As I settle down to write this week’s blog, you may be intrigued to learn that I’m very stiff. Before your minds run away with you, and my female readers implode in a frenzy of mental images and hot sweats, this is because this weekend I have done my first bit of exercise for many a month.
This onslaught was brought on of course by the excess of Christmas, but it was brought into sharp focus this week, when I had to wear a tie for the first time in about four years. Ties have long since been surplus to requirements as part of my working life, but I had to go somewhere this week that required one. This formal occasion was sort of work related, and will hopefully expedite my escape from the morale and sanity sapping existence I endure Monday to Friday right now.
So having spent the usual few minutes getting showered and dressed in preparation, it then took about another half hour to actually fasten my top button! Once I’d woken from the blood loss induced coma, I then struggled through the day without turning my head! This episode sort of brought it home that I need to shed a few pounds…probably a couple of dozen. So, even though I hate being part of the cliché that is a new year diet regime, I’m in it, and I’ve eaten just a little bit less. With a workout on Saturday and a long walk with Oli today, the scales are showing a slightly lower number than last week, so that’s a relief. A long, long way to go though.
So I’ve continued to work on my escape plan, and although I always say I don’t do work stuff here, it will be no surprise to you that I’m exploring opportunities elsewhere, and hope to have positive news shortly.
The first week back at work, as horrific as it was, was softened by it only being for four days, and having traffic on the roads that would be very tolerable were that to be the norm. Add to that the progress made with a couple of escape routes, and it could have been a lot worse. The girls have been off all week too, and this has added to the gentle introduction to the new working year. Not having to wrench them from their pits at a silly hour means the early morning routine is much less stressful. With them at home, it also means I don’t have to walk the dog before work, as in theory they are at home to walk him. That theory sometimes needs a little encouragement!
Tomorrow may well be a shock to their systems as the last time they did not wake up of their own volition was December the 23rd!
It was my Dad’s birthday this week, and I do feel sorry for him, as it tends to get a little lost in the end of Xmas, decoration removing, diet starting apocalypse. I popped round with his customary golf related gift and card, pleased to see he’s more or less recovered from his proper man flu that besmirched his New Year.
We’ve had quite a relaxing weekend, which you could translate to, we don’t have any cash to do anything exciting. As a result of the excessive wind of late, we were missing a panel of fencing in the back garden. I have since birth (or shortly afterwards) understood this type of fencing to be called Waney Lat. It is only the writing of this blog entry that has taken me to google to find out how to spell it properly, and it would appear that the correct technical term is Waney Lap. Now that makes no sense whatsoever, but I sit, stiffly corrected.
My first job today was to effect a repair otherwise Oli would be leaving deposits in next door’s garden, and with the size of him now, they don’t want that. It takes two people to clear them up!
I think they could introduce this activity into the Olympics this summer. I’m sure had any of the neighbours been watching from a window, they would have been highly entertained as I attempted to slot the bugger back into place all on my own. Imagine if you will, a portly bald fella holding a fencing panel across his body, waddling around the garden at the behest of every breath of wind, trying desperately to lift it high enough to slot it into the grooves on either side. Now, imagine every swear word you have ever known, and them being shouted loudly as it falls back to the ground for the sixth time.
Should it become an Olympic event, it shall be yet another sport at which I have not been naturally blessed. I returned to the warmth of the house some many minutes later, with grazed knuckles, dirty pants (yes, soiled, but not in a bad way), and muddy shoes. Oli had spent this time exploring next door for the last time before his escape route was cruelly shut off.
With that one job off my task list, it barely made a dent in the long list of stuff that is currently either slightly or totally broken in our house. We have a temperamental shower, a fridge with a door averse to shutting, a broken lamp, several bulbs that need replacing and Louise’s car is in for a service/Mot/Highway robbery in a couple of weeks with a list of minor issues to investigate.
So having missed all of Dancing on Ice by writing this, I consider that job done. Now, on our telly, I’m watching two vacuous effeminate chaps trying to groom three women into looking like Beyonce.Yes, that’s correct they have commissioned such a programme. The three contenders look like Beyonce about as much as I do, and of the three frankly I have the nicest bum. The programme appears to be called Bigger than Beyonce and I can confirm that indeed all the contestants are, by quite some margin.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again….TV will eat itself, and judging by these hopefuls, it is about the only thing they haven’t yet eaten. I appreciate I sit within a very glass house in that respect, but I am not flouting myself on national TV in some sort of looky likey travesty. If I were, then maybe Bigger than Brian Glover may be more appropriate? Go on, Google him. Although Louise always says I look like Gok Wan. If that isn’t grounds for divorce then I don’t know what is.
Till the next time…..