Penalty Kicks

This morning the machine in the station car park greedily ate my £7.40 and refused to issue a ticket. Unsurprisingly I didn't have a further £7.40 in coins (cards not accepted; change not given - helpful), so I had to sprint to WHSmith to break a tenner. Missed my train. Stood on dank platform, £14.80 down and disgruntled.

Left a note with the station supervisor for the car park attendant. Not holding out much hope for action, but feeling that I had to make some attempt - however feeble - to right wrongs.

A long and tough day. Approaching my car, I see the unmistakable yellow of a penalty notice stuck to my windscreen. I must have been in such a rush this morning that I forgot to display the replacement ticket on which I expended so much time, energy and cash. This is turning into a parking fiasco.

Open the penalty envelope.

Inside is a voucher for a day's free parking.

Sprouts of Recovery

The last two weeks of March have been looming ominously in my calendar for some time.  I oversubscribed myself some time ago, past-me pimping future-me in multiple acts of meanness.  I am in the eye of the storm right now, but as the phrase suggests, it's calmer in the middle than on the edges.  One week down, one to go.  And (scratched record) the intent not to do this to myself again.  (Although experience suggests this is much like a teenage boy saying he will no longer look at online porn - ie laughable.)

I will eat all the sprouts.  All of them.

Spent yesterday wrangling an 'introverted' group (frequently - not always - an excuse for being as cuntishly inconsiderate as those who proclaim themselves to be 'forthright').  After all the necessary wheedling and coaxing, I had to lie on the floor to recover after they'd left the room.  Spent.  On the way home I dropped in on a friend.  She'd spent the day pottering and was just considering doing some meditation.  I feel I've taken a wrong path somewhere...

On the plus side, ROAST BRUSSEL SPROUTS!  A game-changer.  They - if nothing else - will get me through the next week.  Seriously.
   

Fathletic Prowess

Stop panicking, man

I've been banging on about this health assessment for some time. The results were far from expected. Turns out I have a heart rate that would make Hannibal Lecter look like he's suffering from an anxiety disorder. A stress-recovery response that puts me, hilariously, into the 'elite athlete' category. And a spine that could not score higher for regularity and flexibility.

Daisies before balls

Admittedly, I am hiding these Olympian gifts under a considerable and shameful blanket of blubber, but nonetheless they are there. And this is a revelation to me, and my sense of identity. I am the offspring of a fat father, and an asthmatic mother, and the currency in our house was words and music. So I trawled through the all the grades on piano and bassoon, and won awards for public speaking. I was fat, but so were all my family - and I accepted this as the natural order, picking daisies on the hockey field and staring blankly at any ball that came my way. It was almost a matter of pride that I was last choice for team selection.

With adulthood came the recognition that exercise was probably a good idea. So I started taking some, in a dutiful fashion. Never enthusiastically.

But now my feelings have changed. Who knew that I'd been hiding an engine like that under my shitty bonnet? Now I just want to know how fast I can go. This is better than a Viking hoard turning up on Antiques Roadshow.

We are not always who we think we are*.

(*Though would still ignore a ball if it headed in my direction.  So don't pick me for your team.)  

Stool Pigeon

Stools.  You owe me for this restraint.

As I mentioned last week, I am facing a health assessment. Part of which requires a 'stool' sample, which I harvested* this morning. There are more glamorous ways to start a day.

I think the experience has scarred me slightly. Wandering around H&M this afternoon and I become aware of the chorus of the bland R'nB track they're playing - 'Faeces in the crooo-wwwddd, faeces in the crooo-wwwddd.' I freeze by the leggings, half-sniggering, half-disbelieving, and wait for the chorus to come back round.

Realise that it's the strangled pronunciation that's misleading me. It's not 'faeces', it's 'faces'. Less of a bowel problem; more of a vowel problem.

Not a surprising mondegreen, though. Just a reminder that it's important where you put your focus at the start of the day. It can stay with you.

(*I am pleased by my choice of the word 'harvested' - it gives the whole procedure a bucolic glow.  All is safely gathered in etc).

No Jacket Required

Who knew?

Don't panic.  This is not a post about Phil Collins.  Just excited that I could wander around outside in
shirtsleeves.  An odd term, as you also need the front and back of the shirt, not just the sleeves - unless you wish to make a spectacle of yourself.

Today I have experienced that weird phenomenon where you decide that you are no longer interested in
something, and then that thing, whatever it is, starts dancing around in front of you (probably wearing nothing but shirtsleeves) turning somersaults and gurning for attention.

No.  Still no clearer.  Can you explain again, please?

I'm sure Brian Cox could explain it via quantum mechanics, but I wouldn't understand it any better if he did.
 
It is a test.  Do you give into the tiny dancing gurner, to the constant hem-tugging and gibbering?  Or can you tune it out, just enough to hear that small steady voice from deep within?

My dancing gurner comes with a full laser show, goodie bags and interval ice-cream.  No jacket though.  Not required today.

Not Getting Away With It

The temperature this morning disputes my belief that it is spring.  A good five minutes to scrape the hardest of frosts off the car.  Fingers still numb an hour later.

The sky is clear and blue, and the sun is bouncing off all the new gilding on Holborn Viaduct.  Dedicated runners pass me, huffing out cloudy breath, rucksacks of work clothes bouncing on their backs.  I retire to a coffee shop, to warm my teeth and fingers.

Still not completely back into my running. There's a new stabby pain beneath my right knee cap.  It's not serious, but it is a warning.  Last time I had knee issues, it felt like my knee cap was going to spring off, like one of those sucker toys.  Very unstable and weird.  I went through several packets of frozen peas and a lot of physio to sort it out.  Don't want the same again, so I'm going steady.

I'm just big-boned

Or that's my excuse anyway (nothing stopping me cycling or rowing, is there?).  I am being very sluggish in shifting the extra winter insulation. Next week I have a health assessment.  I will be weighed and measured and cholesteroled and blood pressured.  In my pants, goddammit.  I planned to have everything in hand by then - I thought the deadline would make me step up.  Interestingly, the closer the assessment comes, the more I find myself cracking out the toast in carb-based acts of rebellion.  I've always been a bit of a last minuter, as demonstrated by my eternal pre-Fringe writing panic.  A hairy week of weeping and pacing normally allows me to squeeze something out, and get away with it.

Cannot use the same approach for the health assessment.  Nowhere to hide when you're in your pants.

Oh, the shame.  The terrible, cringing shame.