An unseasonably hot, claggy day in central London today. 29 degrees might be the sort of temperature that would make an Aussie reach for his overcoat, but for us, it’s just on the uncomfortable side of warm — unless you’re in a beer garden. I wasn’t in a beer garden. Instead I was sardined on the London Underground system, floundering in a forest of armpits and hissing headphones, and can attest that it’s a less pleasant spot from which to enjoy the heat. This oppressive subterranean expedition would eventually lead me to the gates of the Bank of England, then slightly beyond. I was heading for Cornhill to attend an all-day seminar. One of the more substantial crumbs I was … …
Author: andy
It’s about time I wrote another Starting Over post. Everytime I do it, I hope it will be the last one. Not because I want the running to stop: just the opposite. I want the stopping to stop. At least the circumstances are different. Usually, an extended period of idleness follows a major race effort. This time, a startlingly enthusiastic late autumn and early winter was brought low by a series of calf strains and unconsummated races. Result? A ballooning midriff, and an attack of mild pessimism. Neither is good. Both must go. My weight has returned to the level it was at last September, when I last had this moment of clarity. I’m often consoled by the knowledge … …
As Churchill put it, “Democracy is the very worst form of government — except for all those others that have been tried”. For a political junkie like me, the last few weeks have been one big party, and that’s what we seem to have ended up with. Looking back, not much happened during the 3 weeks of the election campaign. An elderly lady in Rochdale was described as a bigot, and this became national news for several days. A cynic might say that the discovery of an elderly lady in Rochdale who could be described as not a bigot, would have been more newsworthy. But of course, I am not a cynic. Our first ever live televised leadership debates were … …
I’d been waiting for the chance to issue some cliché along the lines of “normal service has been resumed”, but it struck me today that normality will probably never reappear. Or not that old normality. Some different lifestyle, currently unimaginable, will eventually rise from the swamp and conquer all that came before. The form it might take will be revealed — just as soon as I manage to identify the real thing in among the statues and their shadows. In the meantime, I chew greedily on luxurious flux. It’s delicious. A couple of weeks into the supposed hell of redundancy blues, and I’ve not felt this busy, this happy, and this liberated, in a long time. My new freedom didn’t … …
One of the many excellent aspects of redundancy is the chance to dig out my favourite quotation. Popularised by JFK, its origin is unclear. Google research has everyone falling over themselves to attribute Better to light a candle than curse the darkness to that sagacious Chinese guy who seemed to do little but generate minimalistic wisdom in memorable one-liners. One site even reproduces it in Chinese characters, as if this makes the attribution unarguable. (I’m not sure about that comma though.) I drove up to Nottingham early last Tuesday morning, expecting to be discussing FY11 objectives with my line manager. Could I persuade her to give me something more challenging to do?… …
The Dubliners were part of the soundtrack to my childhood, and I hated them. It was the music of my parents, and I couldn’t relate to it. Much better were the other musical strands: the ones that came from my older brother and sisters. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones were cool; traditional Irish folk music wasn’t. I’ve had a strange relationship with Ireland. After several trips as a young child, I lost all interest in the place. For 30 years I stayed away, never even considering making the brief trip over the water. Despite growing to love and understand English folk music, I managed to ignore the Irish variety. Then in 1994 or thereabouts, the Dubliners came to Huddersfield, … …
Nottingham. I wouldn’t normally stay in a Premier Inn for work, but opted to do so this time, as there’s a Virgin Active gym next door, which opens its doors to hotel residents. But once I’d checked in, and discovered that I could watch the Arsenal-Porto Champions League game only in the bar, my plans began crumbling. Instead of two hours of noble sweat and saintliness, it was two hours of beer and pizza and televised football. Just two pints, but any alcohol at all these days seems to leave an ugly footprint on the following morning, especially when I leave the heating on all night. I’m writing this early, before heading off for a morning of meetings, and my … …
The green shoots of recovery may have been sighted at last. It’s not the economy, stupid. It’s me. In my runiverse, nothing much has gone right this year. Just eleven hours into 2010, during the Hyde Park 10K, my injury troubles began, and they’ve not let up. Four weeks later came a failed Almeria half marathon, and since then, another desolate month has passed. Just one run, two weeks ago, and that lasted a tantalising 2 miles before the calf sniper pulled the trigger again. I’ve still not run, but the last few days have stirred me from my apathy, with 4 staggering spinning classes — by which I mean they’ve left me staggering away from the gym afterwards. … …
People of Shepherds Bush, rejoice! Flavio Briatore waddles away from Loftus Road for the final time as chairman, and I can once again come out as a QPR fan without blushing. Signore Briatore fitted my club as comfortably as I fit my wife’s jeans. His awkward tenure summed up much of the ills of modern football ownership: a rich foreigner with no appreciation of the soul of British football, and particularly not at a level below the summit, lumbers in to conjure a revolution in the fortunes of the team, promising to heal a variety of ailments we didn’t know we were suffering from. Heavy on ambitious bluster (“Champions League within four years…”), but low on patience and humility. Flabbio … …
Welcome to the new WordPress home. The minimalism isn’t intentional. All efforts so far have been directed at importing the content from the old, hand-coded, HTML site, and only now can I think about addressing the decor and spartan furnishing. What’s really needed on this red letter day is a sustained, sonorous note of optimism. Ah. Instead, I offer up the absolute opposite: the thought that I’m staring at the possibility that my running days may be over. If indeed they ever began. This melancholic swamp looks familiar enough, but I don’t recall being in this deep. Two full weeks of rest after Almeria seemed like a good enough period of recuperation. Apart from a solitary spinning session a couple … …