existence a little more palatable.
In fact, I saved my two chickens yesterday.
I found them walking in the middle of the road down - appropriately - Gander Hill. So I ushered them off to the side, then rang a nearby doorbell, then checked out the garden after getting no reply. Hey presto - there was a chicken coup. At least. I think that is what it was. I duly shooed the offending foul into the coup and departed, feeling rather grand and Good Samaritan-pleased with myself. I hope it was the right house. And I hope it was a coup, rather than a Guinea pig enclosure.
Anyway, that's about the most exciting off-diary thing to have happened to me recently. Which may say something about house-husbandry.
I'm serious about catching a fish, though. I have decided to ask for John The Fish to train me. In return, I'll show him how to fade a seven iron. If he wants to fade a seven iron, that is, which I rather doubt.
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
Save At Least Two Chickens This Year...
Day 78, Thursday, March 19, 6.20am: If you care to check my Resolutions list (under the photos), you will find I have set myself two New Resolutions - 1) Save The Lives Of At Least Two Chickens 2) Catch At Least One Fish (inspired by John The Fish).
Watch this space.
By the way, for those of you with a mathematical bent, we are now 21.3698630136986301369863 percent through our year.
Watch this space.
By the way, for those of you with a mathematical bent, we are now 21.3698630136986301369863 percent through our year.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
The First Big Hiccup
Day 76, Tuesday March 17, 9.30am: Apparently, New Year's Resolutions go all the way back to 153 B.C. and the Romans.
The Romans installed Janus, a mythical king, at the head of their calendar. With two faces, he looked back on past events as well as forward to the future and became a symbol for resolutions. In due course, the first month of the year was named after Janus, the god of beginnings and the guardian of doors and entrances.
I wonder if the Romans were as useless at keeping their resolutions as we appear to be?
Actually, I’m still hanging in there, although it’s been a rocky couple of weeks. I haven’t exactly given in, but I’ve flirted with the idea.
Kate The Tech alerted me to the fact that ‘experts’ – whoever they are – suggest that it takes 21 days to confirm a new habit. Well, I had got at least twice as far with my new virtuous habits when the trouble began.
It came in the shape of ill health. A stomach virus was followed by a cold. So I decided not to risk the gym for a couple of days. Couple of days stretched to a week. Week stretched into almost two. I felt lousy so I ate a couple of crisps. Only a couple, but still the first crisps of the year. I drank less water, and ate less fruit.
I’m still not 100% but I realised at the end of last week that I was at a crossroads. Go back to the gym, to water and to fruit or bust.
So I went back - I thought of John, one of the trainers at the gym, saying to me a few weeks ago: "How much do you really want this?" after he had spotted me going easy on my stomach crunches - and I’ve kept going back. I'm over my first big hiccup. I don't suppose it will be my last. Writing about it on the blog, I hope, will help me get back in the saddle. I wonder, Kate, if that means I'm on probation again for the next 21 days?
I’m sure most people’s resolutions fall victim to similar setbacks. It may not be due to a shortage of resolve at all. It just might be a stomach virus or a sniffle, a wonderfully alcoholic party or a relaxing holiday – anything, indeed, which helps create a new, easier sofa-bound habit than bench-pressing.
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Introducing One-Lung Mike and Lubricious Linda
Day 71, Friday March 13, 6.15 am: Sorry Linda. You're not, of course, at all lubricious. It's just a word I've been wanting to use for ages without knowning what it means. The only way to make myself look it up in the dictionary - I am a sloth, don't forget - was to use it, then find out what I had just said. I have just looked up 'lubricious' and I apologie unreservedly.
What a great word, though, eh?
Anyway, Mike and Linda...
I was, actually, going to start with me. I was going to tell you after 10 days of a cold and stomach bug, I still managed to clock 6 lengths of crawl, a world record for a Head Sloth. I was going to tell you how well my piano is going, and how badly my golf is developing. I was going to tell you that I went to the gym yesterday for the first time in a week and that my weight has dipped below 78kg for the first time since 1993 (more of that later).
But my thunder has been well and truly stolen by One-Lung Mike and Not-At-All-In-Any-Possible-Way-Lubricous Linda. Here am I, tinkering with my waist line and tinkling with ivories and M and L have a New Year's Resolution to turn their lives upside down (we have not heard of them yet, incidentally, because they haven't had time. They still haven't got time. They are, after all, too busy. Turning their lives upside down).
I have very few details but, essentially, if I've got the gist, they are resolved to sell their house, move to their holiday residence in France and re-invent their lives.
Bloody brilliant! Mind-boggling boldness!
And the news is, that, despite choosing the maddest time for such an undertaking, they have at least and at long last managed to let out their house. They have now moved into a short-term house-babysitting arrangement and, if I understood their garbled phone message, the move is on for the end of this month!
Truly, truly, tantalisingly terrific!
Even if I am fairly convinced that neither One-Lung nor Not-At-All-In-Any-Possible-Way-Lubricious could manage six lengths of crawl...
I will update you with their details as soon as they have a micro-second.
What a great word, though, eh?
Anyway, Mike and Linda...
I was, actually, going to start with me. I was going to tell you after 10 days of a cold and stomach bug, I still managed to clock 6 lengths of crawl, a world record for a Head Sloth. I was going to tell you how well my piano is going, and how badly my golf is developing. I was going to tell you that I went to the gym yesterday for the first time in a week and that my weight has dipped below 78kg for the first time since 1993 (more of that later).
But my thunder has been well and truly stolen by One-Lung Mike and Not-At-All-In-Any-Possible-Way-Lubricous Linda. Here am I, tinkering with my waist line and tinkling with ivories and M and L have a New Year's Resolution to turn their lives upside down (we have not heard of them yet, incidentally, because they haven't had time. They still haven't got time. They are, after all, too busy. Turning their lives upside down).
I have very few details but, essentially, if I've got the gist, they are resolved to sell their house, move to their holiday residence in France and re-invent their lives.
Bloody brilliant! Mind-boggling boldness!
And the news is, that, despite choosing the maddest time for such an undertaking, they have at least and at long last managed to let out their house. They have now moved into a short-term house-babysitting arrangement and, if I understood their garbled phone message, the move is on for the end of this month!
Truly, truly, tantalisingly terrific!
Even if I am fairly convinced that neither One-Lung nor Not-At-All-In-Any-Possible-Way-Lubricious could manage six lengths of crawl...
I will update you with their details as soon as they have a micro-second.
Bloody Body Clock
Day 71, Friday March 13, 5.30am - Bloody typical. You agree to take your brother's kids to school, even if it means that you will have to set your alarm to 6.15am so as to take them into custody. Without knowing it, you're a little on edge and you wake up at 5.30. And you can't get back to sleep. Bloody body clock.
Sunday, 8 March 2009
Big Frank, You Can Read This...
Day 66, Sunday March 8, 8pm: Frank, I shall not be be bothering you this evening.
Consider this a deafening silence.
Against all the expectations, I have not discovered the secret of golf over the past few weeks. At least, I have not discovered the secret of playing golf in a three-club gale. I am, it turns out, a quite useless golfer when the wind gets up. I spent most of this afternoon running around trying to retrieve my scorecard. Don't know why I bothered, really. It was a very unpleasant document indeed.
You are safe, Frank. For now.
Consider this a deafening silence.
Against all the expectations, I have not discovered the secret of golf over the past few weeks. At least, I have not discovered the secret of playing golf in a three-club gale. I am, it turns out, a quite useless golfer when the wind gets up. I spent most of this afternoon running around trying to retrieve my scorecard. Don't know why I bothered, really. It was a very unpleasant document indeed.
You are safe, Frank. For now.
Saturday, 7 March 2009
Big Frank, Whatever You Do, Don't Read This (But Juliet May Enjoy It)
Day 66, Sunday March 8, 7.15am: Frank, whatever you do, don't read this. I mean it. Stop. Now.
It will only bring back nightmares. Juliet, though, you can read on. If only to give you a chance to mock me.
I am playing golf today. In my club's montly medal. For the first time in four months.
As Frank knows to his cost - it's the price he pays for being my immediate neighbour - I am a bit of a golf nut. He had a very hard year recently, listening to me relentlessly expounding on the great game. Frank prefers Merlot, and long walks, the Civil Service and unicycles. Frank, indeed, prefers anything to me talking golf.
Juliet, a couple of doors down, also knows about my dedication to all things involving a 7-iron and a little white ball. The difference is that Juliet has just taken up golf and, I think, may get prettty good at the game. How are we going to measure her NYR progress? Well, her first 10 shots went about 65 yards, 45 degrees left. We'll go from there.
Me? Well, I'm playing off 10.3 today but, as I say, I haven't played for ages. In theory, I should be lucky to break 14 or 15. But I have been doing a lot of thinking and theorising in recent weeks and I'm hoping this will count for something. Anything near 10 over par today will be a big success. If I manage that, I shall tell you, while expounding on one of my latest theories. I shall even go and tell Frank.
If I score worse than 10, you will be met by a deafening silence, while I do some more thinking and theorising.
Whatever happens, I expect to have great fun today.
Talking of great fun, Adam is back in town. Adam is a friend of mine who has just moved back to the area. He has not had a particularly easy time of it, of late, which is unfair because the man is like Martyn - top bracket. Now Adam also happens to be a rather useful golfer, playing off 10. I have a feeling we may share a few rounds this summer. I think we may just challenge each other to dip into single handicaps this year. A recruit to TRSNYRC beckons, I fancy.
Must stop. No time for this. Must go and stretch, and find my trolley. And put some trousers on.
It will only bring back nightmares. Juliet, though, you can read on. If only to give you a chance to mock me.
I am playing golf today. In my club's montly medal. For the first time in four months.
As Frank knows to his cost - it's the price he pays for being my immediate neighbour - I am a bit of a golf nut. He had a very hard year recently, listening to me relentlessly expounding on the great game. Frank prefers Merlot, and long walks, the Civil Service and unicycles. Frank, indeed, prefers anything to me talking golf.
Juliet, a couple of doors down, also knows about my dedication to all things involving a 7-iron and a little white ball. The difference is that Juliet has just taken up golf and, I think, may get prettty good at the game. How are we going to measure her NYR progress? Well, her first 10 shots went about 65 yards, 45 degrees left. We'll go from there.
Me? Well, I'm playing off 10.3 today but, as I say, I haven't played for ages. In theory, I should be lucky to break 14 or 15. But I have been doing a lot of thinking and theorising in recent weeks and I'm hoping this will count for something. Anything near 10 over par today will be a big success. If I manage that, I shall tell you, while expounding on one of my latest theories. I shall even go and tell Frank.
If I score worse than 10, you will be met by a deafening silence, while I do some more thinking and theorising.
Whatever happens, I expect to have great fun today.
Talking of great fun, Adam is back in town. Adam is a friend of mine who has just moved back to the area. He has not had a particularly easy time of it, of late, which is unfair because the man is like Martyn - top bracket. Now Adam also happens to be a rather useful golfer, playing off 10. I have a feeling we may share a few rounds this summer. I think we may just challenge each other to dip into single handicaps this year. A recruit to TRSNYRC beckons, I fancy.
Must stop. No time for this. Must go and stretch, and find my trolley. And put some trousers on.
Friday, 6 March 2009
Introducing Martyn The (Yet To Be Named) Boat...
Day 64, Friday March 6, 11.3oam: Martyn is one of those rarities - a truly, genuinely, wonderfully nice guy. He makes all his friends absolutely sick.
Actually, he makes me even sicker this morning than he did before. He has just sent me an email updating his progress.
Now the bit about the boat I can live with...
Martyn, it turns out, has always wanted to sail. And he also wants to spend more quality time with his children.
"My best pal {Editor's note: That's the friend that hates him the most} saw this one (pictured), so I decided that I'm now 40 and life is flying by at an alarming rate so why not do something that I will get pleasure out of and hopefullly the kids will get involved in as well?
"It's currently in a boat yard on the River Blackwater near Maldon , Essex... It needs some TLC but is structually sound and has a small cabin space for sleep overs... me and the two kids would be snug but do-able."
To date, the windows have been replaced. Martyn is still looking for a name for his craft - suggestions gratefully received. He hopes to hit the water in May or June.
Which is all very fine and dandy.
But then, I learn from Martyn's email, that he has also signed up to take his Level 1 LTA tennis coaching qualification.
I've known Martyn for years, working alongside him at Reuters, but never knew. It turns out he's played tennis at county leve since he was a short-legged sprog. He even beat Mark Petchey a few times (former Davis Cup player and world top 100).
So the man isn't just great, he's also absurdly talented. Utterly, utterly sickening. I hope his boat sinks. With him (but not the kids, of course) on board.
Actually, he makes me even sicker this morning than he did before. He has just sent me an email updating his progress.
Now the bit about the boat I can live with...
Martyn, it turns out, has always wanted to sail. And he also wants to spend more quality time with his children.
"My best pal {Editor's note: That's the friend that hates him the most} saw this one (pictured), so I decided that I'm now 40 and life is flying by at an alarming rate so why not do something that I will get pleasure out of and hopefullly the kids will get involved in as well?
"It's currently in a boat yard on the River Blackwater near Maldon , Essex... It needs some TLC but is structually sound and has a small cabin space for sleep overs... me and the two kids would be snug but do-able."
To date, the windows have been replaced. Martyn is still looking for a name for his craft - suggestions gratefully received. He hopes to hit the water in May or June.
Which is all very fine and dandy.
But then, I learn from Martyn's email, that he has also signed up to take his Level 1 LTA tennis coaching qualification.
I've known Martyn for years, working alongside him at Reuters, but never knew. It turns out he's played tennis at county leve since he was a short-legged sprog. He even beat Mark Petchey a few times (former Davis Cup player and world top 100).
So the man isn't just great, he's also absurdly talented. Utterly, utterly sickening. I hope his boat sinks. With him (but not the kids, of course) on board.
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
It's All About Changing Your Mind
Day 63, Wednesday March 4, 11.40am: I went to a public talk by a psychologist friend of mine last night. Pete Cohen just written a book called “Sort Your Life Out”. I don’t read self-help books because I think they’re daft, but Pete’s a pal, so I’ll make an exception.
The interesting thing, though, was that a lot of what Pete said seemed to be relevant to TRSNYRC. In fact, I felt I had come to some similar conclusions about life and the universe over the past couple of months. I wonder if you have too?
In a nutshell, Pete believes the human mind, while extraordinary in many ways, is also hugely primitive and restrictive. It likes its routines and it sticks to habits, even if those habits are damaging. Unlike a computer, you can’t delete negative thoughts from your mind, however much you’d like to. Your mind commentates on your life (the voice in your head), often working against you by arguing for the status quo rather than for the challenge of change.
Most of our resolutions on this blog, it seems to me, are inviting change.
It all depends whether we have the stomach to push through with them, by deleting old habits and replacing them with new ones. Or whether we allow our mind to talk us out of it.
Friday, 27 February 2009
The Futility of Multi-tasking and Clean Windows
Day 58, Friday, February 27 - Who says men can’t multi-task?
It is 9.11am. This morning I have 1) rolled out of bed 2) made Emma’s school lunch 3) fed her breakfast 4) fed myself breakfast 5) washed up 6) dried the dishes 7) played my three piano pieces 8) washed the French door windows inside and out 9) had a hot lemon juice 10) done a couple of cursory physical stretches 11) set up the ironing board and ironing 12) started to sub-edit a book 13) taken out the rubbish 14) ambushed Clare and told her about my five lengths of crawl yesterday (she tries hard to conceal her admiration but I can sense it all the same) 15) written this blog 16) served Jan her breakfast.
And what have I ended up with? Some smudged French windows, a cracked plate, Mary Had A Little Lamb played in the wrong key, Jan unhappy with the coffee I made and a bad neck.
Worse still, Jan is sitting right next to the French windows and has not apparently noticed that you can now see out of them.
It's not that men can't multi-task. They just don't see the point.
PS It's now 9.20am and still no mention of the windows... I was going to do the skylights later today but I'm reconsidering.
It is 9.11am. This morning I have 1) rolled out of bed 2) made Emma’s school lunch 3) fed her breakfast 4) fed myself breakfast 5) washed up 6) dried the dishes 7) played my three piano pieces 8) washed the French door windows inside and out 9) had a hot lemon juice 10) done a couple of cursory physical stretches 11) set up the ironing board and ironing 12) started to sub-edit a book 13) taken out the rubbish 14) ambushed Clare and told her about my five lengths of crawl yesterday (she tries hard to conceal her admiration but I can sense it all the same) 15) written this blog 16) served Jan her breakfast.
And what have I ended up with? Some smudged French windows, a cracked plate, Mary Had A Little Lamb played in the wrong key, Jan unhappy with the coffee I made and a bad neck.
Worse still, Jan is sitting right next to the French windows and has not apparently noticed that you can now see out of them.
It's not that men can't multi-task. They just don't see the point.
PS It's now 9.20am and still no mention of the windows... I was going to do the skylights later today but I'm reconsidering.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
More About Fragrant Wife...
Day 56, Wednesday February 25, 1pm: I’ve got a soft spot for Fragrant Wife (see posting January 3).
She’s one of those people with a real talent but without the confidence to match (I’ve always preferred a diametrically opposed approach, myself – overbearing arrogance based on nothing of any consequence).
I dropped in unannounced on FW the other day and demanded a cup of cha. FW blushes as she opens the door. It’s another of those endearing qualities. She blushes at dropping hats. She turns crimson when greengrocers say “tomatoes” and Welshmen “Aberystwyth”. That’s just how she is.
FW, if you remember, resolved to do a sketch a day to try and resuscitate her art. She admits, though, that she has already fallen way behind. Could I, though, see some of the sketches she has completed? FW blushes. No, I can’t.
Halfway through the cup, though, she changes her mind and fetches her book. She really can draw, can FW. There is a gorgeous still life of a pineapple, and an exquisite sketch of her two sons.
There’s also one of her husband, Boot Boy, but it doesn’t look anything like him. FW has made him look far too young and handsome and relaxed. He should be in Dr Martens, holding an axe handle and bellowing.
Perhaps that is just the way she perceives him. Which is rather sweet, however misguided.
She’s one of those people with a real talent but without the confidence to match (I’ve always preferred a diametrically opposed approach, myself – overbearing arrogance based on nothing of any consequence).
I dropped in unannounced on FW the other day and demanded a cup of cha. FW blushes as she opens the door. It’s another of those endearing qualities. She blushes at dropping hats. She turns crimson when greengrocers say “tomatoes” and Welshmen “Aberystwyth”. That’s just how she is.
FW, if you remember, resolved to do a sketch a day to try and resuscitate her art. She admits, though, that she has already fallen way behind. Could I, though, see some of the sketches she has completed? FW blushes. No, I can’t.
Halfway through the cup, though, she changes her mind and fetches her book. She really can draw, can FW. There is a gorgeous still life of a pineapple, and an exquisite sketch of her two sons.
There’s also one of her husband, Boot Boy, but it doesn’t look anything like him. FW has made him look far too young and handsome and relaxed. He should be in Dr Martens, holding an axe handle and bellowing.
Perhaps that is just the way she perceives him. Which is rather sweet, however misguided.
Friday, 20 February 2009
The Day The Russian Artillery Shell Missed Captain Nolan
Day 51, Friday February 20, 9am: Captain Louis Edward Nolan died 150 years ago, give or take, courtesy of a red-hot splinter from a Russian artillery shell at Sebastopol.
He supposedly gave out a blood-curdling scream on his way to his Maker.
The bit that really fascinated me as a boy, though, was that Nolan remained upright in his saddle, his sword held out before him, despite being very much dead as his horse galloped off the battlefield. That’s military discipline for you, that is.
Anyway. You may, or may not be immediately familiar with the Charge of the Light Brigade (even after my warning shot across the bows, see blog posting Feb 5). You may be wondering what I’m on about. But bear with me. In my mind, Captain Nolan and his commanding officer, Lord Cardigan, are inextricably linked with my New Year resolution of trying to be tidier about the house.
But back to 1854 and the Crimean War.
Historians disagree, of course – don’t they always? But the most popular hypothesis suggests that Nolan, suddenly realising that Cardigan and the Valiant 600 (actually about 673 horsemen took part in the charge, but don’t let specifics get in the way of a good poem) were about to ride into the Valley of Death, tried to intervene by riding across the front of the brigade. That, unfortunately, was when he copped it. Cardigan, being an absurd British toff, thought Nolan was showboating and trying to steal his thunder. “Damned impudence,” I hear him saying as he hurtled on towards the awaiting Russian guns (typically, Cardigan was one of the few to survive the charge, his eyebrows only lightly singed. He spent the evening drinking champagne on his yacht in Balaclava Harbour).
My point?
Simply, I have come to the conclusion that, domestically at least, there is more Cardigan in me than Nolan.
I keep charging off, doing things I find exciting and stimulating, even when the Nolan side suggests: “Look, perhaps this is not a great idea after all, those guns do look a tad menacing, why don’t you slow down, stop even, take a rain check, perhaps go and polish your stirrups or clip your sideburns rather than waving that sabre about in such a bellicose way?”
I simply will keep on doing the things which promise to quicken the pulse.
Which is why I go to the golf range (okay, okay, it might not quicken your pulse but it does mine), or practise my piano, or swim, rather than hang up my coat in the right place, take the washing out of the washing machine, hang up my ironed shirts or clear out the study.
Oh? Haven’t I mentioned the study yet? This is what this is all about, really. The study dominates everything, if I’m honest. It’s a boulder that I carry about with me in the haversack of life. It’s a monster lurking in my shadows. I know it’s there but I refuse to acknowledge it.
The study – actually, the whole house, to be honest, the study has just become the metaphor for my domestic incompetence - is now so untidy and cluttered that it’s impossible to traverse without falling over. I avoid going into the study whenever possible. If there’s paperwork that needs filing, I post it under the door.
Fact - I’m allergic to our study.
Which would be fine except that Jan sometimes works from home. I get ordered to tidy up and what do I do? I carry all the stuff from the study to another room. Then, when she complains about that room, I carry it all back.
It has taken my 49 and a half years, but I’ve just realised this is a waste of time. I was having a cup of tea with Lydia yesterday (aka Fragrant Wife, see posting of January 3) and she said she had cleaned up one of her sons’ rooms because she was sick of paying the mortgage for the three-bedroom house when her family appeared to be living in a two-bedroom home. Good point, I thought.
Lydia’s right. Things must change. No golf range today.
I am going into the study. I’m going in. I’m going in… (if I repeat it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it).
It’s time for Captain Nolan to stop Lord Cardigan for once. It’s time for the Russian artillery to miss.
He supposedly gave out a blood-curdling scream on his way to his Maker.
The bit that really fascinated me as a boy, though, was that Nolan remained upright in his saddle, his sword held out before him, despite being very much dead as his horse galloped off the battlefield. That’s military discipline for you, that is.
Anyway. You may, or may not be immediately familiar with the Charge of the Light Brigade (even after my warning shot across the bows, see blog posting Feb 5). You may be wondering what I’m on about. But bear with me. In my mind, Captain Nolan and his commanding officer, Lord Cardigan, are inextricably linked with my New Year resolution of trying to be tidier about the house.
But back to 1854 and the Crimean War.
Historians disagree, of course – don’t they always? But the most popular hypothesis suggests that Nolan, suddenly realising that Cardigan and the Valiant 600 (actually about 673 horsemen took part in the charge, but don’t let specifics get in the way of a good poem) were about to ride into the Valley of Death, tried to intervene by riding across the front of the brigade. That, unfortunately, was when he copped it. Cardigan, being an absurd British toff, thought Nolan was showboating and trying to steal his thunder. “Damned impudence,” I hear him saying as he hurtled on towards the awaiting Russian guns (typically, Cardigan was one of the few to survive the charge, his eyebrows only lightly singed. He spent the evening drinking champagne on his yacht in Balaclava Harbour).
My point?
Simply, I have come to the conclusion that, domestically at least, there is more Cardigan in me than Nolan.
I keep charging off, doing things I find exciting and stimulating, even when the Nolan side suggests: “Look, perhaps this is not a great idea after all, those guns do look a tad menacing, why don’t you slow down, stop even, take a rain check, perhaps go and polish your stirrups or clip your sideburns rather than waving that sabre about in such a bellicose way?”
I simply will keep on doing the things which promise to quicken the pulse.
Which is why I go to the golf range (okay, okay, it might not quicken your pulse but it does mine), or practise my piano, or swim, rather than hang up my coat in the right place, take the washing out of the washing machine, hang up my ironed shirts or clear out the study.
Oh? Haven’t I mentioned the study yet? This is what this is all about, really. The study dominates everything, if I’m honest. It’s a boulder that I carry about with me in the haversack of life. It’s a monster lurking in my shadows. I know it’s there but I refuse to acknowledge it.
The study – actually, the whole house, to be honest, the study has just become the metaphor for my domestic incompetence - is now so untidy and cluttered that it’s impossible to traverse without falling over. I avoid going into the study whenever possible. If there’s paperwork that needs filing, I post it under the door.
Fact - I’m allergic to our study.
Which would be fine except that Jan sometimes works from home. I get ordered to tidy up and what do I do? I carry all the stuff from the study to another room. Then, when she complains about that room, I carry it all back.
It has taken my 49 and a half years, but I’ve just realised this is a waste of time. I was having a cup of tea with Lydia yesterday (aka Fragrant Wife, see posting of January 3) and she said she had cleaned up one of her sons’ rooms because she was sick of paying the mortgage for the three-bedroom house when her family appeared to be living in a two-bedroom home. Good point, I thought.
Lydia’s right. Things must change. No golf range today.
I am going into the study. I’m going in. I’m going in… (if I repeat it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it).
It’s time for Captain Nolan to stop Lord Cardigan for once. It’s time for the Russian artillery to miss.
Monday, 16 February 2009
Whining (2)
Day 47, Monday, February 16, 11.45pm: You won’t believe me so there is no point in writing this. But I will anyway.
I had a glass of wine on Saturday. Oh alright… I had two glasses of wine on Saturday.
Which may suggest (see Resolution 7) that I have in some way failed.
I would argue, though, that Saturday and Resolution 7 are perfectly consistent.
In fact, I'd got further. Saturday was a show of strength.
I didn’t drink because I needed to, but because I wanted to. Jan and I had a film to watch and a nice meal to eat. The wine was the obvious accompaniment. I could have abstained. I chose not to.
I know, you don’t believe me. I said you wouldn't. But I believe I’m now a person who doesn't drink unless there's a good reason to do so. Before, I was a person who drank unless there was a good reason not to. I reckon that’s a fundamental shift.
I’m back to abstaining now, by the way. Until the next good film and the next good meal.
Try as I might, I couldn’t find anything to watch this evening. My pizzas were pretty good, though. Ask Jan. She has a glass of wine with hers.
I had a glass of wine on Saturday. Oh alright… I had two glasses of wine on Saturday.
Which may suggest (see Resolution 7) that I have in some way failed.
I would argue, though, that Saturday and Resolution 7 are perfectly consistent.
In fact, I'd got further. Saturday was a show of strength.
I didn’t drink because I needed to, but because I wanted to. Jan and I had a film to watch and a nice meal to eat. The wine was the obvious accompaniment. I could have abstained. I chose not to.
I know, you don’t believe me. I said you wouldn't. But I believe I’m now a person who doesn't drink unless there's a good reason to do so. Before, I was a person who drank unless there was a good reason not to. I reckon that’s a fundamental shift.
I’m back to abstaining now, by the way. Until the next good film and the next good meal.
Try as I might, I couldn’t find anything to watch this evening. My pizzas were pretty good, though. Ask Jan. She has a glass of wine with hers.
Sunday, 15 February 2009
Whining
Day 47, Monday, February 16,
So I won't.
It will save us both time to get on with other things.
Thursday, 12 February 2009
The Mildly Mad Magistrate
Friday February 13, 8am:
Let me introduce Matt The Mildly Mad Magistrate.
Not, I admit, a particularly accurate sobriquet. Matt is not yet a magistrate and he is not mildly insane either. He is totally so.
Matt – who I last met aged 13-and-a-half, until, that is, he turned up on my doorstep the other day as a Friend Reunited – has arguably out-resolved the rest of TRSNYRC by a fair distance.
He does, to be honest, have time on his hands after retiring early.
He also, however, has Go-For-It. Particularly for a man needing a kidney transplant and with knackered hips.
Here are his resolutions:
1) ride 100 miles in a day on the way to losing weight (while eating and drinking whatever he wants – cakes and alcohol most welcome).
2) Prepare for a Masters degree in Maths. So as to carry out research at the Dept of Cosmology and Gravitation. So as to get a Phd. So as to stick two fingers up the doctors, consultant and anaesthetists living in his road (if Brian May can do it, why can’t Matt?)
3) Climb
4) Rebuild his Z1000 Kawasaki and upset his neighbours (Matt was never a Hell’s Angel, he tells me, just leather jacketed, anti-social, immature, heavy drinking and belligerent).
5) And, of course, become a magistrate (thus giving him the power to incarcerate leather jacketed, anti-social, immature…
Mind you, these are mere resolutions, Matt. The proof will be in the pudding.
And you have a lot of catching up to do. We already have a fairly large pike in our keep-net. And I don’t want to crow but I wrestled my way through two entire lengths of crawl today before asphyxiating. I appear to have hurt my back in the process, and tweaked a hamstring but, for a sedantary 49-year-old would-be athlete, that's real progress, that is. Mount
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
Tony Not The Fish (Tony The Greco-Roman Wrestler)
Day 42, Wednesday February 11, 8.30pm - I blame my Dad. Except that my Dad was wonderful, so that can't be right.
It must be my fault, although I find that very hard to believe.
It turns out that I can't swim. Well, not properly, anyway. I am fish-unlike.
To be honest, I'd suspected as much for some fair while. I've been watching Seven-Year-Old's swimming lessons and been left confused by some of the instruction. Dad never taught me like that. Or perhaps I wasn't listening.
Anyway, I went to an adults' class today. There was a fair mix of abilities, with non-swimmers on the one hand and triathletes on the other. I was left floundering somewhere in the middle.
I was there, I told the teacher, because I seem to run out of breath while doing the crawl. I reckoned I could do about four lengths at most, as opposed to 10 lengths of breast stroke.
Put through my paces, I discovered that I could, in fact, only manage one length of crawl.
Teacher says, to be perfectly honest, I'm not really swimming at all. I'm Greco-Roman wrestling the water. My head's in the wrong position, my shoulders are tense and bunched up and I'm not breathing out vigorously enough, meaning that my lungs soon fill up with carbon dioxide. I also rock too much from side to side.
By the end of the half-hour, I was managing about half a length before spluttering to a standstill.
Swimming 20 length of crawl is not going to be easy. I am not, it turns out, a natural. I have the swimming aptitude of a brick, rather than of a Phelps.
It must be my fault, although I find that very hard to believe.
It turns out that I can't swim. Well, not properly, anyway. I am fish-unlike.
To be honest, I'd suspected as much for some fair while. I've been watching Seven-Year-Old's swimming lessons and been left confused by some of the instruction. Dad never taught me like that. Or perhaps I wasn't listening.
Anyway, I went to an adults' class today. There was a fair mix of abilities, with non-swimmers on the one hand and triathletes on the other. I was left floundering somewhere in the middle.
I was there, I told the teacher, because I seem to run out of breath while doing the crawl. I reckoned I could do about four lengths at most, as opposed to 10 lengths of breast stroke.
Put through my paces, I discovered that I could, in fact, only manage one length of crawl.
Teacher says, to be perfectly honest, I'm not really swimming at all. I'm Greco-Roman wrestling the water. My head's in the wrong position, my shoulders are tense and bunched up and I'm not breathing out vigorously enough, meaning that my lungs soon fill up with carbon dioxide. I also rock too much from side to side.
By the end of the half-hour, I was managing about half a length before spluttering to a standstill.
Swimming 20 length of crawl is not going to be easy. I am not, it turns out, a natural. I have the swimming aptitude of a brick, rather than of a Phelps.
John The Fish or John The Photoshop?
Day 42, Wednesday February 11, 1 pm: A belated tribute to John The Fish.
While the rest of TRSNYRC were quaffing wine and eating muffins last Saturday, he was out braving the West Country snow in search of that 20lb pike of his.
As many of you will know, he returned home having caught two fine specimens - one weighing in at 19lb 8oz and the second at 17lb 3oz. So near and yet so far...
I have, incidentally, tried to post his pike picture but the blog does not seem to like it.
I am wondering why.
Perhaps it is because I am technologically inept (see Head Sloth's resolutions).
Or perhaps the picture has been doctored some way. I gather Photoshop can pretty much do anything nowadays, in the right hands. Perhaps John The Fish has airbrushed his face onto a photograph of someone else? Or perhaps he airbrushed the pike in, after catching a 3oz goldfish?
Answers on a postcard.
Keep letting the rest of us know of your successes, be it with rod or Photoshop.
While the rest of TRSNYRC were quaffing wine and eating muffins last Saturday, he was out braving the West Country snow in search of that 20lb pike of his.
As many of you will know, he returned home having caught two fine specimens - one weighing in at 19lb 8oz and the second at 17lb 3oz. So near and yet so far...
I have, incidentally, tried to post his pike picture but the blog does not seem to like it.
I am wondering why.
Perhaps it is because I am technologically inept (see Head Sloth's resolutions).
Or perhaps the picture has been doctored some way. I gather Photoshop can pretty much do anything nowadays, in the right hands. Perhaps John The Fish has airbrushed his face onto a photograph of someone else? Or perhaps he airbrushed the pike in, after catching a 3oz goldfish?
Answers on a postcard.
Keep letting the rest of us know of your successes, be it with rod or Photoshop.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
The Indian Mutiny (War of Independence) Mark II
Day 40, Tuesday, February 10, 3 pm: I sense a new Indian Mutiny. Or rather - apologies to my New Delhi friends - a new Indian War of Independence.
I refer, of course, to Kuldip's comment to Monday's post "TRSNYRC First Meeting Declared a Grape Success."
The man is clearly beginning to question his own resolve to halve his own body mass. All we asked for was a progress report and Kuldip immediately hides behind his admittedly sharp sense of humour...
(It's the sort of comment Boot Boy would have posted, if he weren't ignoring us. You remember the one - he with Fragrant Wife who refused to have anything to do with TRSNYRC - see January 3 posting.)
So, Kuldip, you have challenged us. Now it is time for us to challenge you - what have you managed to do towards your resolution so far?
Best wishes,
Head Sloth
PS I am down from 83.4kg to 79.5, in case you wanted to know)
I refer, of course, to Kuldip's comment to Monday's post "TRSNYRC First Meeting Declared a Grape Success."
The man is clearly beginning to question his own resolve to halve his own body mass. All we asked for was a progress report and Kuldip immediately hides behind his admittedly sharp sense of humour...
(It's the sort of comment Boot Boy would have posted, if he weren't ignoring us. You remember the one - he with Fragrant Wife who refused to have anything to do with TRSNYRC - see January 3 posting.)
So, Kuldip, you have challenged us. Now it is time for us to challenge you - what have you managed to do towards your resolution so far?
Best wishes,
Head Sloth
PS I am down from 83.4kg to 79.5, in case you wanted to know)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
