Well, I'm stuck in a mighty rut. I can't write. I can barely string a sentence together, for crying out loud. I feel I need a change of scene, something to get the synapses firing again.
This house-hunting malarky is quite fun, in its way, but it transpires that Fisher and I have one major difference in our approach, namely: she wants the right house, I want the right place ... and the right house. But I think I'd compromise much more quickly over the house than she would. I'd dearly love to be up near Pitlochry, where the mountains rise. She wants a wonderful house, and will settle for almost anywhere to get it. We're actually off to look at a place in Moffat on Monday, which is a spa town in Dumfriesshire, but even though the place itself looks amazing (see here) it just doesn't fill me with the desire to move there. The hills are pretty and everything, but there's no wildness to it. It's all terribly tamed. I like to look out of the window and think: that world out there could kill me! And watching cars drive too fast on the A914 doesn't count!
The other place I'm keen on is this one: here.
Unfortunately, Fisher is about as enthusiastic about it as I am about Moffat, and with good reasons. The garden's not big, she's pretty sure it's right on the road, and the inside is far from ideal. In fact, it may turn out to be as big a turkey as the other one we looked at in Pitlochry. But it's the right place, for me.
It's funny. We call Fisher 'the Hermit' because she'd be quite happy living in her own cupboard counting shoes and never seeing anyone again - but when it comes to people in the general sense of the word, it's me who really needs to keep them at arms length. I hate the thought of living amongst them. I want to look out and see the wilderness, not someone else's house. It's the Thoreau in me - although Thoreau was a bit of a pansy really. Wilderness my arse! He lived about a mile from his family home - he just happened to be in amongst a bunch of trees. Sister would laugh in his face!
The planes, as I think I've mentioned, have been truly appalling for the last couple of weeks which drove me to such extents of rage I sat down and wrote a stiff email to the RAF. Yes, folks, the British spirit is strong within me - especially as I littered it with sarcasm, such as the phrase "delightful 'circuits and bumps' which so charm the local population as you fly over our houses again and again." Luckily the RAF are scrupulously polite in responding to angry locals, and I got a swift response with some good news.
First of all, they explained that their runway had been under repair which caused flying to be restricted, hence why they'd been so quiet of late. Now it's repaired, the Christmas break is over, and the squadrons have returned from stirring up an unnecessary hornet's nest in Iraq, so we're back to the usual crap. (They didn't phrase it quite like that). But the good news is: in May, we're dropping down to 2 squadrons. Huzzah! Then the Typhoons will arrive in 2010. Huzzoo! I've been told that the new Eurofighter Typhoons have a greater noise footprint than the F1s - but a smaller turning circle which means ... well, nothing, to me. I'm pretty sure it means the people of Leuchars and Guardbridge are fucked, though. It might turn out better for the folks up here as the planes turn more quickly, but I doubt that, too. They' ll still want to fly over the hill, and the sound of those enormous, twin EJ200 engines will cause some serious ear-throbbing! Although I notice it can cruise without the use of afterburners, which ... probably won't make any difference at all, actually, as I think it's the use of afterburners during take-off that's the problem round here. And even 'dry' those babies make a hell of a racket.
Basically, it means we should sell up and move by 2010, and put the house on the market in May.
Ironically, since I've complained, the planes have been really good. Naturally, this has nothing to do with my complaint and much more to do with the RAF having caught up with their backlog of hours, which means I'm sitting here writing to the uninterrupted, mellifluous tones of Lisa Miskovsky (she's much poppier than I usually enjoy, but reminds me of Elin Sigvardsson) and loving life. Could I be coming through the black patch? God help me but I've been so angry of late.
Tell ya what - going for my first 4 mile run in an age helped yesterday. I wasn't fast, but managed to keep up a steady 12 minute mile pace up to Logie and back. Quarry Road is such a bitch. I found the run extremely hard, until about the 3 mile point when I recklessly thought to myself "I could keep going at this pace all day!" Naturally, this means I should have picked up the pace - but sod that. Anyway, within about 10 seconds I was back to wishing myself dead.
It's funny, but one of the things that keeps me going on a run is the thought of Fisher's face when I tell her what I achieved. She's always so genuinely pleased, and because she's so much quicker, more dedicated and generally better at running there's never a sense of competition between us, so her approval is pure and heartfelt. I don't usually seek approval for my actions, but I have to admit, it's really wonderful to have someone patting you on the back at the end of a run.
Lisa Miskovskovskovsky has finished now, and it's on to Regina Spektor. This chick rocks my socks.
Hmm. Looking back over this post ... I promise, my musical taste doesn't just involve northern European female singers! In fact, the last album I bought was Gavin Mikhail who's an American male (from northern European stock, with a name like that! Dammit!) and is also much poppier than my usual taste.
Christ, in my old age I seem to have taken a firm grip on the wheel and driven boldly to the middle of the road.
No. Regina Spektor will save me.
And with that - I feel an urge to WRITE! How marvellous. Also, Fonda is coming round for supper tonight and she's just got herself engaged, so a chance for some serious girly chat, I think.
Showing posts with label run. Show all posts
Showing posts with label run. Show all posts
Wednesday, 23 January 2008
Saturday, 29 December 2007
At Least My Nose Isn't the Only Thing Running
Home! How nice it is. Alas I've picked up an unpleasant sore throat, cough and cold from my family, but considering how fat and lazy I feel after doing no exercise at all for a week and stuffing myself with pizza last night, I refuse to allow myself to skive off. Later today I'll either go to the gym or use the elliptical machine upstairs.
Sister, Islander and the boys will be coming for New Year after all, so it's going to be a full house. Koios and Pro arrive on the 31st as well, and with the 2 collies I'm looking after as well as Baffie and Bridie, it's going to be quite interesting. We have pressies to exchange with Koios and Pro, which might be sensible being kept from Gemmill's sight, lest he think another round of gift giving is in order. I'm also not keen on the idea of giving him the chance to disrupt our roast goose. Koios likes a proper Christmas lunch, which she doesn't really get when down south, so I promised to provide one for her over New Year. I was going to do it for New Year's lunch, but it might be better on New Year's eve - unless they're staying until the 2nd. That would be perfect, as we could then have it for New Year's supper instead.
Should a blog be the place for thinking aloud? Probably not.
I got a great gift from brother and Gaura - a set of exotic spices, which I'm going to build a menu around. Also included was a vanilla ... stalk? Root? What the hell is vanilla? Quick google check ...
Hm. Apparantly it's a lesbian bar in Manchester. Useful to know.
Interesting! It's an orchid! Who'da thunk? The thing I've got is the pod, in which are the little black seeds - so I'm hoping to come up with some interesting ice cream recipes. Vanilla and cardomom? Chilli and vanilla? (Yuk - but it might be interesting, and I bet Fisher would love it). I'll have a good sniff of everything and see what goes. As my old Ma says - cook with your nose. Hey - a piece of poetry! "Always remember to cook with your nose - Have a good sniff and see if it goes."
Ok - I'm back from my exercise now, and feeling very slightly like death warmed up. It's been a beautiful day, so I decided to go for a run up Quarry Road. I took Sally the collie and off we went. God, it was hard! I could only breath through my mouth, which meant regulating my breathing was a bit tricky, and I felt very sick at the end - but that was probably because I did the hills at the end as well as the beginning. Well ... almost all the hills. I walked up the very last bit of the first corner at the end and would have walked up the last one, too, only there was a neighbour walking his dog and he kindly paused to let me past and said:
"You'll have to keep up that pace, now, or my dog will chase yours!"
Bugger. So off I ran, and luckily managed to get up the hill, round the corner and home, before collapsing in a heap of gasping horror.
It was a crap time. 5k in 37 minutes. Still, considering my cold and the fact I've had a week off, I'm not all that disappointed. At least I went! I could easily have talked myself out of it and stayed curled up in front of the Sopranos.
Ah - the Sopranos. I managed to avoid watching them when they were first on, but now Channel 4 is reshowing the whole lot, every weeknight. I must say, it's brilliant stuff; Robert Graves would be proud. And what I like is: I find them all so unbearably revolting that if they all die, slowly and painfully, I'll be perfectly happy. Ok, not the psychiatrist, but everyone else can go to hell as far as I'm concerned. It's emotionally liberating to watch something where the end result can go any way and you'll remain detached. They are truly vile people, living a code of ethics so far outwith the bounds of civilised morality, that if they end up being hoist by their own petard I'll only rejoice. Even the kids are repulsive.
Right, I'm really rambling now. Time to switch off for a while. Man, I'm tired - but my home cure is kicking this cold's arse. For those that don't know, this is my cure for a cold and sore throat:
Hot Toddy:
Lemon juice
honey, to taste (at least 2 tsp)
2 shots rum, or single malt (optional)
Hot water
Sprinkling cinnamon, OR a few cloves.
Take your favourite pain killer with this. Then, after you've drunk the toddy and before the drugs have kicked in, pour youself a shot of the strongest alcohol you can tolerate. Gargle with it for as long as you can tolerate, then either swallow or spit. I'd recommend the latter - especially if you're having booze in your toddy! The alcohol not only numbs your throat, but acts as an antiseptic.
If the pain gets too uncomfortable and you can't take any more pain killers, I recommend fresh orange iced lollies. You can make them easily enough, but the ones from Tesco's are fantastic. If you make them, try adding a bit of honey to the mix as well. Honey is a natural antiseptic, doncha know. But if you can't get hold of iced lollies, just suck on a bit of ice. It'll numb your throat and give you some blessed relief.
So that's that. Hope it helps some time.
Sister, Islander and the boys will be coming for New Year after all, so it's going to be a full house. Koios and Pro arrive on the 31st as well, and with the 2 collies I'm looking after as well as Baffie and Bridie, it's going to be quite interesting. We have pressies to exchange with Koios and Pro, which might be sensible being kept from Gemmill's sight, lest he think another round of gift giving is in order. I'm also not keen on the idea of giving him the chance to disrupt our roast goose. Koios likes a proper Christmas lunch, which she doesn't really get when down south, so I promised to provide one for her over New Year. I was going to do it for New Year's lunch, but it might be better on New Year's eve - unless they're staying until the 2nd. That would be perfect, as we could then have it for New Year's supper instead.
Should a blog be the place for thinking aloud? Probably not.
I got a great gift from brother and Gaura - a set of exotic spices, which I'm going to build a menu around. Also included was a vanilla ... stalk? Root? What the hell is vanilla? Quick google check ...
Hm. Apparantly it's a lesbian bar in Manchester. Useful to know.
Interesting! It's an orchid! Who'da thunk? The thing I've got is the pod, in which are the little black seeds - so I'm hoping to come up with some interesting ice cream recipes. Vanilla and cardomom? Chilli and vanilla? (Yuk - but it might be interesting, and I bet Fisher would love it). I'll have a good sniff of everything and see what goes. As my old Ma says - cook with your nose. Hey - a piece of poetry! "Always remember to cook with your nose - Have a good sniff and see if it goes."
Ok - I'm back from my exercise now, and feeling very slightly like death warmed up. It's been a beautiful day, so I decided to go for a run up Quarry Road. I took Sally the collie and off we went. God, it was hard! I could only breath through my mouth, which meant regulating my breathing was a bit tricky, and I felt very sick at the end - but that was probably because I did the hills at the end as well as the beginning. Well ... almost all the hills. I walked up the very last bit of the first corner at the end and would have walked up the last one, too, only there was a neighbour walking his dog and he kindly paused to let me past and said:
"You'll have to keep up that pace, now, or my dog will chase yours!"
Bugger. So off I ran, and luckily managed to get up the hill, round the corner and home, before collapsing in a heap of gasping horror.
It was a crap time. 5k in 37 minutes. Still, considering my cold and the fact I've had a week off, I'm not all that disappointed. At least I went! I could easily have talked myself out of it and stayed curled up in front of the Sopranos.
Ah - the Sopranos. I managed to avoid watching them when they were first on, but now Channel 4 is reshowing the whole lot, every weeknight. I must say, it's brilliant stuff; Robert Graves would be proud. And what I like is: I find them all so unbearably revolting that if they all die, slowly and painfully, I'll be perfectly happy. Ok, not the psychiatrist, but everyone else can go to hell as far as I'm concerned. It's emotionally liberating to watch something where the end result can go any way and you'll remain detached. They are truly vile people, living a code of ethics so far outwith the bounds of civilised morality, that if they end up being hoist by their own petard I'll only rejoice. Even the kids are repulsive.
Right, I'm really rambling now. Time to switch off for a while. Man, I'm tired - but my home cure is kicking this cold's arse. For those that don't know, this is my cure for a cold and sore throat:
Hot Toddy:
Lemon juice
honey, to taste (at least 2 tsp)
2 shots rum, or single malt (optional)
Hot water
Sprinkling cinnamon, OR a few cloves.
Take your favourite pain killer with this. Then, after you've drunk the toddy and before the drugs have kicked in, pour youself a shot of the strongest alcohol you can tolerate. Gargle with it for as long as you can tolerate, then either swallow or spit. I'd recommend the latter - especially if you're having booze in your toddy! The alcohol not only numbs your throat, but acts as an antiseptic.
If the pain gets too uncomfortable and you can't take any more pain killers, I recommend fresh orange iced lollies. You can make them easily enough, but the ones from Tesco's are fantastic. If you make them, try adding a bit of honey to the mix as well. Honey is a natural antiseptic, doncha know. But if you can't get hold of iced lollies, just suck on a bit of ice. It'll numb your throat and give you some blessed relief.
So that's that. Hope it helps some time.
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
Run!
Yes folks, it's some kind of miracle! I managed to quell my soul-sucking reluctance and accompany Fisher on a run at Tentsmuir with the pooches. It was cold, so I donned trackie bums, my vest top that I have to wear under my bra (get blisters from the straps otherwise), a running t-shirt, and my running jacket.
I then stepped out of the house and found it much milder than anticipated - but did I amend my wardrobe?
Noooo!
I therefore started shedding clothing like a washing machine with its door open after about 5 minutes of my run, having to leave my jacket hanging on a fence post and picking it up on the way back.
But! Without even trying, I managed to complete my fastest ever 5k. 33mins 55seconds. Yes yes, I know there are three legged pigs who can run faster, but I was dead, dead chuffed. I was also utterly knackered all the way round because I'd eaten only 2 bits of toast, some 4 hours previously. Goober.
We then went ot Tesco and picked up the weekly shop before returning home and getting ready to go out for a home-cooked meal with Fonda, who's just got her dining room up and running and wanted to show it off. It's lovely - wooden floors, white walls, a Mediterranean feel - even in the depths of a Scottish winter. She cooked us lamb and cous-cous (she put baby tomatoes, pre-roasted in balsamic vinegar, in the cous-cous which were delicious and which Fisher, cous-cous Queen of our house, is now going to adopt. If she can be arsed) followed by Apple Pie and cream from M&S. We chatted over coffee and biscuits, discussing her boyfriend (whom she never fails but to paint as a complete twong, but I'm sure isn't) who then telephoned, on cue. Fonda said she was busy, so she'd call him later. "Yes, really!" she replied to his disbelief, and put the phone down. Ten seconds later, he rang again.
"You never asked," we heard Fonda say, and correctly interpreted this as a resonse to "you didn't tell me why you're busy!"
Granted, if I phoned Fisher only to be told she was busy, I'd want to know what she was up to, in an interested sort of way. In fact, if she said: "I'm busy right now, can I can I call you back?" I'm pretty sure I'd say: "Sure. What are you up to?" And if, for some reason, I didn't ask straight away I think I could contain myself and wait until she called me back to find out. Not Fonda's fella. He had to know then and there, to the extent of calling her back, further interrupting proceedings. Couple that with Fonda telling us that, when she'd asked what he was doing for Christmas, he claimed he would "decide on Christmas Eve."
Sounds like a selfish, self-centred arse to me. Who actually thinks they can just descend on a family Christmas at the last minute? Someone who's never cooked a Christmas meal, or done anything to prepare for Christmas, or any social gathering that involves feeding, housing and entertaining a large number of people, that's for sure.
Still, Fonda keeps bemoaning the fact she always says the wrong things about him, and I'm trying very hard to reserve judgement until I actually meet him. I'm sure he's a great guy. Fonda's certainly happier since they got back together, so that's good.
Aaanyhoo - enough judgement and crabbishness! I've done far too much looking down the old nose in the past few days, and it makes me feel all curled up inside. Life is good! Next week we go down to York to enjoy a hotel break with Brother and Gaura and belatedly celebrate his birthday. The tennis social is this Friday, and Sunday night we're going out for a meal with Koios and Pro before the trip to York, where I plan on discussing New Year plans. And Christmas is so close! Holy crap ona stick! I must book our Malta flights.
I'm off to do that now.
Urg. Flights.
No! Life is GOOD! Hurrah for flights. Hurrah for Christmas, family and pals. Hurrah, I tell you!
I then stepped out of the house and found it much milder than anticipated - but did I amend my wardrobe?
Noooo!
I therefore started shedding clothing like a washing machine with its door open after about 5 minutes of my run, having to leave my jacket hanging on a fence post and picking it up on the way back.
But! Without even trying, I managed to complete my fastest ever 5k. 33mins 55seconds. Yes yes, I know there are three legged pigs who can run faster, but I was dead, dead chuffed. I was also utterly knackered all the way round because I'd eaten only 2 bits of toast, some 4 hours previously. Goober.
We then went ot Tesco and picked up the weekly shop before returning home and getting ready to go out for a home-cooked meal with Fonda, who's just got her dining room up and running and wanted to show it off. It's lovely - wooden floors, white walls, a Mediterranean feel - even in the depths of a Scottish winter. She cooked us lamb and cous-cous (she put baby tomatoes, pre-roasted in balsamic vinegar, in the cous-cous which were delicious and which Fisher, cous-cous Queen of our house, is now going to adopt. If she can be arsed) followed by Apple Pie and cream from M&S. We chatted over coffee and biscuits, discussing her boyfriend (whom she never fails but to paint as a complete twong, but I'm sure isn't) who then telephoned, on cue. Fonda said she was busy, so she'd call him later. "Yes, really!" she replied to his disbelief, and put the phone down. Ten seconds later, he rang again.
"You never asked," we heard Fonda say, and correctly interpreted this as a resonse to "you didn't tell me why you're busy!"
Granted, if I phoned Fisher only to be told she was busy, I'd want to know what she was up to, in an interested sort of way. In fact, if she said: "I'm busy right now, can I can I call you back?" I'm pretty sure I'd say: "Sure. What are you up to?" And if, for some reason, I didn't ask straight away I think I could contain myself and wait until she called me back to find out. Not Fonda's fella. He had to know then and there, to the extent of calling her back, further interrupting proceedings. Couple that with Fonda telling us that, when she'd asked what he was doing for Christmas, he claimed he would "decide on Christmas Eve."
Sounds like a selfish, self-centred arse to me. Who actually thinks they can just descend on a family Christmas at the last minute? Someone who's never cooked a Christmas meal, or done anything to prepare for Christmas, or any social gathering that involves feeding, housing and entertaining a large number of people, that's for sure.
Still, Fonda keeps bemoaning the fact she always says the wrong things about him, and I'm trying very hard to reserve judgement until I actually meet him. I'm sure he's a great guy. Fonda's certainly happier since they got back together, so that's good.
Aaanyhoo - enough judgement and crabbishness! I've done far too much looking down the old nose in the past few days, and it makes me feel all curled up inside. Life is good! Next week we go down to York to enjoy a hotel break with Brother and Gaura and belatedly celebrate his birthday. The tennis social is this Friday, and Sunday night we're going out for a meal with Koios and Pro before the trip to York, where I plan on discussing New Year plans. And Christmas is so close! Holy crap ona stick! I must book our Malta flights.
I'm off to do that now.
Urg. Flights.
No! Life is GOOD! Hurrah for flights. Hurrah for Christmas, family and pals. Hurrah, I tell you!
Saturday, 17 November 2007
Good News!
I got a phone call an hour ago from Islander, saying that Wrecker had been for his last general anaesthetic, where the doctors check the progress of his wounds - and it's excellent news. Everyone is amazed at how well he's healed; there will be no need for a skin graft, and fingers crossed he'll be out on Monday! Ma is flying out that day, so Islander is going back home to work while Sister continues with Ma and the boys, staying with her sister and brother-in-law.
A relief! I didn't realise just how concerned I was until I heard that news. I know now that it's been swilling about in the back of my mind pretty permanently. Every time the phone rings I got a nasty little flash of what if ...
So, that news has cheered me up immensely.
As for the second day in Gemmill's company - it was as hectic as the first. We took him to the Science Museum, which is terrific for kiddies and adults alike, and he spent several happy hours there. He was a little more bolshy than the previous day, as we knew he would be, as the novelty of Auntie Fun had worn off. Actually, his devotion to his Auntie Fisher is now in full swing. He's always at pains to show how good she is at things: she gives the best swing-arounds (where he gets swung round by the arms), is the best at running, feeding squirrels, and is the first person he runs to when frightened. If I'm Auntie Fun then she's Auntie Cuddles. He doesn't want to compete with her - he wants to take care of her and make sure her feelings aren't hurt. Mine, on the other hand, are designed to be crushed by the full weight of his competitive spirit. Superb stuff.
After the Science Museum, where we also grabbed lunch, we asked him what he would like to do next. The answer was swift in coming: back to the 'garden' please. Delighted, we took him off to this free attraction and spent a couple more hours revisiting the exotic plants and playing in the play park.
Back at the hospital, Wrecker was looking cheerful, as was Islander whose turn it was for a good night's sleep while Sister took the night shift. We promised to bring her some room service from the Hotel du Vin, and left her to it.
Back at the hotel, we availed ourselves of their gym - which is crap, but who cares? At least they have one - and then took Sister her grilled chicken sandwich, some crisps and a bottle of lemonade. It turned out to be far from exciting, but the box they put it in was very elegant, so that was something.
On our return, we flopped gleefully on the four poster, ordered up some Buccleuch Burgers from room service, and whiled away the astonishingly long wait watching TV.
Room service proved rather ordinary, which is a shame, but no real complaints. Their chips were gorgeous, and we were hungry enough not to care about the boring state of the burger. I imagine the kitchens are too busy concentrating on the magic performed in the Bistro to be overly concerned with room service.
Next day, we took Gemmill and Sister back to - you've guessed it - the Botanic Gardens. Sister then had to return to the hospital because Islander had to go to the airport and deal with the people going to China in his stead, so we played in the playpark until lunch time. Dragging Gemmill away from the roundabout, where he and a little girl were trying very hard to kill themselves by flinging themselves off it while it was still spinning, was quite a challenge. He didn't want lunch, so promises of food - even ice cream! - did no good. Eventually he came because I made him, and then coaxed him away from a tantrum by suggesting we hunt squirrels.
When we eventually got him out of the park, we searched out an Italian place off Byers Road where they had a very child friendly - if deserted - atmosphere. We let him choose lunch (pizza - good man!) and had a very pleasant time helping him write his name, draw pictures and generally be extremely good company. Then it was back to the hospital to drop him off, bid farewell to Sister and Wrecker, and head on home.
This brings me pretty much up to date, save to mention Lu's birthday meal at the Craigsanquhar, which was very chilled, and going for a 4 mile run today. I've discovered I've put on 1/2 a stone since my lightest, so it's back to the grindstone in that respect. Hey ho. Still - I'd rather live beyond 40, if you don't mind, so I'll forego the odd bag of Maltesers.
A relief! I didn't realise just how concerned I was until I heard that news. I know now that it's been swilling about in the back of my mind pretty permanently. Every time the phone rings I got a nasty little flash of what if ...
So, that news has cheered me up immensely.
As for the second day in Gemmill's company - it was as hectic as the first. We took him to the Science Museum, which is terrific for kiddies and adults alike, and he spent several happy hours there. He was a little more bolshy than the previous day, as we knew he would be, as the novelty of Auntie Fun had worn off. Actually, his devotion to his Auntie Fisher is now in full swing. He's always at pains to show how good she is at things: she gives the best swing-arounds (where he gets swung round by the arms), is the best at running, feeding squirrels, and is the first person he runs to when frightened. If I'm Auntie Fun then she's Auntie Cuddles. He doesn't want to compete with her - he wants to take care of her and make sure her feelings aren't hurt. Mine, on the other hand, are designed to be crushed by the full weight of his competitive spirit. Superb stuff.
After the Science Museum, where we also grabbed lunch, we asked him what he would like to do next. The answer was swift in coming: back to the 'garden' please. Delighted, we took him off to this free attraction and spent a couple more hours revisiting the exotic plants and playing in the play park.
Back at the hospital, Wrecker was looking cheerful, as was Islander whose turn it was for a good night's sleep while Sister took the night shift. We promised to bring her some room service from the Hotel du Vin, and left her to it.
Back at the hotel, we availed ourselves of their gym - which is crap, but who cares? At least they have one - and then took Sister her grilled chicken sandwich, some crisps and a bottle of lemonade. It turned out to be far from exciting, but the box they put it in was very elegant, so that was something.
On our return, we flopped gleefully on the four poster, ordered up some Buccleuch Burgers from room service, and whiled away the astonishingly long wait watching TV.
Room service proved rather ordinary, which is a shame, but no real complaints. Their chips were gorgeous, and we were hungry enough not to care about the boring state of the burger. I imagine the kitchens are too busy concentrating on the magic performed in the Bistro to be overly concerned with room service.
Next day, we took Gemmill and Sister back to - you've guessed it - the Botanic Gardens. Sister then had to return to the hospital because Islander had to go to the airport and deal with the people going to China in his stead, so we played in the playpark until lunch time. Dragging Gemmill away from the roundabout, where he and a little girl were trying very hard to kill themselves by flinging themselves off it while it was still spinning, was quite a challenge. He didn't want lunch, so promises of food - even ice cream! - did no good. Eventually he came because I made him, and then coaxed him away from a tantrum by suggesting we hunt squirrels.
When we eventually got him out of the park, we searched out an Italian place off Byers Road where they had a very child friendly - if deserted - atmosphere. We let him choose lunch (pizza - good man!) and had a very pleasant time helping him write his name, draw pictures and generally be extremely good company. Then it was back to the hospital to drop him off, bid farewell to Sister and Wrecker, and head on home.
This brings me pretty much up to date, save to mention Lu's birthday meal at the Craigsanquhar, which was very chilled, and going for a 4 mile run today. I've discovered I've put on 1/2 a stone since my lightest, so it's back to the grindstone in that respect. Hey ho. Still - I'd rather live beyond 40, if you don't mind, so I'll forego the odd bag of Maltesers.
Thursday, 25 October 2007
First Run in Ages (and a rant from nowhere)
Yesterday I allowed Fisher to persuade me into a proper run, the like of which I haven't done since ... well, before I can remember, really. Granted, my memory is so poor I can barely remember last week (seriously - what happened last week?) but I'm pretty sure I haven't done more than a cursorary mile or so in the gym for far too long. I told myself I'd do 5k, taking it easy and just getting back into the swing of things. I thought we'd head to Tentsmuir with the dogs, but Fisher had other ideas.
Thus it was I found myself uneasily setting off, cold tendrils of fog curling about my ankles, to run up Quarry Road and back. Fisher wanted to go further, only turning back once we'd reached the little village on the other side of the hill, but I firmly announced my intention of only doing 5k. I agreed to see how it went and go further if I could, but I so no sense in setting myself too much of a challenge after such a long break.
It was horribly cold to being with. Fisher has been waiting a long time for the weather to turn like this, as she hates running in the sun, but even she was meeping about not having enough clothing. I was too agreeably surprised by not wanting to collapse immediately to really mind the temperature that much, and the world was astonishingly beautiful under a white layer of mist. As we jogged steadily up the long hill, we saw cobwebs glistening like silver in the hedgerows, which detracted slightly from the horror that is the last ten yards of that goddam' rise. What's even more depressing is that you know it's only the first of many. Running up that hill isn't as bad as Arthur's Seat, but it's a close call.
Once you've reached the top of the long hill, you then have the chance to catch your breath a little with a long, flat stretch. Then you turn a corner and, without fail, the next hill catches you by surprise. It's always steeper and longer than you expect. Then it's downhill for about 20 yards, finishing Quarry Road on just over 1.5 miles - meaning you have to turn and go straight back uphill if you want to do 5k. Partly because I simply couldn't face another uphill so soon, and partly because the slow pace I'd set meant I still felt pretty good, stamina wise, I agreed to go into the village with Fisher.
Unfortunately, this means yet another couple of hills - culminating with one of the steepest, albeit shortest, at the very end. My lungs burning, stomach churning, I was once again wondering what in the name of living arse possessed me to go out running? It's, without a doubt, the stupidest thing in the world.
Thankfully, once we'd turned it was pretty much all downhill, save for one long stretch of unpleasant uphill which takes you back onto Quarry Road.
My knees started to object as I hit Quarry Road again, no doubt still reeling from the climbing of t'other day, but on the whole I felt ok. We had to pause a couple of times due to traffic blocking the way, and then warning other traffic of the blockage, which leads me to take a conservative 15 seconds off the end time. When we finished I was seriously knackered but very, very pleased with myself. After a long break, to still be able to do 4 miles in the not truly humiliating time (for me) of 47.53 was an immense boost.
I've learned somthing interesting - and not particularly flattering - about myself since taking up running, and that is just how much justification I allow myself in times of failure. If I don't succeed in a run it's because, oh, I didn't eat the right food, or it's that time of the month, or the dog slowed me down. Sometimes these reasons might be true, but all too often they're just excuses. And it's not just in running, either. All too often I refuse to hold myself accountable for not doing something because I can think of several external reasons keeping me from my goal. In the end, I know perfectly well that if I want something I can combat almost anything in order to get it. There are very few obstacles in life that can't be surmounted with a little imagination and drive. I've no shortage of the former, but the latter needs some work.
First, make a decision. That's truly the hard part. It's commitment, and that's a little scary. But once the decision is made, there is no obstacle that need get in the way. Nothing is unbeatable (well, except the rock-hard cream I found in the fridge the other day). The only question that's relevant is "how much do I want it?" and what I'll suffer to get it.
In some ways, pride is a good thing - but I can't help but feel it's more of a hinderance than a help. I think pride restricts rather than liberates, keeping people bound to conventions that, in the grand scheme of things, are utterly irrelevant. You have to be able to look at yourself in the mirror in the morning, but I think it's more important to understand your own mores rather than just to accept the restrictions of society at face value.
Hm. Not sure where that came from, but it's been on my mind for a while, in a convoluted sort of way.
Anyway ... Fisher and I might go to aquafit tonight. We've been trying to get in touch with Fonda, but no response for weeks now. Hope all ok there, and she's off on some dirty getaway with the newly brought to heel boyfriend.
Thus it was I found myself uneasily setting off, cold tendrils of fog curling about my ankles, to run up Quarry Road and back. Fisher wanted to go further, only turning back once we'd reached the little village on the other side of the hill, but I firmly announced my intention of only doing 5k. I agreed to see how it went and go further if I could, but I so no sense in setting myself too much of a challenge after such a long break.
It was horribly cold to being with. Fisher has been waiting a long time for the weather to turn like this, as she hates running in the sun, but even she was meeping about not having enough clothing. I was too agreeably surprised by not wanting to collapse immediately to really mind the temperature that much, and the world was astonishingly beautiful under a white layer of mist. As we jogged steadily up the long hill, we saw cobwebs glistening like silver in the hedgerows, which detracted slightly from the horror that is the last ten yards of that goddam' rise. What's even more depressing is that you know it's only the first of many. Running up that hill isn't as bad as Arthur's Seat, but it's a close call.
Once you've reached the top of the long hill, you then have the chance to catch your breath a little with a long, flat stretch. Then you turn a corner and, without fail, the next hill catches you by surprise. It's always steeper and longer than you expect. Then it's downhill for about 20 yards, finishing Quarry Road on just over 1.5 miles - meaning you have to turn and go straight back uphill if you want to do 5k. Partly because I simply couldn't face another uphill so soon, and partly because the slow pace I'd set meant I still felt pretty good, stamina wise, I agreed to go into the village with Fisher.
Unfortunately, this means yet another couple of hills - culminating with one of the steepest, albeit shortest, at the very end. My lungs burning, stomach churning, I was once again wondering what in the name of living arse possessed me to go out running? It's, without a doubt, the stupidest thing in the world.
Thankfully, once we'd turned it was pretty much all downhill, save for one long stretch of unpleasant uphill which takes you back onto Quarry Road.
My knees started to object as I hit Quarry Road again, no doubt still reeling from the climbing of t'other day, but on the whole I felt ok. We had to pause a couple of times due to traffic blocking the way, and then warning other traffic of the blockage, which leads me to take a conservative 15 seconds off the end time. When we finished I was seriously knackered but very, very pleased with myself. After a long break, to still be able to do 4 miles in the not truly humiliating time (for me) of 47.53 was an immense boost.
I've learned somthing interesting - and not particularly flattering - about myself since taking up running, and that is just how much justification I allow myself in times of failure. If I don't succeed in a run it's because, oh, I didn't eat the right food, or it's that time of the month, or the dog slowed me down. Sometimes these reasons might be true, but all too often they're just excuses. And it's not just in running, either. All too often I refuse to hold myself accountable for not doing something because I can think of several external reasons keeping me from my goal. In the end, I know perfectly well that if I want something I can combat almost anything in order to get it. There are very few obstacles in life that can't be surmounted with a little imagination and drive. I've no shortage of the former, but the latter needs some work.
First, make a decision. That's truly the hard part. It's commitment, and that's a little scary. But once the decision is made, there is no obstacle that need get in the way. Nothing is unbeatable (well, except the rock-hard cream I found in the fridge the other day). The only question that's relevant is "how much do I want it?" and what I'll suffer to get it.
In some ways, pride is a good thing - but I can't help but feel it's more of a hinderance than a help. I think pride restricts rather than liberates, keeping people bound to conventions that, in the grand scheme of things, are utterly irrelevant. You have to be able to look at yourself in the mirror in the morning, but I think it's more important to understand your own mores rather than just to accept the restrictions of society at face value.
Hm. Not sure where that came from, but it's been on my mind for a while, in a convoluted sort of way.
Anyway ... Fisher and I might go to aquafit tonight. We've been trying to get in touch with Fonda, but no response for weeks now. Hope all ok there, and she's off on some dirty getaway with the newly brought to heel boyfriend.
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