Babies everywhere

A good friend has just had a girl. It is wonderful. The baby is gorgeous (rather than being crumpled up and looking like E.T as (if we were to be honest) most babies do), mother is well, father is reportedly taking to fatherhood as Aussies take to cricket, and this is all very, very lovely. Even more so, as my friend was told a number of years ago that it was unlikely she would be able to have children.

So this is a very special baby, indeed.

My friends (the ones who go back a long way) have hit sprogging age. The first to reproduce was perhaps the one we thought most unlikely to be straight, and also the most unlikely to get married, have a responsible job, settle down and have a family. That was a couple of years ago. In the last twelve months, two more close school friends, my bro's wife, some orchestra friends, a lass I was in Tanzania with and a couple of colleagues have all sprogged.

I have noticed a few things in this time:

1. Most babies have their photos posted on Facebook within 48 hour of birth;
   
2. Not all babies are amazingly ugly (and some actually look quite sweet);
   
3. Some babies cry more than others;
   
4. All new mothers love having friends around so they can hand the sprog over for a while.

A few months back I called in to see my nephew and sister-in-law for an hour or so on the way back from Swindon. I'd actually called in to pick up some Easter eggs my folks had left for us, but the opportunity to see the little fella was welcome. I'd also taken some plastic construction vehicles for him to play with. They were a big hit - he just about had the co-ordination to bang the things together and make a lot of noise, and then he discovered the nipple-shaped magnet on each end, which evidently made a fantastic focus for suckage, and kept him quiet for a couple of months.

I rather like my nephew. He's a happy chappie (and is easily pleased), and I can't wait until he's a bit older and we can take him to exciting places, feed him full of sugar and e-numbers, and hand him back to his parents in a hyperactive state.

But seriously, I'm a little worried that I might be beginning to like babies. I'm no longer terrified of making them cry and instead find myself making silly noises, pulling faces, and swinging them around by any extraneous limbs until they put their energy into wondering where the ground went and forget to cry.

I think this is a sign of getting old.

I turned thirty last month. I was in Prague with N. (I had a notion that if I had a birthday and wasn't in the UK for it, people would forget and perhaps I wouldn't have to really be thirty. This notion turned out to be false.) I do feel rather old. Maybe it's something to do with living somewhere relatively conventional, having what appears to be a 'safe' job with a growing company,

Maybe it's something to do with having the bone mineral density of an average grandmother.

Really. I have. The t-score from my recent dexa scan showed -1.6 for my hips and -2 for my lumbar spine. Or perhaps it was the other way round. No matter, they're the sort of scores you expect when you're in your sixties with a sedentary lifestyle. Fortunately I'm on the sort of medication which is suited to (and only licenced for use by) post-menopausal women of the age of average grandmotherhood. Coupled with being thirty, this would be more than enough to make me feel old.

Luckily, this is balanced out by having the bowel control of a new-born baby. This is particularly the case when I'm running. At the moment, I'm lucky to get a few kilometers down the road without an urgent need to find any sort of premises in which I might be able to use a loo. Bear in mind that this puts me in either deepest, darkest Brentford (home to a number of spit and sawdust pubs) or into well-heeled and ever-so-slightly-up-its-own-bottom Richmond. Neither of these locations take particularly kindly to lycra-ed up runners making a desperate dash to the loo and leaving shortly after without swelling the coffers of the licensee. I've been made to feel pretty uncomfortable on the way out, but nothing compared to the level of discomfort I was feeling on the way in. Either way, when my nephew starts crying because he's filled his nappy, I do feel a certain level of empathy with his plight.

It's empathy tinged with a bit of jealousy, though - my nephew's likely to grow out of it.

On the move

I'm moving west.

Having got a month's notice from my landlord a couple of weeks ago, I've been flat-hunting with my lovely fella, N. We think we've found a place a bit further west along the river.

I rather like the process of moving. I like the bit where you are forced to consider every possession and answer the question: Do I need this? Is it worth hauling to the next home and storing there on the off-chance I might need it? Should I stick it on eBay, or send it to the local charity shop? Should it go in the bin?

I've not found a lot of stuff to chuck. This is either a sign that I'm particularly rubbish at getting rid of stuff, or a sign that after so many moves, I've now got rid of so much stuff that I have very little unnecessary stuff. I suspect it's not the latter.

Things I didn't expect

I didn't expect the lasagna to arrive with chips, but the chips were superb and I got over the surprise rather quickly and with as far as I can tell, without sustaining long-term psychological damage.

However...

My current hotel room is opposite a church. It's a rather pretty scene, an old, green graveyard with higgledy-piggledy, lichen-covered stones, a fine tower and an old and rather imposing yew tree obscuring the entrance.

I didn't expect campanologists to strike up at 7:30, but initially, I thought this might be charming - with the window closed, I would still be able to hear the bells, yet listen to the snooker commentary whilst finishing off my emails for the day and the pint of Beck's I picked up in the bar.

After the opening peals, I realised this would not be charming. These must the least coordinated and unrythmical bell ringers in the universe. The simple sequence of six descending notes, repeated time and again was never right. Bells rang simultaneously. Bell four would be rung before bell three. It was dire, and rather painful to have to hear.

I have no idea how difficult bell ringing is. I'm sure it's not easy, but these people are showing no signs of learning from experience. I suppose it's not possible for campanologists to get a bit of private practice, but this bunch are in grave need of a soundproofed room to practice in.

They've just struck up again. Another session of aural pain looms large. I've never previously felt a sense of dread on hearing church bells, but when that first bell pierced the peaceful evening soundscape of birdsong, snooker commentary and the clicking of my keyboard as I typed away, I felt a sense of dread and panic like none I've experienced previously.

I suppose I've never really appreciated just how good most bell ringers are. Church bells ring out all over the place and don't sound this bad. They sound pleasant. Quaint. Charming. Unobtrusive. I'm beginning to think I should thank the bunch of hapless ringers who've just ensured I'll never take semi-competent bell-ringing for granted again. I'd never have expected that half an hour ago.

Leisure time

It’s 8pm. I am having leisure time after having got up at 6:20am to get to Swindon for 9. After a frustrating day at work, I knocked off around five-ish and got to my hotel about half-past. I was in the gym by six, out of the gym by half seven, and with a meal arriving in my room for quarter to eight, I was well on track to be fed and working my way through a pint by 8pm.

It’s 8pm. I’ve finished the mushroom soup and pasta and am working my way through a pint. Flowers best bitter. Very nice, too. It’s the earliest I’ve managed to eat on a work night since I finished working in London a couple of months ago.

I don’t normally go for room service, but this particular hotel requires dressing for dinner. I find that sort of thing all rather unnecessary for a mid-week business stopover, so I’ve opted for the rather less complicated bar menu and the joys of eating dinner whilst wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I’ve chosen the option which more closely resembles what I’d be doing through choice. I stay at this hotel because it has a decent gym with various bits of cardio and weights kit.

I frightened off a teenage lad by shifting rather more weight than him. I didn’t mean to have this effect on the kid, but it’s not the first time something like this has happened. My line manager stopped working out at the work gym after he realised I was outlifting him. Fragile ego syndrome?

Ah, fragility, yes. That reminds me - one of the reasons I’m keen to get back to doing weights regularly is that a recent bone scan revealed that my bones are a bit on the crumbly side of normal, and the remedial action consists of weights, running and extra bonus medication and supplements. Along with doubling the dose of the stuff I was taking anyway, this means I’ve now passed the stage of medication consumption at which it makes good economic sense to pre-pay for my prescriptions. This makes me feel rather old. I’m not even thirty, and I’m taking the same stuff for my bones that my question-marked-shaped osteoporotic grandmother did when she was in her nineties.

I’m also keen to feel well again. I briefly felt well whilst on holiday in the Highlands recently, but the return to work (and to commuting) scuppered that. I’ve been doing about 18 hrs commuting a week recently, which is a fair whack on top of the working week. Worse, it’s all by car, so I don’t even get a ten-minute walk to a tube station and a snooze on the train. Driving’s not really compatible with a half hour catch up on kip on the way to work. I get home late, and tired and not inclined to train. I don’t sleep well if I don’t get a reasonable amount of exercise. It’s a vicious bugger of a circle, this.

I’m staying up in Swindon for most of this week. This does mean that I’m not seeing much (anything) of my boyfriend, but I’m hoping it’ll mean I get some exercise, a few early nights and some decent kip, and may just be able to stay awake past 9pm at the weekend. I don’t hold out much hope of making it past 9pm tonight. Half a pint of Flowers has done for that. I may have leisure time, but I'm going to bed...

Solving Problems

I firmly believe that there are very few problems in life which remain troublesome following a decent run, a large bowl of pasta and a glass of wine. The problem currently bothering me most definitely falls into this category.

My current problem is that with commuting to Swindon and staying in hotels, I don't often get the opportunity to go for a run and follow it up with a large bowl of pasta and a glass of red wine, and thus very many small problems have neither been solved nor downgraded in severity from 'major disaster' to 'less annoying than the mild pains in my legs'.

I've tried to maintain the run, pasta and wine approach to problem solving whilst staying up in Swindon. I can pretty much go for a run anywhere, provided I've packed some kit. Going for a run from a hotel is usually quite pleasant – I stay a few miles out of town and it's easy to find pleasant routes to run whilst mulling through some of the day's issues before returning for a shower and a meal. The going for a run part is fine. Getting the bowl of pasta causes problems. I don't want rich, creamy food following a run. Bolognaise would be fine. Carbonara is pushing the limits of what my guts will withstand. Prawns and tomatoes tossed in garlic and olive oil would be lovely. Sadly, no hotel seems to put anything this simple on the menu, and the few that respond to my requests for something other than their standard fayre don't seem to understand the portion size requirement, leaving me with three prawns and four cherry tomatoes sitting daintily atop a smattering of fusili, and also leaving me a tad hungry.

I've also tried to use the run/pasta/wine method after getting back from Swindon. This doesn't work particularly well, either. Having got up early to get to Swindon, I'm usually hovering between between the hungry and famished border by lunchtime. By the time I make it back to London, it's about 7:30, I'm hungry and tired and probably in need of some kip. Going for a run means eating late (which doesn't work well with the need to get up the next morning and drive to Swindon), and seeing very little of my lovely boyfriend (or anyone else, for that matter), which makes the four hour commuting penalty (home to London and back to Swindon the next day) a rather high price to pay for a poor night's sleep and a correctly-sized bowl of pasta.

Today, this is not a problem. It is a Sunday. I have been for a run, I have had a large bowl of pasta and a glass of wine, and life is good.

Velcro

I've acquired a corporate laptop from my new customer. I was a little bit concerned that the laptop came with a random piece of velcro stuck to the case, but then worked out what this was for when I examined the antenna for the 3G/GPRS card which came with it and which had an almost corresponding piece of velcro stuck to it.

I say 'almost corresponding' because, in my experience, velcro comes with a hook-like piece (which I shall refer to as 'male') and a furry piece (which I shall refer to as 'female'). Both my laptop and antenna velcro pieces were of the male variety. I wondered whether this would be a problem, but upon experimentation, it transpired that the two male pieces bonded reasonably.

One of my colleagues, who was around whilst I was verbally working through the ramifications of the velcro combination I had received, gleefully remarked that I had been supplied with gay velcro. My thoughts immediately turned to the unfortunate person who had received my gay velcro's lesbian counterparts. There was little chance of them ever getting their two furry velcro pieces to successfully bond. This was rather sad, as it also meant they would be inconvenienced by an unbound antenna.

I wondered how a cock-up such as this could have occurred, and wandered round the office examining unattended laptops and antennae only to discover that all velcro combinations were male-male.

The customer organisation is full of macho types. I find it pleasingly amusing that gay velcro is standard issue...

Working for a living has a lot to answer for...

I woke up this morning vaguely aware that the Huguenot kings were kicking off again and that somehow this was because I'd failed to do my job properly and convince them to take my sage advice.

I'm not a diplomat. It's neither my job title nor my general disposition. Nor is this the late sixteenth/early seventeenth century. As such, I'm a little surprised to find my subconscious suggesting that I've failed to keep the French Catholics safe following the Wars of Religion. (Something to do with recriminations following Henry IV's assassination.) It's probably one issue that I can safely put on the back burner (or in the "issues carpark") for the next couple of weeks.

I have a few more pressing issues.

I'm work-hunting.

I don't need a job. I already have one, and I'm glad of it, and particularly glad to be working for a company which is still recruiting in spite of the downturn. However, I am coming to the end of my current contract with the customer who're a handy 20 minute walk down the road, and following a failure between my employers and my clients to agree a rate for my services, I'm being promised to a client in Swindon for the rest of eternity (or 9 months in the first instance).

Swindon is a rather longer commute.

I had previously been of the mind to relocate to within a short, and preferably cyclable/walkable, commuting distance of wherever I ended up working, and thus not waste so much life sitting in my car. However, five days a week in Swindon leaves me the option of seven nights a week at home being tired and grumpy, or three nights a week at home being less tired and grumpy. I currently have seven nights a week at home being fairly chipper (Crohn's aside), and am a little peeved at the hit my work/life balance will take if I'm sold to Swindon for any length of time.

My lovely boyfriend doesn't seem too chuffed at the prospect of my being sold to Swindon. I can't possibly imagine why...

That was a lie. I can imagine why. My guess is that it's something to do with the reason why most of my colleagues who've been sold to the wrong end of the M4 find themselves single/breaking off engagements/getting divorced. It would seem that rarely seeing your partner, working long hours on big, stressful projects and thinking/worrying about work in what should be free time is not the best thing for a healthy relationship.

Swindon also screws up rowing. This was fairly well screwed up by the Crohn's anyway, so I've quit for immediate future.

The Swindon job would be good work. As far as my CV goes, I'm not going to be offered anything better. This would be great if my career was important to me. My career? As far as I'm concerned, I have a job. I turn up at work. I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but as far as I'm concerned, I'm currently paid nicely to do work which is alright, morally defensible, interesting and challenging, but which I'd rather didn't interfere with my leisure time.

So, unless I can find some work to do which keeps me closer to London instead of being away all week in Swindon, I'll probably be looking for a new employer instead of just looking for a new client.

Good news...

...and bad news.

The good news is that I have news. Another good bit of news is that my small intestine appears to be absolutely beautiful.

The bad news is that the rest of the news is that I've probably got Crohn's disease. This is a bit of a bugger.

I had an endoscopy and colonoscopy last Monday. As I was explaining to the trainee endoscopist [not a good start - the last thing you want to know about about the person who's going to stick a camera up your jacksie is that they're not yet qualified to pilot the damned thing through your intestines], I was really rather keen not to have Crohn's.

See, my father has Crohn's. He also has rather less intestine than he used to have, rather less of both femurs than he used to have, far less content of his right thigh than he used to have and, not to put too fine a point on it, has been pretty much crippled for large portions of the last thirty years. As far as I can make out, most of the afore-mentioned troubles were precipitated by his Crohn's or the treatment he received for it.

Having a colonoscopy is a pain in the arse and rather inconvenient at the best of times. On Monday morning it seemed even more so as I was reasonably confident this was an academic exercise aimed at finding nothing whatsoever and of value only to support the conclusions that the healthcare professionals I've encountered have reached, which are that a) I have crap guts and b) running around and jumping up and down in pursuit of something called 'training' probably isn't helping them function. Regardless, I duly ate a low residue diet on Saturday, then starved myself on Sunday, took the prescribed laxatives (£14.20 has never been so badly spent) and endured a night on the loo, followed up with doing the 'nil by mouth' thing on Monday. So, I was sufficiently low on energy, dehydrated, pissed off and emotionally fragile when I got a call from work at 11 am on Monday morning requesting the impossible by mid Wednesday. I put in a fleeting appearance in the office and then sped off to outpatients.

I'd done a double outing on Sunday morning without breakfast and with no food to look forward to for the rest of the day. I felt cold and just a little bit sorry for myself. Even without feeling fragile, the temperature on Monday was a bit far south for my liking. As I discovered, the endoscopy recovery room (which doubles as a waiting room) was a bit parky, too. Still, I showed up on time for my appointment, changed into a gown and shorts and got increasingly cold and thirsty as I waited another couple of hours before I could have the endoscopy and colonoscopy, shivering under my jacket in the small, dingy cubicle. It was getting on for eight hours after I'd last had a drink, and about 40 since I'd had food. A sense of humour failure really did not seem far away. With the benefit of hindsight, this may not have been the best time to settle down to reading a badly-written 100+ page document which is currently causing much work stress. It wasn't easy to read. I wasn't sure whether this was because I was having difficulty concentrating, or because I the document was poorly written. It was probably both.

I finally got seen at around 4pm. The endoscopy was pretty quick, I was nicely sedated and pain-free. The colonoscopy... well...

I suppose other than being a bit pissed off at the regular discussion between the trainee and the fully fledged endoscopist about 'inflammation', 'ulceration' and 'probably Crohn's', and other than having to negotiate with the dude with the camera to stop causing me so much pain trying to get around a particularly inflamed corner of my colon (not fancying having to go through all the prep again, I eventually settled for having more painkillers so they could continue), it wasn't that bad. I did find the reassurance that they'd 'nearly finished' to be a tad inaccurate (on a number of occasions), and was a bit alarmed at the sheer number of biopsies taken, but by the time they actually nearly finished, I was just bored of the whole thing, rather keen to get the oxygen tube out of my nose, the cannula out of my elbow, stop having my blood pressure taken every five minutes, clean myself up and get out of the hospital. Oh, and I was thoroughly unimpressed with their language and the evident likelihood that I had Crohn's.

When they did eventually finish, about an hour and a half after they'd started, I was properly alert and rather alarmed at the images of my inflamed, diseased and ulcerated bowel. I asked for a drink. I didn't get one.

I was wheeled back on the trolley to the recovery room, and hooked up to more monitoring gubbins. I asked for a drink and for the cannula to be taken out. I got a small plastic cup of water, which I gulped down rapidly. The nurse who had handed it to me seemed surprised to note that I appeared thirsty. The phrase “No shit, Sherlock” ran through my head - I'd had any liquid in me drawn out by the sodding citramag and then been denied the opportunity to drink anything for six hours before my appointment time. It was now three hours after my appointment time. Surely it wasn't that surprising that I should feel thirsty...

My 'responsible adult' (in the guise of my boyfriend) turned up just in time to be around when the trainee endoscopist came bearing the 'news' that it looked like I've probably got Crohn's disease.

Despite already being aware of this, I wasn't a happy bunny. I make a crap patient at the best of times, and generally don't hold up well to being starved and dehydrated. Being a starved, dehydrated patient receiving news which isn't exactly great, the only sensible course of action seemed to be to burst into tears, which I duly did. Handily for me, my responsible adult has a superb bedside manner.

A nurse showed up shortly afterwards to remove the various bits of gubbins I was still attached to, and to ask whether I'd like some tea and biscuits. She really didn't need to ask. Apparently I was now also fit enough to clothe myself. I rapidly changed out of the gown and shorts and relieved the endoscopy unit of their biscuit supplies, and by the time I'd worked my way through a couple of packs of jam dodgers and a small stack of bourbon creams, I was feeling significantly more human. Another couple of beakers of water didn't go amiss, either. By the time I'd been escorted home, I was almost feeling like my normal self. Then again, as my normal self at the moment has a colon of which half is ulcerated to buggery and back, doesn't get enough sleep, and is generally fairly ratty, it didn't take that much improvement to restore the status quo.

Despite the sorry news, I'm better off than I was a couple of weeks ago, as I've at least got some idea of what to expect and what I might be able to do to control and alleviate the symptoms. This won't necessarily stop me from feeling a tad sorry for myself if I have to live with Crohn's, but hey – at least it looks like I've got something that I can live with. That's a damned sight better than coming away with a diagnosis of, for example, bowel cancer.

My religious education must have been lacking...

I haven't blogged recently. Despite not rowing (and instead recovering, trying to avoid being sent to Swindon next year, trying to recruit anyone vaguely suitable for work, and trying to bolster my chances of receiving, and the size of, a xmas bonus, and enjoying a new relationship), I've been busier than usual...

I'll 'fess up now to having a GCSE in Religious Studies. I got a B.  The teachers were so shocked at this under-achievement that they sent my paper back to be re-marked.

I still got a B.

It turns out my understanding of religion wasn't that fab. (This was about 14 years ago, and I'm confident I've learned nothing of religion since.)


It was therefore with some surprise that I found myself elected at a recent dinner party to perform a nativity play using only the stuffed toys normally reserved for the hostess' dogs.


Disclaimer: Any offence caused by the following hazy recollections is entirely unintentional and purely the result of drunkeness, ignorance and my heathen, communist, comprehensive education.

So, with the cameras rolling (I'm assuming this debacle will find itself onto Youtube at some point...), I set to work. Casting Jesus was easy. He was an infant during the nativity. (There are no flies on me. Jesus probably had a few, though, being born in a stable and surrounded by donkey dung.) The only juvenile stuffed toy available was a tiger. Ergo, Jesus was cast.

Mary and Joseph were similarly simple. I had available a small stuffed goose and a penguin of similar size. These being the only toys with the same number of legs as Mary and Joseph, I popped them in place behind the tiger. They looked proud parents. The penguin was Joseph. Audience members with poor eyesight could almost be persuaded that our Pingu was in fact Joe in a dinner jacket.

There was also a cow. I was more or less convinced that there were no cows at the nativity, but given that a tiger, goose and penguin were already in place, the cow played the part of a donkey.

I had a bit of difficulty with casting the lion, but then remembered that somewhere in the dusty religious tomes a lion lies down with a lamb and this is a good thing. We didn't have a lamb at our disposal, but did have an enormous stuffed sheep. The only difficulty to be resolved arose from the relative sizes of the lion and the sheep, so I put the lion on top and they spent the evening merrily lying down together.

We were still short of a few wise men. Fortunately other guests had been roaming the flat and had uncovered four plastic fish. These were offered to 'stand' in for the wise men (and reconciled to the original story as being freshly arrived leftovers from the feeding of the five thousand), though sadly they each had a pair of legs too few compared to the wise men in the story, but they did manage to turn up suitably late to the party. (The wise men did turn up late, didn't they?)

The fourth fish was given the part of a shepherd - somewhere in the dilute, alcoholic haze, I'd forgotten to cast that role.

The nativity scene was now in top gear with a full complement of players. More animals appeared out of the woodwork (or got hunted down and given to me by other guests so that I could apply my own particular brand of religious understanding to them). An ebony rhino and elephant dropped into the scene - I figured they were probably taking a holiday from the Garden of Eden and ad swung by the stable to find out what all the fuss was about and report back. A Chinese dragon then appeared. This was a little harder to rationalise - I initially thought it was there to add a bit of cultural diversity and prevent the scene from looking a bit too WASP*-ish, but on closer inspection, the fish representing Balthasar had forgotten to bring his myrrh. Remembering that the wise chaps had come from the East, I realised that the dragon was a replacement gift acquired during Bally's recent package holiday to China.

It was at about this time that my strategically-acquired glass of water was replaced by a glass of wine - another miracle represented and proof, if it were needed, that the gods were indeed smiling on our interpretation of the nativity.

Sadly, by the time the pièce de résistance Dancing Macarena Gorrilla arrived, all parts had been cast and it had to macarena to itself beyond the pale of the nativity scene...

Culturally-sensitive, diversity-embracing, festively, seasonally good wishes to you all

*White, Anglo-Saxon Protestant. Because, as we all know, all attendees at the nativity were WASPs...

Thursday afternoon

...or "I have a rather nice view from my desk"

Monday Morning...

...or "Living in Hammersmith is actually OK"









All things considered, it has been a pretty good start to the week. A great sunrise and an entire day of geekery at work on Monday, and by close of business today I'm halfway through an external audit of the black magic which is the corporate quality system, confident that the auditor will wet himself with excitement on sight of the integrated electronic quality system (yup, it is exactly as exciting as it sounds...), and go away happy having recertified us compliant with a new, shiny, exciting, international quality standard.

I woke up this morning with this stuck in my head:

I can only suppose it was the thought of the impending quality audit that put me in an incredibly good mood...

Good stuff...

Everything was beautiful as I walked over Hammersmith bridge this morning. The moon, a massive, peachy-gold orb somewhere over Chiswick, was setting in a rich and welcoming blue sky. To the other side of the bridge, the lights of the planes flying overhead reflected clearly in the river, a milky blue from the promise of day break to the East. Birdsong was perfectly audible even over the constant drone of the traffic. A tree, its turning leaves backlit by a streetlight, appeared to be dripping gold. The air was crisp and cold. Despite a day at work beckoning, I was left with the impression that, at that particular moment, life really couldn't get any better.

All that from my short jaunt over the bridge - I guess I must be in a good mood...

Racing

I'm racing on Saturday. 7km head race (time trial).

I can't quite reconcile this with having been not entirely at my best over the last couple of months.

About four weeks ago I sat in the bar at the club attempting to have a chat with the coach. Being a high-transmit sort of person and giving the impression of lacking a 'receive' button, I was limited to interjecting the odd word into his soliloquy, but nevertheless managed to convey the assertion that I would indeed be fit to race 7 km four weeks later, despite at that point having lost 4 kg in weight almost exclusively from my thighs. Obviously, it was a complete lie, and there was absolutely no way I thought I'd be in race shape a month later, but figured it was worth keeping open the option of racing, and doing so required telling the odd porky.

Remarkably, four weeks on I'm actually in excellent shape. I might have had a few small issues with producing solid sh*ts, but it doesn't seem to be impacting my cardio-vascular fitness nor having sufficient impact on my strength to be noticeable over mid/long distances. Even after being ill and coming back with a light training load, I'm outperforming the rest of the club in the gym. (At least, I'm outperforming the portion of the club who turn up to the gym.) I'm fit to race... but I'm not up for racing.

Bugger.

This bothers me. Four weeks ago, I figured that by now I'd be well up for the fight, but be let down my lack of physical fitness and wellness. I never imagined I'd be in good shape physically and (at best) indifferent mentally. Gee-ing myself up for a competition is not something I've ever struggled with before. True, before I took a few weeks off, I'd been finding it difficult to motivate myself to do the training, and wondered whether I was actually enjoying rowing and, if not, whether I ought to find something more enjoyable to do. Having later admitted defeat to illness, I took some time off and figured that my lack of motivation was actually due to being ill. Now I pretty much feel fine, but still am not enjoying the training.

Enough navel-gazing. I'm getting too close to the obvious conclusion that actually I'm just not enjoying rowing as much as I need to in order to justify the time commitment, and I ought to find something else to do. (I'm still holding out some hope that my lack of enjoyment is a hangover from being ill and everything will be fine once I've been fixed, or at least once I've caught up on sleep.)

I'm rather hoping that something miraculous will happen between now and the start of the race which will see me adopt my usual 'wannabe killer' attitude. It'd better happen, otherwise it's going to be a painful experience in all the wrong senses.

Digestive incompetence

Ugh.

It's half eight. I should be at work, or at least making my way there. Instead I'm drenched in sweat, and in bed.

I experimented on Saturday night with acting like a normal person, having a meal out, and a couple of beers. I had planned carefully, and selected a Polish restaurant (home to well-cooked vegetables, potatoes and meat). I chose a pasteurised beer. I wasn't expecting to have any issues.

Sunday morning I had some diarrhoea. Just a few bouts, and nothing too alarming. I was a bit peeved at its re-appearance after a fairly successful week of digestion, but figured it would probably settle down if I treated my guts with kid gloves for a day or so. I went easy on them at lunch with a vegetable soup, and had no immediate problems. I went easy on my guts at dinner, with boiled to death vegetables, rice and a recovery shake. I thought it'd be fine.

Overnight I've realised that something has upset the gut gods and they are showing their displeasure.

I haven't slept much. Too much running to the loo and pain from those blasted cramps that I thought I'd left behind. They are miserable things, those cramps. It feels as though my intestines are the gut gods' spaghetti, being stabbed, pulled out and then twirled on their forks. The gut gods are never in a hurry to eat. They play with their food. I wish I wasn't on the menu...

So, anyway. In between trips to the loo this morning, I've called work and explained that I have a bout of gastric incompetence. They are already aware I have the digestive age of a newborn baby - I've previously had to explain why I was slumped over my desk and clutching my guts whilst contorting my features into an expression of agony in a professionally unbecoming manner. Rather me than them, apparently.

It's a bit odd that I'm drenched in sweat. The window was open all night and the room a pleasant temperature. I shouldn't have been oozing buckets. I'd like to change the sheets but have that feeling of weak grimness which easily persuades me that changing the bedding is too much effort at this moment in time, and that turning over the pillows and duvet would be a far better (if grimmer) plan.

Tired.

Sick of the symptoms.

Would like someone to be able to tell me what's up, so I have a better chance of controlling it. Right now I'd also like to turn the clock back, politely decline Saturday's social event and have another jacket spud with tuna yoghurt and a few pints of water instead. But I can't do that. I might be able to sleep, though...

In case you missed it earlier...

...the 'King of Viagra' has been jailed for fraud.

There are a number of aspects I like about this story:

• a bad guy has been jailed;
  
• a doctor has been found guilty of flogging paint-covered placebos...;
  
• ... to numerous Americans, hampering their chances of procreation and limiting population growth (thus in many ways providing a valuable public service);
  
• From further research, I understand the fakes were sold at £10-£15 a pop, which suggests the chap has only managed to flog in the region of 10,000 of the things, which strikes me as being a bit inept;
  
• It particularly tickles me that, despite the victims being located across the globe, the proceeds of crime will benefit the UK.

The last point suggests to me that, rather than jailing this chap at the present time, it would have been far more beneficial for him to be allowed to continue his fraud, in fact, perhaps being coached in the art, making greater profits before being apprehended and reaping greater rewards for the rest of us from the proceeds of crime. Of course, none of this will actually make any difference to my tax bill (or yours, for that matter), but I (rather cynically) find it heartening to think that this chap has unwittingly brought cash into the UK economy which might keep a few consultants in work for a few more months.

Incidentally, acquaintances inform me that the public sector is spending on consultancy like there's no tomorrow. This is largely because, as far as they're concerned, there is no tomorrow and all budgets will be slashed. But meanwhile public sector consultancy is booming. Its a funny old ecomony...

In other news, I am immensely pleased to report the recent production of several solid sh*ts. I cannot begin to describe how proud I am of them. (So pleased was I, I had to restrain myself from taking pictures...)

Small victories

To set the scene, in the last month I have:

• lost 4kgs;
  
• produced a large quantity of diarrhoea;
  
• produced three solid sh7ts;
  
• had perhaps two nights' uninterrupted sleep;
  
• missed six training sessions;
  
• missed a wedding;
  
• spent a lot of time when I should have been asleep doubled up with stomach cramps; and
  
• spent a lot of time when I should have been working making exceedingly good use of the spacious and capacious ladies loos.

Surprisingly, given that I've had a whole month of gastric incompetence and averaged less than 5 hrs broken sleep a night, it's been mostly OK. The last couple of weeks when I've started losing weight more quickly have been a bit of a drag. At my current rate of weight loss, I will cease to exist around the start of 2010. But even that's not as bad as it seems, as I'm assuming that before then, my digestive system will have bucked up its ideas and started behaving normally (or at least that the absolute rate of weight loss will reduce as I get lighter).

I should probably have jacked in training a bit earlier than I did, and with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps going for a run last Sunday (just because I happened to be near some decent terrain) might have been a bit of a daft idea. It was a damned nice run, though...

I got a bit desperate last week. (It was a particularly miserable week.) I had a look on eBay to see whether anyone was flogging a spare, functioning digestive system, but sadly I found none, so it looks like I'm stuck with the irritable one I've got. Irritable is probably not the right adjective. It probably was irritable before I did my best to ignore it and continue training (despite food hanging around in my bod for somewhere between 20 minutes and 7 hrs) in the hope it'd pass. It's probably now reached the stage of being really rather pissed off with me.

I guess I'm not the most caring owner my digestive system could have had (and given the amount I eat, it's probably already done an average lifetime's work). If I ever had cause to put my digestive system up for sale on eBay, I think I'd be hard pressed to find any takers. I suppose it more or less has end-to-end functionality, seems free of ulcers, and doesn't appear to have any inflammatory disease, so maybe there could be a few people out there who'd be prepared to take it. They'd be unlucky sods, though...

On the up side, courtesy of a complete lack of rowing, I've already managed to grab about 24 hrs sleep this weekend, and am about to hit the sack in search of some more. I'm counting this as a victory - the improvement has got to start somewhere, hasn't it...?

Pedantology

On the whiteboard which sits on the wall across from my desk at work is written the following:

"Striving for consistency in our wrongnitude"

and the eternal question:

"product dependency map" or "product dependency network"?

and the most recent addition:

What does 'methodology' define which isn't defined by 'method'?

To the best of my knowledge, the whiteboard has never had anything useful written on it.

The first statement was an attempt to define a mission for the pedants who make it their work to stifle progress by imposing endless 'controls' programme assurance function. The second is an example of the sort of question which keeps one of the afore-mentioned function awake at night. The third is a challenge posed by the latest, and quite possibly the greatest, pedant to set foot on the 20th floor. He's certainly the most entertaining.

It's a good question, though, and I may think twice before using the word 'methodology' the next time I'm bid-writing. Having said that, using the word 'method' where 'methodology' would be expected would probably sounds wrong to the recipient's ear. Can't be having that...

It has been a dull day in the office. It was the sort of day which would be more productively endured at home, with my head down in my laptop bashing out the bits of work which had to be done. Unfortunately, my customer doesn't like the idea of contractors working off-site. This is a pity. I miss having the odd work from home day.

Having said that, had I have worked from home today, I would have missed the following humdrum-breaking highlights:

1. A woman cycling down the road holding in her left hand the left handlebar of her bicycle whilst with her right hand she supported the frame of a second bicycle over her shoulder. I assume one or other of the bicycles was a recent illegal acquisition. On possibly both. Either way, I was impressed with the balancing act. It can't be easy to cycle whilst carrying a second bike.
   
2. Bearing witness to a thirty minute conversation on 'ologies', mostly centred around 'methodology', but branching out into arachnology, entomology, enigmatology, and other such 'ologies'. It may have extended beyond this period, but by this time my brain was melting and I had to excuse myself from my desk and instead have an equally inane but grace-savingly work-related conversation on the science or lack of it in applying RAGs to stakeholders (This is not as invasive as it might at first sound. It's also rather more fun as it gives me an excuse to marvel at the fact that jobs such as 'stakeholder engagement coordination administration manager' exist - a fine example of job title inflation if ever there was one...)

Yes, those were the highlights of the day...

Pedants are fascinating things. What two pedants in close proximity can find to argue over is amazing, and is certainly worthy of study. (There must be at least enough material for a good few PhD theses...). Watching the pair of them go at it today, it struck me that the encounter would stand comparison with some of the most memorable bouts in the ring, or matches on the field of play. I can't believe that they don't have to practise to get as skilled as they are... I'm rather pleased they were just arguing over a couple of words - I dread to think what might have ensued had they have been attempting literary criticism.

...and before someone points this out, I know pedantology isn't a word. It probably deserves to be. It's certainly more deserving of existence than, say, algology. Heck, I can barely believe just how much extra useless information I have assimilated today. It's almost certainly made the stagger to and from the office worthwhile.

It will be one of those days...

It's not yet 8am, and already I've tried to put soggy tea bags in the dishwasher instead of the bin, and tried to put the washing machine on before putting soggy, Thames-infused kit inside the machine. No doubt I will be using shower gels, shampoos and conditioners in the wrong places and in the wrong order, and this after getting dressed before realising I hadn't yet showered.

I expect that if I carry on in this fashion, I will be out of a job by the end of the day, having arrived late after going to the river instead of the office, then turned up to work at the wrong building, and on eventually arriving at my correct place of work asked the Director to do my admin, whilst sending reports for authorisation by the chap who usually picks up my admin and keeps me well-stocked with drinks throughout the day.

Perhaps I should go back to bed and stay there? It's a most appealing idea...

New Toy!

I've bought a new toy. I was feeling both the need and justification to treat myself after a trip to the Lakes got called off and I had my appraisal last week. Having found myself in London for the weekend, I went shopping, online. My new toy's actually an old toy which has been around for a couple of years (old technology, that is), and which I've been coveting from a distance until I had an excuse to get myself a present and was doing enough activity to warrant the purchase. I have as yet no idea whether a pay-rise will be in the offing following the appraisal, but on the off-chance that one is, I thought I'd spend the extra cash in next month's pay packet on a new heart rate monitor.

I do already have a heart rate monitor which I love very much. It tells me my heart rate. What it doesn't do is store the information so I can check it out at my leisure when I've finished my workout. It also won't give me my time-resolved location via GPS and tell me how far I've rowed/run, and at what speeds, and what my heart was doing at any particular moment. It doesn't make coffee, either.

My new toy does all* of these things.

It's the Garmin Forerunner 305. There's a spec-ed up model, the 405, which has better battery life and looks, but the reviews I've read haven't convinced me that the additional £100 would be money well spent, and I have a watch which I wear all day anyway, and it looks a damned sight better than the 405...

Here's some of the output on SportTracks (a very nice bit of free kit). Click images for the full geeky glory...:



And here's my first attempt at landing on the flood tide:



Perhaps that should have read "first, second, third and fourth attempts at landing".

It's going to be a useful little gadget, but I'm a bit concerned that I may be unable to stave off the need to play with the toy for long enough to recover between sessions. (It even makes running fun... I wonder whether it can work the same magic for circuit training?) I suppose I'll find out soon enough - training kicks off in earnest this weekend, leaving just three more days to enjoy pies, pizza, beer and chocolate.

Is that the time?? Must dash - the chippy will be open...

*I lied. It doesn't actually make coffee

Oops...

Since Peterborough regatta a couple of weeks ago, I have been officially 'resting'. As far as I can make out, resting seems to consist not only of not doing any weights and ergs, but also spending inordinate amounts of time on the sofa watching the Olympics, and over-consuming chocolate and alcohol.

I have tried to rest. I think I've mostly been successful. I have eaten quite a large amount of utter rubbish. I have watched bits of the Olympics. I've spent more time than usual sitting on the sofa, and far less time than usual in the gym or on the water.

I was going to do another half marathon erg over summer for a bit of fun. I haven't done a half marathon erg. I haven't even done half an hour. In fact, I haven't erged. I have gone a bit stir-crazy.

I haven't run further than five miles. I haven't even run up the stairs at work. I have run up a huge bill on my credit card through being forced to re-discover the concept of a social life, instead of spending evenings on the river or doing land training.

I haven't been completely successful at resting. See, by the time the afternoon comes around, and I haven't done much exercise for a few days, and am fidgety, and bad tempered, and the weather looks good, and I'm sitting in the office, on the 20th floor, with a view of the river... well, it's not surprising that heading out in a small boat is a pretty enticing prospect. It wouldn't have to be hard work, it'd be enough to go out for a paddle in the early evening sunshine...

I confess I have been out on the water a few times.

We took a couple of singles out last week. When my sculling buddy challenged me to a race, I succumbed. As we raced over only about 300m and, in particular, as I lost, I don't think it really counted as exercise.

We've also taken out the pair a few times. This is less like resting. For one thing, I can't really take it easy on the water if my partner isn't working equally lightly.(As we only have one blade each, we'd go round in circles if we didn't row with the same pressure). Also, as we're not yet absolutely completely fantastic, we're not doing much technical work and instead are putting in the miles until we've got the simple things right. Things like steering, getting into the boat, getting out of the boat, pushing off from the pontoon, landing back at the pontoon, spinning without capsizing, and lastly, rowing. We've quite a lot of work to do...

In the interests of getting a bit more practice at the simple things, we headed out this morning for a light paddle. It was all going absolutely to plan when we found ourselves upstream of Chiswick bridge, with a wide, flat and empty river ahead of us. The original plan for the return trip (paddling back with a few bursts of firm pressure in an otherwise light trip) got scotched as we succumbed to the urge to row the course for the Pairs Head (a time trial for doubles and pairs held in October), and test out whether I could still steer when moving with a bit of speed. We did a timed piece over the 4km course, instead of sticking with the original plan of paddling back with a few bursts of firm pressure in an otherwise light trip.

We had a lot more fun...

We rowed under Chiswick Bridge to the start of the course, reaching the dizzy heights of all of, ooh, about 26 strokes a minute. Quarter of an hour and probably the longest continuous stint of rowing we've done since March later (including a brief stoppage to avoid a double who'd put themselves in the middle of the river and on collision course with us), we'd passed under somewhere near the second lamppost on Hammersmith Bridge and finished the course. We were pretty pleased. I'd managed to steer an almost reasonable line. We'd done some decent rowing (mostly when I wasn't concentrating on not hitting other boats, occasional buoys or the ever-present banks), and we'd moved the boat at a reasonable speed. For our sixth outing as a pair, it felt like a good result, even if (as I realised about three kilometres in when various bits of body started complaining at the effort) it may not entirely have fulfilled the requirements of 'resting'...

Oh well.

It was fun...