Went to the gym - miraculously helped to stave off migraine - and did this:
30 mins on bike, cross-country setting (highest level 17 - but only for a few minutes). I left it on the gym setting, rather than ratcheting it up a couple of points, as I usually do, because I wanted to be easy on myself. I wasn't. I worked hard, and did just over 8 miles in the 30 mins, which means an average of 16mph - which I was ok with.
Then went straight to the running machine and ran a mile ... ok, I ran half a mile, then had to stop and stretch out my calves, which were incredibly tight. Then I ran the other half - and did the whole thing in 11.30, which I'll take.
Then did weights. I've finally figured out that the pull down machine does, indeed, go up in 5kg increments, which means the first hole is 15kg. So I did 3 x 12 reps at 35kg (pulling down in front of me, 'cos Phid told me I should) and found it much easier! I must have been doing 40kg before ... which, dammit! means I should continue to do 40kg.
Also did:
3 x 12 bicep curl on 6 (prob 15kg)
2 x 12 chest press, 40kg. Then got bored and hungry, so went home and made a sea bass dish I was quite pleased with, to begin with, but became annoyed over by the end. The fish itself was fine. I stuffed each one with ginger, garlic, red chilli, fresh coriander and parsley, then drizzled them with olive oil, kikkoman and sherry. But to accompany it, I made a sort of vegetable ragout with cumin seeds and paprika, cooked with a tin of tomatoes and port - and it was just a bit wet, and too many flavours. In future I'll leave out the port and paprika. I also did pan fried potatoes, though, and they were good. Followed by strawberries with Elmlea, and a little Kit-Kat. Add my apple, and an orange juice, and I've actually eaten 5 portions of fruit 'n' veg today! Huzzah!
Alas, I got on the scale this morning and despite being rather restrained over the last week, I've lost nary a pound. The ice cream cake is Pro's. I know it.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Catch Up
It was Fisher's birthday on the 24th, which we spent organising 'nedding' stuff (Sister HATES that name, so naturally I am now using it as often as possible) in a very exciting, positive manner. All our requests, barring a couple, were given the go-ahead ... but, look behind you! Yes! That's the upper limit of our budget vanishing into the distance.
Some thought must be given to the cost of this thing. Either that or I need to earn some money. Anyone want to give me a job? Bearing in mind, of course, that I'm pretty much good for nothing and that anything I ever did learn I have now forgotten. Fisher keeps saying "just write a book" - like that's easy and not something I've been frickin' TRYING to do! Bah. She knows nothing of art.
Friday night saw the arrival of all our lovely mates, barring Janus who is in Japan having, I hope, a lovely time. We went to L'Orient in St Andrews for Japanese/Thai food. I had a beef curry that was delicious, and perfectly spicy. Koios, in that "I'm so hard" way the English have when eating hot food, claimed it "wasn't spicy at all" but if she'd been eating all of it I'm pretty sure she'd have been sniffing and dribbling by the end of it. It got considerably warmer as you went on! Very good, though. I sat next to Phid and Pro which, apart from watching (and listening!) in astonishment as Pro literally sucked up all his food, was delightful. Good company, the pair of them, and despite the fact Pro called me Frank Carson all night, owing to my propensity to crack rubbish puns, he was one to talk! Mr Crap Joke himself! And a right giggle, too.
Back at Holly Frot, we had birthday cheesecake, chatted, drank a bit and had a chilled evening before going to bed on the back of a rousing 'A Man's a Man for A' That' in honour of Robbie Burns. It's by far my favourite poem of his, so just in case there are any readers out there who don't know it:
Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Good faith, he maunnae fur a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
Nice, hm?
Next day, I woke up with a hangover, which I found deeply, deeply unfair as I'd not actually drunk very much. Ok, we had a cocktail at the Japanese place, and a few beers, but certainly not enough to put a head on me - or so I believe. I dragged myself from my pit at the slovenly hour of 10.30 (ishg) to find, joyously, the only other people up were Phid and Wheeler who'd taken the guest dogs out and generally been forced to entertain themselves.
I sent Fisher out to the butcher to get lamb and we had a Saturday roast. I managed to screw up the gravy right royally, but there were enough juices to get by (just). I did my usual thing - stuffed garlic and rosemary into the flesh in little cuts, then basted the roast with a vodka and redcurrant jelly glaze about 20 mins before taking out. This is actually what screwed up the gravy. I got bored of glazing and just poured the mixture over the joint, which meant it all pooled into the bottom of the tin, burned and ruined the meat juices. Pah. I'll know better next time. Anyway, Fisher did her usual magic with the roasties (nobody gets them crisper or fluffier) and I heard no complaints. Unfortunately, Wheeler had to head back to town before lunch, and Spartan was busy with Cult duties (the BBs, he assures me, is not a cult, but what are we supposed to think when it takes up every Friday night? What else but passionate devotion to a slightly freaky cause could possibly cause a man of 29 to give up his Friday night?) so he couldn't make it up. We missed them both.
The afternoon was taken up with a game of Mandarin, which put almost everyone except Fisher (who won) in a stinking mood, then tea and cake. Then everyone went back to town, Fisher and I put our feet up, and went to bed.
We've been looking at potential houses this week - but there's nothing out there to tempt us away from HC. It's got to be good. Fisher wants it to be the house we live in forever, but forever always makes me twitch so I'm thinking of it as a house we could live in forever - but is, at least, a step up from where we are.
I'm bored of writing now, and the number of typos I'm making is giving me a slight suspicion I'm brewing a migraine - so I shall close by saying I ran a slow 5k at Tentsmuir on Sunday (36.30 by my crap sat nav, 34.30 by Fisher's new model - but I have to go with mine, as that's the one I've been using the whole time and it gives consistency), but it was a new route and I hadn't eaten anything. Also, I was in a mighty rage! I ran with Fisher and her presence distracted me from getting into a daydream and therefore a rhythm. It wasn't her fault, but I wished she wasn't there. I usually don't mind running with her, although it doesn't exactly boost my confidence to know she's plodding along beside me at an embarrassing pace, but that day I really ought to have said I'd go on my own. I was in such a foul mood.
In fact, my moods have been generally pretty foul for a while now. It's winter. I need vitamin D - and maybe some fun stuff to look forward to. Hey ho. If that's the case, I'd better organise something. No use sitting on my fat arse waiting for someone else to do the work.
I'm off to nurse my bad temper.
^ ^
…
Some thought must be given to the cost of this thing. Either that or I need to earn some money. Anyone want to give me a job? Bearing in mind, of course, that I'm pretty much good for nothing and that anything I ever did learn I have now forgotten. Fisher keeps saying "just write a book" - like that's easy and not something I've been frickin' TRYING to do! Bah. She knows nothing of art.
Friday night saw the arrival of all our lovely mates, barring Janus who is in Japan having, I hope, a lovely time. We went to L'Orient in St Andrews for Japanese/Thai food. I had a beef curry that was delicious, and perfectly spicy. Koios, in that "I'm so hard" way the English have when eating hot food, claimed it "wasn't spicy at all" but if she'd been eating all of it I'm pretty sure she'd have been sniffing and dribbling by the end of it. It got considerably warmer as you went on! Very good, though. I sat next to Phid and Pro which, apart from watching (and listening!) in astonishment as Pro literally sucked up all his food, was delightful. Good company, the pair of them, and despite the fact Pro called me Frank Carson all night, owing to my propensity to crack rubbish puns, he was one to talk! Mr Crap Joke himself! And a right giggle, too.
Back at Holly Frot, we had birthday cheesecake, chatted, drank a bit and had a chilled evening before going to bed on the back of a rousing 'A Man's a Man for A' That' in honour of Robbie Burns. It's by far my favourite poem of his, so just in case there are any readers out there who don't know it:
Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Good faith, he maunnae fur a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
Nice, hm?
Next day, I woke up with a hangover, which I found deeply, deeply unfair as I'd not actually drunk very much. Ok, we had a cocktail at the Japanese place, and a few beers, but certainly not enough to put a head on me - or so I believe. I dragged myself from my pit at the slovenly hour of 10.30 (ishg) to find, joyously, the only other people up were Phid and Wheeler who'd taken the guest dogs out and generally been forced to entertain themselves.
I sent Fisher out to the butcher to get lamb and we had a Saturday roast. I managed to screw up the gravy right royally, but there were enough juices to get by (just). I did my usual thing - stuffed garlic and rosemary into the flesh in little cuts, then basted the roast with a vodka and redcurrant jelly glaze about 20 mins before taking out. This is actually what screwed up the gravy. I got bored of glazing and just poured the mixture over the joint, which meant it all pooled into the bottom of the tin, burned and ruined the meat juices. Pah. I'll know better next time. Anyway, Fisher did her usual magic with the roasties (nobody gets them crisper or fluffier) and I heard no complaints. Unfortunately, Wheeler had to head back to town before lunch, and Spartan was busy with Cult duties (the BBs, he assures me, is not a cult, but what are we supposed to think when it takes up every Friday night? What else but passionate devotion to a slightly freaky cause could possibly cause a man of 29 to give up his Friday night?) so he couldn't make it up. We missed them both.
The afternoon was taken up with a game of Mandarin, which put almost everyone except Fisher (who won) in a stinking mood, then tea and cake. Then everyone went back to town, Fisher and I put our feet up, and went to bed.
We've been looking at potential houses this week - but there's nothing out there to tempt us away from HC. It's got to be good. Fisher wants it to be the house we live in forever, but forever always makes me twitch so I'm thinking of it as a house we could live in forever - but is, at least, a step up from where we are.
I'm bored of writing now, and the number of typos I'm making is giving me a slight suspicion I'm brewing a migraine - so I shall close by saying I ran a slow 5k at Tentsmuir on Sunday (36.30 by my crap sat nav, 34.30 by Fisher's new model - but I have to go with mine, as that's the one I've been using the whole time and it gives consistency), but it was a new route and I hadn't eaten anything. Also, I was in a mighty rage! I ran with Fisher and her presence distracted me from getting into a daydream and therefore a rhythm. It wasn't her fault, but I wished she wasn't there. I usually don't mind running with her, although it doesn't exactly boost my confidence to know she's plodding along beside me at an embarrassing pace, but that day I really ought to have said I'd go on my own. I was in such a foul mood.
In fact, my moods have been generally pretty foul for a while now. It's winter. I need vitamin D - and maybe some fun stuff to look forward to. Hey ho. If that's the case, I'd better organise something. No use sitting on my fat arse waiting for someone else to do the work.
I'm off to nurse my bad temper.
^ ^
…
Wednesday, 23 January 2008
Houses and Stuff
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.
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.
Saturday, 19 January 2008
Exercise
Played squash - made people run for a change, and ran a lot myself, which suggests improvement (still gubbed up and down the court though).
Did a few weights in the gym after, and have serious doubts about the weight increments I've been believing I've been hefting. I stood on the scales and weighed how much the bicep curl added to me when I lifted it up. I have a sneaking suspicion each weight is actually 2.5kg, not 5kg - which would suck, but make much more sense. Anyway, this is what I did:
3 x 12 pull down, on 6 (35kg, supposedly). Did one set to the back of my neck, one to the chest with hands far apart, one set to the chest with hands close together
1 x 12 bicep curl, on 8 (either 40kg or 20kg)
2 x 12 " " on 7 (35kg or 17.5kg)
1 x 12 horizontal leg lift, on 12 (120kg)
2 x 12 " " " on 11 (110kg)
1 x 12 leg curls, on 8 (fuck knows, fuck cares - I HATE that thing. It seriously hurts, like cramp)
Then Fisher was ready to come home. She made a delicious dinner, after we valiantly managed to resist getting pizza. Smoked haddock with pancetta risotto. Deelicious. Alas, I then ate almost 2 whole bars of Green & Black's chocolate - one Maya Gold, the other Butterscotch - so I would have been better off getting pizza.
Pro is so going to win this bet. Still, before scarfing the chocs I'd lost 4 pounds, so with any luck the fact I ate like a frickin' Cistercian during the day will help.
Hm. Just checked the fat and calorie content. Bad idea. Suffice it to say, I would have been much better off just getting the goddamned pizza. However, it's ludicrous to imagine myself primly eating only a small pizza and nothing else, so I would have had pizza and chocolate, and would be crying myself to sleep with chocolate all round my mouth right now.
Onwards and upwards. Downwards, I should say, if we're thinking poundage. No point in dwelling on the silly stuff. Just get back on the horse, forget the slips, and struggle onwards. In a week or so I'll probably start enjoying healthy food again. It'll improve my moods, make me crave fresh fruit and veg, and generally improve me as a person.
JESUS!
I swear ... a pig! It just flew past my window!
Did a few weights in the gym after, and have serious doubts about the weight increments I've been believing I've been hefting. I stood on the scales and weighed how much the bicep curl added to me when I lifted it up. I have a sneaking suspicion each weight is actually 2.5kg, not 5kg - which would suck, but make much more sense. Anyway, this is what I did:
3 x 12 pull down, on 6 (35kg, supposedly). Did one set to the back of my neck, one to the chest with hands far apart, one set to the chest with hands close together
1 x 12 bicep curl, on 8 (either 40kg or 20kg)
2 x 12 " " on 7 (35kg or 17.5kg)
1 x 12 horizontal leg lift, on 12 (120kg)
2 x 12 " " " on 11 (110kg)
1 x 12 leg curls, on 8 (fuck knows, fuck cares - I HATE that thing. It seriously hurts, like cramp)
Then Fisher was ready to come home. She made a delicious dinner, after we valiantly managed to resist getting pizza. Smoked haddock with pancetta risotto. Deelicious. Alas, I then ate almost 2 whole bars of Green & Black's chocolate - one Maya Gold, the other Butterscotch - so I would have been better off getting pizza.
Pro is so going to win this bet. Still, before scarfing the chocs I'd lost 4 pounds, so with any luck the fact I ate like a frickin' Cistercian during the day will help.
Hm. Just checked the fat and calorie content. Bad idea. Suffice it to say, I would have been much better off just getting the goddamned pizza. However, it's ludicrous to imagine myself primly eating only a small pizza and nothing else, so I would have had pizza and chocolate, and would be crying myself to sleep with chocolate all round my mouth right now.
Onwards and upwards. Downwards, I should say, if we're thinking poundage. No point in dwelling on the silly stuff. Just get back on the horse, forget the slips, and struggle onwards. In a week or so I'll probably start enjoying healthy food again. It'll improve my moods, make me crave fresh fruit and veg, and generally improve me as a person.
JESUS!
I swear ... a pig! It just flew past my window!
Friday, 18 January 2008
Enough!
The goddamned RAF have flown over this house once too many times. I'm leaving. We've begun the search for our dreamhouse (I'd like it to be somewhere near Pitlochry, or that area, anyway) and plans are already rolling for some updates to HC to make it more saleable.
I don't know what's suddenly changed - apart from increased RAF activity - but I've rather lost my attatchment to this place. I thought I'd find it hard, leaving Fife, but actually I couldn't give a rat's arse about this place. I've lived here for 7 years now and the only real friends I've made are Brave Bird and Minstrel - which means there are no people keeping me here. There's the tennis club - but there are tennis clubs all over the bloody place, so no worries there. Otherwise, what is there?
Feck all.
I say, farewell Fife - it's time for pastures new.
I don't know what's suddenly changed - apart from increased RAF activity - but I've rather lost my attatchment to this place. I thought I'd find it hard, leaving Fife, but actually I couldn't give a rat's arse about this place. I've lived here for 7 years now and the only real friends I've made are Brave Bird and Minstrel - which means there are no people keeping me here. There's the tennis club - but there are tennis clubs all over the bloody place, so no worries there. Otherwise, what is there?
Feck all.
I say, farewell Fife - it's time for pastures new.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
Blimey - Feminist Rant from Nowhere
Chopper came up for a visit this weekend, which was fun. It's interesting getting to know her better.
Friday night saw us chomping Fisher's Thai green curry and yakking (talking - not puking), then watching Sideways on DVD. I do like that film. Both characters are so deeply flawed, and yet you can't help liking them both. I don't find it as funny as some, but I like its air of the ludicrous and the hopeless helplessness of this pair of losers - one of whom is depressingly aware of his failure, the other utterly oblivious - and the ultimate hope their story brings. Also, it's about wine - so how far wrong can you go?
Next day, we went for a lovely walk at Balmerino, along the banks of the Tay and right the way up to Birkhill House, which appeared throught the trees quite suddenly, just as we'd decided to walk only a little further before turning back. There's a walled garden there, which is marked 'private' but I bet you can have a squizz round. We were too gutless to go in, but peered through the bars of the gate like urchins at a restaurant door. We then walked up to Birkhill House, which was built in 1692 - although some of the house is older by about 100 years, and admired it greatly. It's now a housing co-op called Talamh (which, I believe, is 'earth' in Gaelic), which has been going since 1996. It was bought by a bunch of friends in '93 who wanted to provide affordable housing for themselves, as well as sharing ideals of community, self-help, quality of life and love of the outdoors. The original members have all gone, but the co-op continues. I dunno - it always sounds lovely, and something which appeals to me greatly, but I can't help feeling it doesn't really work out, and if it doesn't, the consequences are severe. I shared a house with Koios for several years without incident, and so far so good with Fisher - but those are rather special cases. Plus, introduce Fisher the Hermit into the mix and you've got problems. Leave your shoes out of place one time too many and she'll stomp around the house slamming doors for days.
I imagine, if you were going to start up a housing co-op, you'd need to make sure everyone was already with their chosen partner, that everyone liked everyone to the point of being able to have a blistering row without long-term consequences, and that no great changes were afoot (so, preferably, those who were going to breed had already done so). Change, while exciting, can often put great strain on friendships. You have a comfortable status quo, then something or someone comes along and changes it ... I'd guess it can be tricky. No wonder these communities of friends don't last. It's hard enough when things change in a group of mates who aren't living together!
So, Fisher, Chopper, dogs and I had a little scout around, then headed back through the woods to the car. It was quite an interesting walk, in that the path was rather cross-country in places, and involved some stream-fording owing to broken bridges with ice on them. The dogs enjoyed themselves, even through Bri had to be kept on the lead. She ran off on her walk the day before and wouldn't come back when I called. She tracked me all the way home, but I was seriously cheesed.
We certainly got the best of the weather. It was crisp, sunny and very cold, but our exercise warmed us up, and when we got back to the car the sun was starting to fade, causing the temp to drop even further. Our driveway was very iced up. The postie could barely get out after dropping off the post, and even Keith the Drover had a moment of gliding when we got back.
We'd stopped off at Leuchars to go to the butcher and pick up some lamb shanks for supper, and also to get some hot chocolate, cream, marshmallows and flakes to make Fisher and Chopper some serious chocolatey goodness. This they did, while I went to the bottom of the garden and hauled in a bunch of icy logs, in case we decided to have a fire later on. Luckily, we didn't. They'd never have lit!
Fisher and Chops plonked themselves in front of Hairspray while I took the opportunity to play on my computer - and then, at around 6-ish, Sister and sons arrived in their usual whirlwind. Wrecker greeted us with a beaming smile, clutching his new teddy, Coco (ha ha ... Spartan'll love that). After greetings and settling, we fed the boys spaghetti bolognese, let Sister get on with bathing and putting to bed - while I started cooking the lamb shanks.
Once the boys were down, if not sleeping, we had a very pleasant evening of wine and chat.
Sunday saw Sister and sons head off at crack of sparrows, while the rest of us rose in a more leisurely fashion before heading in to meet them in Dundee for lunch. We went to the Twin Cities for mezze and falafel, then Chops, Fisher and I went to the DCA to see an exhibition by a short film maker (that's short films, folks, not a vertically challenged film maker) which I was much more taken with that I'd expected. There was a bit of rousing feminism from Mary Woollstencraft, which reminded me, still, of how far feminism has to go.
Case in point: the BBC reported on the barracking of Hillary Clinton by young students shouting "iron my shirt" as a 'moment of levity' or words to that effect. I wonder, would they have thought it as humourous if the students had shouted 'pick my cotton' to Barrack Obama? But, nowadays, it's deeply unfashionable to be a feminist. In fact, most people don't seem to see any difference between being a feminist and a feminazi. Complaining about laddish behaviour is considered petty and uptight, and women don't seem to mind that all things female are still looked at with, at best, patronising tolerance, but never equality. If men and women are equal, why are men still humiliated at the thought of being feminine? Why don't men crochet, or knit, or dance? Yes, I'm aware there are men who do these things, but they're unusual - just as there are woman, like myself, who would rather put their face in a food processor than spend the evening crocheting - and considered a novelty. (And before you ask - I don't crochet because I have ten thumbs and, personally, find it the most frustratingly boring thing in the word - not because I scorn it in any way). And it's not just about clichés like knitting, either. Look up the word 'masculine' in a thesaurus. Then look up the word 'feminine' - and you tell me you don't have a problem with it!
I've been angry for so long, and it never makes any difference. Women just roll over and ask for their tummies to be scratched by men. They pander to their egos, defer to them, and never challenge them - because they want men to like them. Fair enough, you might say. The species has to continue, so men and women have to like each other. But my question is: why is it always women who defer?
I played tennis with Spartan, Pro and Phid a couple of years ago. Phid is a total beginner. Pro is a beginner, and quite rubbish. Spartan was relatively rubbish. I'm rubbish, but not as rubbish as the rest of them, because I play a lot, and at least know what I'm supposed to do - even if I can't duplicate it. But what struck me is that Spartan and Pro both decided to teach Phid how to play, despite the fact they didn't actually know what they were talking about. It was just confusing, as well as mostly wrong. In the end I split us up, put the boys together and gave Phid some pointers I remembered my tennis coach giving me. But the point is - why did the men think it ok to give Phid lessons? I noticed that, as Spartan was playing Pro, he wasn't keeping up a running commentary on how to play the game. And these are men without a sexist bone in their bodies. Why shouldn't they give Phid pointers on how to play? But why didn't I decide to give them pointers? Why, when I played Spartan again at a much later date, did I not point out all the things he was doing wrong and teach him how to hit the ball better?
Because I thought it would be humiliating for him. After all, I was beating the life out of him anyway, so getting lectured would have been rubbing salt into the wound. I can't help but get the feeling men only feel this way when playing other men. Playing women, they have very little expectation of being bettered, so it's ok to be pedagogical about it.
But it's not just playing sport. How many times have I sat and listened as a man lectures me on one or other subject - regardless of whether I know something about it or not? But there's the thing - likely, it's 'not', because I will ask people about things they know about and listen interestedly as they speak. I don't see men doing this. How many men have listened to me lecture them about dogs, or cooking, or writing, or singing, or tennis, or Shakespeare, or medieval history, or the Scots language, or any of the other things I happen to know something about? Readers who know me well might scoff at this, because I'm not exactly one to keep an opinion to myself - but that's not the same thing. I like to take an issue and discuss it and, yes, I might occasionally go 'off on one' and rant a bit - but I expect people to counter me, and I enjoy the discussion. I don't sit and give them lessons on whatever it is I'm talking about. I find that patronising. And yet, I believe that deep down a lot of women still instinctively feel a man's knowledge is broader than their own, and will sit and listen to him - whereas the opposite is not the case.
I can't emphasise enough, though, that I'm by no means certain this is the man's fault. I don't think women assert themselves when it comes to men. I think they're too frightened of being disliked by the opposite sex. I also think they quite like a man who is assertive, powerful and stronger than them. I suppose I have a different aspect, anyway, because I'm not trying to attract men. I like them a lot. They're great friends, and I enjoy their company hugely. To a certain extent, I can almost be more myself with them than I can with women. But it does piss me off that women are still subservient - something you can see in the evidence all around us - and it's not a situation that can be pinned entirely on men.
It's about time women stood up, looked the world in the eye and said: if I want to be treated with respect, it's about time I earned it. The trouble with stroking egos is that, in the end, the stroked ego is nurtured and strengthened above and beyond the stroker's. Fuck it. From now on, I'm conducting an experiment. In how many social situations will I find men talking and women passively listening?
I'll let you know ... the minute I have a social situation.
Christ, that came out of nowhere! Well - not nowhere. It's been simmering for about 31 years. I just don't know what triggered it.
Back to the weekend ...
After the gallery visit, we went on home and played with the boys until it was time for Chopper to catch the train home. I dropped her off at the station, went home and ate supper with Sister and Fisher (Fisher cooked teriyaki veg as we all felt a bit meat-tastic).
Next day, Sister and sons went out and had breakfast in Cupar, leaving the house quiet for the morning. Fisher worked, I pottered, and when the boys returned I headed out with them to St Andrews for a walk on the beach with the dogs, lunch at The Seafood Restaurant, a foiled trip to the Aquarium (shut) and then home. Sister headed into Dundee for shopping, so I looked after the boys on my own (with a little help from Fisher, who changed Wrecker's nappy after a noxious aroma all but had us crawling, gasping on our bellies ... and then we discovered no nappies in the house, so I had to go out and get some from Leuchars, after which I was damned if I was going near the foul stench) which involved a large chunk of watching TV, some playtime with a water-based toy, some drawing, and, lastly, Gemmill cooking his own omelette for supper. I also stuffed them with crumpets & jam, carrot sticks, oat biscuits and brambles - so at least they were well fed! Sweetly, when I brought Gemmill a plate with crumpets on it, he looked up from the TV and said:
"You're being very kind!"
To which I responded: "That's what Aunties are for!" A statement he greeted with natural skepticism, and rightly so.
Sister returned just as Gemmill was creating his gourmet omelette, so I was glad to collapse in a small heap and turn over responsibility to her more capable hands. Food, bath, bed - accompanied by much mischief from Gemmill, who claimed he was "sooo thirsty" but, it transpired, he only wanted a glass of water so he could put his weird maize-puff type toys in it. We should have twigged when he rejected the beaker of water Sister brought him, and insisted on a glass.
Cheeky brat.
Meanwhile, Fisher was having a small meltdown in her workshop, so took a break to collect Thai food for us all. Mmmmm. Gooooood. Then we watched TV and went to bed. I was asleep by about 12.30 - unheard of! But I was also up at 8.30 to see Sister and the boys off on their trip to Glasgow for Wrecker's hospital appointment (residual burn stuff), so I'm glad I had an early night.
Is this blog the dullest thing on the web?
Could be. And thus:
Fin.
Friday night saw us chomping Fisher's Thai green curry and yakking (talking - not puking), then watching Sideways on DVD. I do like that film. Both characters are so deeply flawed, and yet you can't help liking them both. I don't find it as funny as some, but I like its air of the ludicrous and the hopeless helplessness of this pair of losers - one of whom is depressingly aware of his failure, the other utterly oblivious - and the ultimate hope their story brings. Also, it's about wine - so how far wrong can you go?
Next day, we went for a lovely walk at Balmerino, along the banks of the Tay and right the way up to Birkhill House, which appeared throught the trees quite suddenly, just as we'd decided to walk only a little further before turning back. There's a walled garden there, which is marked 'private' but I bet you can have a squizz round. We were too gutless to go in, but peered through the bars of the gate like urchins at a restaurant door. We then walked up to Birkhill House, which was built in 1692 - although some of the house is older by about 100 years, and admired it greatly. It's now a housing co-op called Talamh (which, I believe, is 'earth' in Gaelic), which has been going since 1996. It was bought by a bunch of friends in '93 who wanted to provide affordable housing for themselves, as well as sharing ideals of community, self-help, quality of life and love of the outdoors. The original members have all gone, but the co-op continues. I dunno - it always sounds lovely, and something which appeals to me greatly, but I can't help feeling it doesn't really work out, and if it doesn't, the consequences are severe. I shared a house with Koios for several years without incident, and so far so good with Fisher - but those are rather special cases. Plus, introduce Fisher the Hermit into the mix and you've got problems. Leave your shoes out of place one time too many and she'll stomp around the house slamming doors for days.
I imagine, if you were going to start up a housing co-op, you'd need to make sure everyone was already with their chosen partner, that everyone liked everyone to the point of being able to have a blistering row without long-term consequences, and that no great changes were afoot (so, preferably, those who were going to breed had already done so). Change, while exciting, can often put great strain on friendships. You have a comfortable status quo, then something or someone comes along and changes it ... I'd guess it can be tricky. No wonder these communities of friends don't last. It's hard enough when things change in a group of mates who aren't living together!
So, Fisher, Chopper, dogs and I had a little scout around, then headed back through the woods to the car. It was quite an interesting walk, in that the path was rather cross-country in places, and involved some stream-fording owing to broken bridges with ice on them. The dogs enjoyed themselves, even through Bri had to be kept on the lead. She ran off on her walk the day before and wouldn't come back when I called. She tracked me all the way home, but I was seriously cheesed.
We certainly got the best of the weather. It was crisp, sunny and very cold, but our exercise warmed us up, and when we got back to the car the sun was starting to fade, causing the temp to drop even further. Our driveway was very iced up. The postie could barely get out after dropping off the post, and even Keith the Drover had a moment of gliding when we got back.
We'd stopped off at Leuchars to go to the butcher and pick up some lamb shanks for supper, and also to get some hot chocolate, cream, marshmallows and flakes to make Fisher and Chopper some serious chocolatey goodness. This they did, while I went to the bottom of the garden and hauled in a bunch of icy logs, in case we decided to have a fire later on. Luckily, we didn't. They'd never have lit!
Fisher and Chops plonked themselves in front of Hairspray while I took the opportunity to play on my computer - and then, at around 6-ish, Sister and sons arrived in their usual whirlwind. Wrecker greeted us with a beaming smile, clutching his new teddy, Coco (ha ha ... Spartan'll love that). After greetings and settling, we fed the boys spaghetti bolognese, let Sister get on with bathing and putting to bed - while I started cooking the lamb shanks.
Once the boys were down, if not sleeping, we had a very pleasant evening of wine and chat.
Sunday saw Sister and sons head off at crack of sparrows, while the rest of us rose in a more leisurely fashion before heading in to meet them in Dundee for lunch. We went to the Twin Cities for mezze and falafel, then Chops, Fisher and I went to the DCA to see an exhibition by a short film maker (that's short films, folks, not a vertically challenged film maker) which I was much more taken with that I'd expected. There was a bit of rousing feminism from Mary Woollstencraft, which reminded me, still, of how far feminism has to go.
Case in point: the BBC reported on the barracking of Hillary Clinton by young students shouting "iron my shirt" as a 'moment of levity' or words to that effect. I wonder, would they have thought it as humourous if the students had shouted 'pick my cotton' to Barrack Obama? But, nowadays, it's deeply unfashionable to be a feminist. In fact, most people don't seem to see any difference between being a feminist and a feminazi. Complaining about laddish behaviour is considered petty and uptight, and women don't seem to mind that all things female are still looked at with, at best, patronising tolerance, but never equality. If men and women are equal, why are men still humiliated at the thought of being feminine? Why don't men crochet, or knit, or dance? Yes, I'm aware there are men who do these things, but they're unusual - just as there are woman, like myself, who would rather put their face in a food processor than spend the evening crocheting - and considered a novelty. (And before you ask - I don't crochet because I have ten thumbs and, personally, find it the most frustratingly boring thing in the word - not because I scorn it in any way). And it's not just about clichés like knitting, either. Look up the word 'masculine' in a thesaurus. Then look up the word 'feminine' - and you tell me you don't have a problem with it!
I've been angry for so long, and it never makes any difference. Women just roll over and ask for their tummies to be scratched by men. They pander to their egos, defer to them, and never challenge them - because they want men to like them. Fair enough, you might say. The species has to continue, so men and women have to like each other. But my question is: why is it always women who defer?
I played tennis with Spartan, Pro and Phid a couple of years ago. Phid is a total beginner. Pro is a beginner, and quite rubbish. Spartan was relatively rubbish. I'm rubbish, but not as rubbish as the rest of them, because I play a lot, and at least know what I'm supposed to do - even if I can't duplicate it. But what struck me is that Spartan and Pro both decided to teach Phid how to play, despite the fact they didn't actually know what they were talking about. It was just confusing, as well as mostly wrong. In the end I split us up, put the boys together and gave Phid some pointers I remembered my tennis coach giving me. But the point is - why did the men think it ok to give Phid lessons? I noticed that, as Spartan was playing Pro, he wasn't keeping up a running commentary on how to play the game. And these are men without a sexist bone in their bodies. Why shouldn't they give Phid pointers on how to play? But why didn't I decide to give them pointers? Why, when I played Spartan again at a much later date, did I not point out all the things he was doing wrong and teach him how to hit the ball better?
Because I thought it would be humiliating for him. After all, I was beating the life out of him anyway, so getting lectured would have been rubbing salt into the wound. I can't help but get the feeling men only feel this way when playing other men. Playing women, they have very little expectation of being bettered, so it's ok to be pedagogical about it.
But it's not just playing sport. How many times have I sat and listened as a man lectures me on one or other subject - regardless of whether I know something about it or not? But there's the thing - likely, it's 'not', because I will ask people about things they know about and listen interestedly as they speak. I don't see men doing this. How many men have listened to me lecture them about dogs, or cooking, or writing, or singing, or tennis, or Shakespeare, or medieval history, or the Scots language, or any of the other things I happen to know something about? Readers who know me well might scoff at this, because I'm not exactly one to keep an opinion to myself - but that's not the same thing. I like to take an issue and discuss it and, yes, I might occasionally go 'off on one' and rant a bit - but I expect people to counter me, and I enjoy the discussion. I don't sit and give them lessons on whatever it is I'm talking about. I find that patronising. And yet, I believe that deep down a lot of women still instinctively feel a man's knowledge is broader than their own, and will sit and listen to him - whereas the opposite is not the case.
I can't emphasise enough, though, that I'm by no means certain this is the man's fault. I don't think women assert themselves when it comes to men. I think they're too frightened of being disliked by the opposite sex. I also think they quite like a man who is assertive, powerful and stronger than them. I suppose I have a different aspect, anyway, because I'm not trying to attract men. I like them a lot. They're great friends, and I enjoy their company hugely. To a certain extent, I can almost be more myself with them than I can with women. But it does piss me off that women are still subservient - something you can see in the evidence all around us - and it's not a situation that can be pinned entirely on men.
It's about time women stood up, looked the world in the eye and said: if I want to be treated with respect, it's about time I earned it. The trouble with stroking egos is that, in the end, the stroked ego is nurtured and strengthened above and beyond the stroker's. Fuck it. From now on, I'm conducting an experiment. In how many social situations will I find men talking and women passively listening?
I'll let you know ... the minute I have a social situation.
Christ, that came out of nowhere! Well - not nowhere. It's been simmering for about 31 years. I just don't know what triggered it.
Back to the weekend ...
After the gallery visit, we went on home and played with the boys until it was time for Chopper to catch the train home. I dropped her off at the station, went home and ate supper with Sister and Fisher (Fisher cooked teriyaki veg as we all felt a bit meat-tastic).
Next day, Sister and sons went out and had breakfast in Cupar, leaving the house quiet for the morning. Fisher worked, I pottered, and when the boys returned I headed out with them to St Andrews for a walk on the beach with the dogs, lunch at The Seafood Restaurant, a foiled trip to the Aquarium (shut) and then home. Sister headed into Dundee for shopping, so I looked after the boys on my own (with a little help from Fisher, who changed Wrecker's nappy after a noxious aroma all but had us crawling, gasping on our bellies ... and then we discovered no nappies in the house, so I had to go out and get some from Leuchars, after which I was damned if I was going near the foul stench) which involved a large chunk of watching TV, some playtime with a water-based toy, some drawing, and, lastly, Gemmill cooking his own omelette for supper. I also stuffed them with crumpets & jam, carrot sticks, oat biscuits and brambles - so at least they were well fed! Sweetly, when I brought Gemmill a plate with crumpets on it, he looked up from the TV and said:
"You're being very kind!"
To which I responded: "That's what Aunties are for!" A statement he greeted with natural skepticism, and rightly so.
Sister returned just as Gemmill was creating his gourmet omelette, so I was glad to collapse in a small heap and turn over responsibility to her more capable hands. Food, bath, bed - accompanied by much mischief from Gemmill, who claimed he was "sooo thirsty" but, it transpired, he only wanted a glass of water so he could put his weird maize-puff type toys in it. We should have twigged when he rejected the beaker of water Sister brought him, and insisted on a glass.
Cheeky brat.
Meanwhile, Fisher was having a small meltdown in her workshop, so took a break to collect Thai food for us all. Mmmmm. Gooooood. Then we watched TV and went to bed. I was asleep by about 12.30 - unheard of! But I was also up at 8.30 to see Sister and the boys off on their trip to Glasgow for Wrecker's hospital appointment (residual burn stuff), so I'm glad I had an early night.
Is this blog the dullest thing on the web?
Could be. And thus:
Fin.
Friday, 11 January 2008
Song II
I've written another song. Seem to be on a bit of a roll at the moment. Anyway - I'm actually quite pleased with it (shock! horror!) although it's rather sad. Here are the lyrics. Comments welcome.
Morrigan's Daughter
Do you remember the time
When we drank too much wine
How we ran to the shoreline and danced in the sea?
There was snow on the sand
And I held out my hand
Watched the flakes as they melted at first touch of me
Chorus
Remember the way that you turned in the water
Your hair in the moonlight like silver, fine-spun,
The night in your eyes just like Morrigan's daughter
You faded before me like I was the sun
I remember so well
How you suddenly fell
The gleam of your arm a wild flash in the dark
And I stretched out a hand
I still can't understand
How quick you were gone, like a vanishing spark
(Chorus)
And I'll see you somewhere
In a girl with gold hair
Or a woman whose skin is the pearliest white
But those girls in the sun
No, they're never the one
For my Morrigan's daughter is lost in the night
(Chorus x 2)
Do you remember the time
When we drank too much wine
How we ran to the shoreline and danced in the sea?
There was snow on the sand
And I held out my hand
Watched the flakes as they melted at first touch of me
Chorus
Remember the way that you turned in the water
Your hair in the moonlight like silver, fine-spun,
The night in your eyes just like Morrigan's daughter
You faded before me like I was the sun
I remember so well
How you suddenly fell
The gleam of your arm a wild flash in the dark
And I stretched out a hand
I still can't understand
How quick you were gone, like a vanishing spark
(Chorus)
And I'll see you somewhere
In a girl with gold hair
Or a woman whose skin is the pearliest white
But those girls in the sun
No, they're never the one
For my Morrigan's daughter is lost in the night
(Chorus x 2)
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