Help meeee!
I can't stop playing Civilisation ...
Managed to drag myself away from my conquering armies laying waste to the Iroquois Empire (hey - they started it) and went to the gym with Fisher. I wasn't feeling at all up for it, and, as is so often the way, I therefore did a KICK ARSE gym session.
At last, at last I have broked the 30 minute barrier, managing to complete my 5k in 29.50. Hurrah! I then did these weights (after allowing my heart rate to drop from 56340 bpm to my usual resting rate of 324bpm):
1 x 12 reps lat pully, 40kg
2 x 12 reps lat pully, 35kg (yes, 40 was pushing it!)
3 x 12 reps chest press, 40kg. Checked what my maximum lift ability is with this. It's 55kg.
3 x 12 reps stomach curl, on 10 (50kg?)
1 x 12 reps lat pully, standing, for tricep workout, on something pathetic like 20kg. Then got truly bored and my arms started trembling, so I flaked on the bicep curl and went home.
We stopped at The North Point for some soup, only to discover they'd run out of soup and had no salads - so we made do with a wrap each. Rather nice, actually. We went halves on a smoked salmon & cream cheese wrap, and a goat's cheese and pesto one. I still don't like pesto, and I'm not entirely charmed by vast slabs of goat's cheese which fall out of your wrap like a squidgy brick - but the smoked salmon one was good. Fisher liked the goat's cheese one, and took a large quantity of the cheese out of the wrap to start with. This is why she is losing weight hand over fist. The reason I am not, is because, although I did the same, I then ate the spare cheese as it lay on my plate.
At least Pro and I have let our weight loss bet ride until the end of March - and he is coming up for Easter lunch, so I will stuff him full of lard while I lunch on a small salad and a roll.
*Snort*
On a separate note - the kitchen floor is now entirely ruined. Molly the poodle has finished the job those lab crosses started, and there's a massive rip right across the middle. Oh well - at least it'll gird our loins in reparing it. I'm thinking - maybe tiles?
To bed for me. I hope, whoever you are and wherever you are in the world, you have a very pleasant night.
xx
Friday, 14 March 2008
Monday, 10 March 2008
Rage. And Gym.
God, I am in such a foul mood! I've just had a mini rant to myself, such as you see drunken tramps indulge in and causes you to immediately cross to the other side of the street. And what was my rant about?
Getting people to respond to things so you can enter into a planning frenzy when you want and need to, rather than when they decide it's convenient for them to let you know. If I'm charitable, I tell myself its because nobody else plans things on the sort of scale I do, with the number of people. When I'm uncharitable, I tell myself it's because other people are selfish fuck heads who have no desire to contemplate another person's situation. A certain person would call this 'being a bloke.' I know plenty of considerate blokes. It's not about being a bloke - it's about being a selfish fuck head who never contemplates another person's situation.
Not, you understand, that I'm necessarily referring to that certain person right now. I just remembered him saying the 'bloke' thing and being furious at what an inept attempt at justifying your own flaws it was. Yeah, blame your sex. Good one.
Aaaaaargh.
That's it. From now on, I refuse to chase people up. If I send out an email asking people if they want to do something, I'll only prepare for the people who actually have the courtesy to respond. I will not accept boyfriends accepting on behalf of girlfriends, or vice versa. I will also not accept people saying they will come, then not, leaving me with half a ton of wasted food.
You know, it makes me realise why societies had such rigid rules of etiquette. It used to be that you'd send out a formal - or informal - invitation, and people would respond. They would then come. They would know what clothes to wear, because the occasion would have its own innate dress-code, so nobody would turn up in jeans and t-shirt for a big occasion, thus making a mockery of several days' worth of loving preparation as they basically say "yeah, can't be fucked to make an effort." (Ok, it's not about the jeans - it's about the scruff-bag aspect). People would also know how to behave upon arriving. They would make pleasant small-talk with people they didn't know, rather than sitting in a corner talking solely to Phidippida because strangers scare them (that one's me - believe me, I'm not blind to some of the hypocrisy here). They know whether it was appropriate for them to stay beyond the courtesy-hour of 11pm, and would not keep the hostess up until 3 am because they refuse to leave. They would know whether the hostess was going to feed them or not, and not take it for granted that they would be able to fill their face at the Holly Cottage trough. They would not decide to watch Amercia's Next Top Slapper rather than have a conversation. They would make vocal offers of help, rather than look blank at my disapproving frown and say: "Well, the offer was there!"
The offer was not there. If the offer were there, I would not be frowning with hands on hips, feeling faintly disgusted at how like Miss Havisham I am becoming in old age. I tell you, I'm one step away from parking myself in a big old rocking chair, donning a yellowing wedding dress and corrupting some hapless young girl into a world of cynicism and disappointment. Tell me - was I the only peson in the world cheering The Havisham to the very rafters?
Yes, I thought so.
And, after the evening of bonhomie and good cheer, they would all write charming notes of thanks, expressing their delight and appreciation of the hard work clearly evident (even if the hard work consisted of opening several packets of M&S flapjacks and complaining that there are no good card games for 3). There would then come a flood of reciprocating invitations, which I would then complain about in a world-weary way to Fisher, fluttering myself with a fan and saying "la!" a lot.
I tell you, if it weren't for emancipation, modern medicine, civil rights, democracy, freedom of speech, freedom of information, the free market, central heating, the microchip, the internet, vacuum cleaners, washing machines, modern music, film and television, The Barenaked Ladies and barenaked ladies, I'd SO be born out of my time. (Ok, barenaked ladies were available in all times. Not quite so readily, though - which was a GOOD thing).
Now, reading this, I can just imagine several of my friends silently thinking to themselves: is she talking about me?
Well, I'm not, really. This is a much more general rant, inspired by - well, basically just being in a bad mood. I've actually written myself out of it almost completely, aided by Chopper phoning all thrilled about her upcoming birthday weekend, and some good tunes playing in the background. (Arcade Fire rock. So does Paul Simon.) I hope all my friends recognise that very few of them indulge in any of the behaviour I've outlined, and if they do it's usually forgiveable for whatever reasons caused the aberrant behaviour in the first place.
Put it this way: organising a non-wedding can have its irritations.
So - having written myself into a much better mood, it remains only to outline the events of the last few days.
Had a very lovely weekend visit to Hotel du Vin with Janus and Badger, which was a delightful break from teeming rain and general meteorological misery. We then returned to have a hangover day of eating deeply unsuitable things ("I want cake!" I demanded, just after we'd arrived home. I could, of course, have demanded cake at any time during our journey and we could have stopped to procure some - but no. "I have some biscuits," a generous Arrow offered. "Are biscuits CAKE??" I spluttered. "No, they are not! I want CAKE!" And so, much to my astonishment, Fisher actually went out and got me, not only cake, but Scotch pancakes and some deeply vile Tunnock's mallow teacakes, which bear no resemblance whatsoever to a teacake and are so sweet they make my teeth itch. On her return, I clapped my hands in glee at the Scotch pancakes and said, lovingly: "Did you remember butter?" She had not, so I beat her soundly) and watching the FA Cup quarter final between Middlesborough and Cardiff. And, with flair and panache, Championship Cardiff succeeded in knocking the Premiership side out of the cup. Marvellous. I then watched Tottenham spank West Ham 4-1, while eating Fish and Chips and chatting to Champaign Charlie, who phoned from Stateside - which put the icing on a terrific weekend.
Today my only major goal was not to eat any more crap, and to exercise - a goal I achieved, thank the Lard. The gym was very busy, but I managed to swipe the last running machine from under Fisher's nose and put in my fastest ever 5k at 31.05. True, at some stages I was hanging on to the rails for dear life and threatening to take to the air like a wind-sock, but I don't care. I followed this up with these weights:
3 x 12 reps on lat pulley, 35kg
3 x 12 reps on bicep curl, on 7
3 x 12 reps on horizontal leg lift, 100kg
1 x 6 reps on ... er ... leg curling type weights, 0n 10.
1 x 12 reps on above, on 9
1 x 12 reps on above, on 8. Yes. I did rather overestimate my strength on this one!
Then we went home, had prawn ciabatta, salad, oven chips (booooo! didn't need them) and a pudding of a kitkat, club and 4 little rice krispie treats. Not exactly a crap-free day, but not bad considering the only other thing I'd eaten was a bowl of cereal.
We won't talk about which one.
Now, I am no longer filled with rage, and a particularly whiny Dixie Chicks's song has just come on iTunes. Time to go.
Getting people to respond to things so you can enter into a planning frenzy when you want and need to, rather than when they decide it's convenient for them to let you know. If I'm charitable, I tell myself its because nobody else plans things on the sort of scale I do, with the number of people. When I'm uncharitable, I tell myself it's because other people are selfish fuck heads who have no desire to contemplate another person's situation. A certain person would call this 'being a bloke.' I know plenty of considerate blokes. It's not about being a bloke - it's about being a selfish fuck head who never contemplates another person's situation.
Not, you understand, that I'm necessarily referring to that certain person right now. I just remembered him saying the 'bloke' thing and being furious at what an inept attempt at justifying your own flaws it was. Yeah, blame your sex. Good one.
Aaaaaargh.
That's it. From now on, I refuse to chase people up. If I send out an email asking people if they want to do something, I'll only prepare for the people who actually have the courtesy to respond. I will not accept boyfriends accepting on behalf of girlfriends, or vice versa. I will also not accept people saying they will come, then not, leaving me with half a ton of wasted food.
You know, it makes me realise why societies had such rigid rules of etiquette. It used to be that you'd send out a formal - or informal - invitation, and people would respond. They would then come. They would know what clothes to wear, because the occasion would have its own innate dress-code, so nobody would turn up in jeans and t-shirt for a big occasion, thus making a mockery of several days' worth of loving preparation as they basically say "yeah, can't be fucked to make an effort." (Ok, it's not about the jeans - it's about the scruff-bag aspect). People would also know how to behave upon arriving. They would make pleasant small-talk with people they didn't know, rather than sitting in a corner talking solely to Phidippida because strangers scare them (that one's me - believe me, I'm not blind to some of the hypocrisy here). They know whether it was appropriate for them to stay beyond the courtesy-hour of 11pm, and would not keep the hostess up until 3 am because they refuse to leave. They would know whether the hostess was going to feed them or not, and not take it for granted that they would be able to fill their face at the Holly Cottage trough. They would not decide to watch Amercia's Next Top Slapper rather than have a conversation. They would make vocal offers of help, rather than look blank at my disapproving frown and say: "Well, the offer was there!"
The offer was not there. If the offer were there, I would not be frowning with hands on hips, feeling faintly disgusted at how like Miss Havisham I am becoming in old age. I tell you, I'm one step away from parking myself in a big old rocking chair, donning a yellowing wedding dress and corrupting some hapless young girl into a world of cynicism and disappointment. Tell me - was I the only peson in the world cheering The Havisham to the very rafters?
Yes, I thought so.
And, after the evening of bonhomie and good cheer, they would all write charming notes of thanks, expressing their delight and appreciation of the hard work clearly evident (even if the hard work consisted of opening several packets of M&S flapjacks and complaining that there are no good card games for 3). There would then come a flood of reciprocating invitations, which I would then complain about in a world-weary way to Fisher, fluttering myself with a fan and saying "la!" a lot.
I tell you, if it weren't for emancipation, modern medicine, civil rights, democracy, freedom of speech, freedom of information, the free market, central heating, the microchip, the internet, vacuum cleaners, washing machines, modern music, film and television, The Barenaked Ladies and barenaked ladies, I'd SO be born out of my time. (Ok, barenaked ladies were available in all times. Not quite so readily, though - which was a GOOD thing).
Now, reading this, I can just imagine several of my friends silently thinking to themselves: is she talking about me?
Well, I'm not, really. This is a much more general rant, inspired by - well, basically just being in a bad mood. I've actually written myself out of it almost completely, aided by Chopper phoning all thrilled about her upcoming birthday weekend, and some good tunes playing in the background. (Arcade Fire rock. So does Paul Simon.) I hope all my friends recognise that very few of them indulge in any of the behaviour I've outlined, and if they do it's usually forgiveable for whatever reasons caused the aberrant behaviour in the first place.
Put it this way: organising a non-wedding can have its irritations.
So - having written myself into a much better mood, it remains only to outline the events of the last few days.
Had a very lovely weekend visit to Hotel du Vin with Janus and Badger, which was a delightful break from teeming rain and general meteorological misery. We then returned to have a hangover day of eating deeply unsuitable things ("I want cake!" I demanded, just after we'd arrived home. I could, of course, have demanded cake at any time during our journey and we could have stopped to procure some - but no. "I have some biscuits," a generous Arrow offered. "Are biscuits CAKE??" I spluttered. "No, they are not! I want CAKE!" And so, much to my astonishment, Fisher actually went out and got me, not only cake, but Scotch pancakes and some deeply vile Tunnock's mallow teacakes, which bear no resemblance whatsoever to a teacake and are so sweet they make my teeth itch. On her return, I clapped my hands in glee at the Scotch pancakes and said, lovingly: "Did you remember butter?" She had not, so I beat her soundly) and watching the FA Cup quarter final between Middlesborough and Cardiff. And, with flair and panache, Championship Cardiff succeeded in knocking the Premiership side out of the cup. Marvellous. I then watched Tottenham spank West Ham 4-1, while eating Fish and Chips and chatting to Champaign Charlie, who phoned from Stateside - which put the icing on a terrific weekend.
Today my only major goal was not to eat any more crap, and to exercise - a goal I achieved, thank the Lard. The gym was very busy, but I managed to swipe the last running machine from under Fisher's nose and put in my fastest ever 5k at 31.05. True, at some stages I was hanging on to the rails for dear life and threatening to take to the air like a wind-sock, but I don't care. I followed this up with these weights:
3 x 12 reps on lat pulley, 35kg
3 x 12 reps on bicep curl, on 7
3 x 12 reps on horizontal leg lift, 100kg
1 x 6 reps on ... er ... leg curling type weights, 0n 10.
1 x 12 reps on above, on 9
1 x 12 reps on above, on 8. Yes. I did rather overestimate my strength on this one!
Then we went home, had prawn ciabatta, salad, oven chips (booooo! didn't need them) and a pudding of a kitkat, club and 4 little rice krispie treats. Not exactly a crap-free day, but not bad considering the only other thing I'd eaten was a bowl of cereal.
We won't talk about which one.
Now, I am no longer filled with rage, and a particularly whiny Dixie Chicks's song has just come on iTunes. Time to go.
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
Falkland Ho!
After an extremely non-productive morning, spent watching the final ever Sopranos (deeply unsatisfying, as I predicted. TV script writers simply don't know how to end things - and even with all the arty-farty techinques from my Theatre Studies A Level and English degree, I'm just left thinking they totally copped out by 'letting the viewer decide'. I dunno about anyone else, but I'm fed up with being left to decide. It would make a change if the storyteller actually decided for once), playing Civilization III on the computer and feeling antsy, I decided to bother Fisher.
"No, no," I told myself, "she's working. Leave her be. Entertain yourself."
I closed out of Civilization, banished Camino, and opened all the Word documents with bits of my novel on them. I looked at them. They looked at me.
Another hour of Civ followed. It was time to bother Fisher.
It being a beautiful day outside, we decided to take the dogs for a walk. However, the last few times we've been to the beach it's been unbearably windy and the sand gets in your eyes. Fisher didn't want to go to Tentsmuir, so we decided to go, randomly, to Falkland and walk the Lomond hills.
It was looooovely. The sun shone on us all the way, and we did the West Lomond walk, which is 7k (4.3 miles) with a short, steep climb at the end (about 200m). It took us an astonishing 2 hours to do such a short distance, which means we were walking at a cheetah-esque 2mph. Strange, considering we didn't really feel as if we were dawdling. I suppose we did stop for quite a few photos, too.
Nearing the Summit
We chased the sun on the way home, and because neither of us could be arsed to cook, got a pizza - which is why I now feel fat, sick and seriously pissed off with myself. Hey ho - at least Pro and I have let our bet ride to the end of March - with the prize now being a full meal, bought and paid for by the looosah.
So that was today. Rather fun - except that Fisher, in her usual bout of contagious optimism, managed to persuade me against my better judgement that we must have walked 6 miles. It sure as hell didn't feel like 6 miles, but so convincing was she that I allowed her to dupe me into believing. Bah. I really should know better by now.
"No, no," I told myself, "she's working. Leave her be. Entertain yourself."
I closed out of Civilization, banished Camino, and opened all the Word documents with bits of my novel on them. I looked at them. They looked at me.
Another hour of Civ followed. It was time to bother Fisher.
It being a beautiful day outside, we decided to take the dogs for a walk. However, the last few times we've been to the beach it's been unbearably windy and the sand gets in your eyes. Fisher didn't want to go to Tentsmuir, so we decided to go, randomly, to Falkland and walk the Lomond hills.
It was looooovely. The sun shone on us all the way, and we did the West Lomond walk, which is 7k (4.3 miles) with a short, steep climb at the end (about 200m). It took us an astonishing 2 hours to do such a short distance, which means we were walking at a cheetah-esque 2mph. Strange, considering we didn't really feel as if we were dawdling. I suppose we did stop for quite a few photos, too.
Nearing the Summit
We chased the sun on the way home, and because neither of us could be arsed to cook, got a pizza - which is why I now feel fat, sick and seriously pissed off with myself. Hey ho - at least Pro and I have let our bet ride to the end of March - with the prize now being a full meal, bought and paid for by the looosah.So that was today. Rather fun - except that Fisher, in her usual bout of contagious optimism, managed to persuade me against my better judgement that we must have walked 6 miles. It sure as hell didn't feel like 6 miles, but so convincing was she that I allowed her to dupe me into believing. Bah. I really should know better by now.
Monday, 3 March 2008
Gym
Despite my still slightly sore ankle, I decided to go to the gym and do a mile. This I duly did, and managed it in 9.04, which was quite nice. I then did 30 mins on the old bike, on hill setting. With Fisher doing the same course, for the same length of time, I had the target distance of 8.1 miles to aim for.
Curse her, I only managed 7.9 miles. I console myself with the fact I was quite tired from the fast mile, so didn't pick up the pace early on, when the level was lower.
Did weights afterwards:
3 x 12 reps on chest press, 20kg.
3 x 12 reps on bicep curl, 30kg
6 reps on lat pull down, on 6 - whatever the fuck that is. I've given up trying to figure out whether I'm as strong as Phid and no longer care. I could kick her arse anyway. I own a gun.
As you can tell from the tone, I was pretty fed up by the end of it. I'd not eaten anything all day, having forgotten both breakfast and lunch, and the only thing in my system was a bottle of Lucozade sport. Yech. On the bike I felt seriously ropy for a moment or two, but it went away.
Anyway, Fisher is out at a meeting, so I'm enjoying a quiet house and feeling utterly, totally knackered.
Wait ...
Bollocks. I still haven't eaten anything. Oh - I had an apple and a packet of hula hoops (what am I? Seven?) but I don't really think that counts.
Hey ho. I'm going to call Koi.
Curse her, I only managed 7.9 miles. I console myself with the fact I was quite tired from the fast mile, so didn't pick up the pace early on, when the level was lower.
Did weights afterwards:
3 x 12 reps on chest press, 20kg.
3 x 12 reps on bicep curl, 30kg
6 reps on lat pull down, on 6 - whatever the fuck that is. I've given up trying to figure out whether I'm as strong as Phid and no longer care. I could kick her arse anyway. I own a gun.
As you can tell from the tone, I was pretty fed up by the end of it. I'd not eaten anything all day, having forgotten both breakfast and lunch, and the only thing in my system was a bottle of Lucozade sport. Yech. On the bike I felt seriously ropy for a moment or two, but it went away.
Anyway, Fisher is out at a meeting, so I'm enjoying a quiet house and feeling utterly, totally knackered.
Wait ...
Bollocks. I still haven't eaten anything. Oh - I had an apple and a packet of hula hoops (what am I? Seven?) but I don't really think that counts.
Hey ho. I'm going to call Koi.
Saturday, 1 March 2008
Aaaaaargh!
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckittyfuck-facingfuckles.
Played squash yesterday, and when going for a ball I went over on my ankle, quite painfully. However, it seemed ok after a few seconds, so I played on.
It got worse throughout the evening, until it was hurting quite badly after supper with Lu and Arrow (went to Craigsanquhar - had a lovely time) and this morning it's unwalkable. It's a beautiful day again, after some truly foul weather yesterday, and I was hoping to get a run in before Fisher returned home. That's not possible. Nor is riding my bike or, I suspect, even swimming. I can't give the dogs a walk, so the bratty standard poodle puppy staying will be utterly hyper all day.
Oh well. Thank the good lord that my beloved is returning, so at least I won't have to cope with hyper dogs on my own.
Played squash yesterday, and when going for a ball I went over on my ankle, quite painfully. However, it seemed ok after a few seconds, so I played on.
It got worse throughout the evening, until it was hurting quite badly after supper with Lu and Arrow (went to Craigsanquhar - had a lovely time) and this morning it's unwalkable. It's a beautiful day again, after some truly foul weather yesterday, and I was hoping to get a run in before Fisher returned home. That's not possible. Nor is riding my bike or, I suspect, even swimming. I can't give the dogs a walk, so the bratty standard poodle puppy staying will be utterly hyper all day.
Oh well. Thank the good lord that my beloved is returning, so at least I won't have to cope with hyper dogs on my own.
Thursday, 28 February 2008
URGENT UPDATE ....
... on last weekend.
BLARNEY WAS MISSED.
We cried.
There, Blar - you happy?
Actually - you were, you old drama queen. Especially for the music night, where everyone chanted 'Devil Inside, Devil Insiiiide' in fair imitation of you, and secretly wished you were there.
(For those puzzled by this - Devil Inside is the name of one of my songs, not, as you may justifiably imagine, one of Blarney's nicknames).
BLARNEY WAS MISSED.
We cried.
There, Blar - you happy?
Actually - you were, you old drama queen. Especially for the music night, where everyone chanted 'Devil Inside, Devil Insiiiide' in fair imitation of you, and secretly wished you were there.
(For those puzzled by this - Devil Inside is the name of one of my songs, not, as you may justifiably imagine, one of Blarney's nicknames).
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
Gym
What a beautiful day! Sunny, clear and mild - it's freaking me out!
Took the pooches to West Sands and gave them a quick run. Unfortunately there was a class of beach sailors there, who kept threatening to run us all over, so I couldn't give them the romp they deserved. Still, better than nothing - and then I went to the gym. I only did 30 mins, including:
1 mile on treadmill at 9.33. I actually did .5 of a mile in 4.33, but had to slow down.
2 x 12 reps lat pull-down, on 7 (45kg)
1 x 12 reps lat pull-down, on 6
2 x 12 reps chest push, on 8 (40kg)
1 x 12 reps chest push, on 7
10 mins on bike, hill setting. I do not have any idea how Phid can stay above 80 rpms when it goes up to 18 (I didn't put it up to 20 this time), but my respec' goes out to her. I did 2.75miles in 1o mins, which is 16.5mph. 3.64 minutes per mile - whatever that is in seconds. If my maths is correct. Which is almost certainly isn't.
Anyway, by then my half hour was up and I had to slink out, unfeasably tired, before the sexy girl in the rowing top noticed how utterly fagged I was (no pun intended). I was immensely cheered to see 4 women in the gym, all of whom were working very hard, with no make-up or silliness in sight. Makes a change.
That brings me pretty much up to date. Now I'm off to have a bath and fall asleep.
Took the pooches to West Sands and gave them a quick run. Unfortunately there was a class of beach sailors there, who kept threatening to run us all over, so I couldn't give them the romp they deserved. Still, better than nothing - and then I went to the gym. I only did 30 mins, including:
1 mile on treadmill at 9.33. I actually did .5 of a mile in 4.33, but had to slow down.
2 x 12 reps lat pull-down, on 7 (45kg)
1 x 12 reps lat pull-down, on 6
2 x 12 reps chest push, on 8 (40kg)
1 x 12 reps chest push, on 7
10 mins on bike, hill setting. I do not have any idea how Phid can stay above 80 rpms when it goes up to 18 (I didn't put it up to 20 this time), but my respec' goes out to her. I did 2.75miles in 1o mins, which is 16.5mph. 3.64 minutes per mile - whatever that is in seconds. If my maths is correct. Which is almost certainly isn't.
Anyway, by then my half hour was up and I had to slink out, unfeasably tired, before the sexy girl in the rowing top noticed how utterly fagged I was (no pun intended). I was immensely cheered to see 4 women in the gym, all of whom were working very hard, with no make-up or silliness in sight. Makes a change.
That brings me pretty much up to date. Now I'm off to have a bath and fall asleep.
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