April 2009

[Sweder]

. . . bit by bit.

Managed 45 excrutiatingly dull minutes on the static bike this afternoon.
The fact that it felt like blissful release will tell you that the preceeding eight hours of meetings were not the most engaging. Almost an hour discussing the various ways one could regulate the issue and safe return of translator headsets (which got alarmingly heated at one point) had me on the verge of dangerous hallucination. First up my fellow congress planners started to morph, one by one, into giant glasses of Guinness. This was quite pleasant until I realised any attempt to drink one of them could be misconstrued. I'd reached the Billy Liar point of pulling out a sub machine gun and straffing the lot of them when someone mercifully suggested a drinks break. Seizing the moment I let out a yelp of suprise and alarm, announced I was late, was late, for a very important date and plummeted out of the meeting room and down the Palais des Congres escalator at a perilous rate before a perfectly executed sling-shot through the glass swing doors and onto the sunlit pavement.

The reality of an hommage to Moyleman at Bewl is starting to dawn. Those fifteen relentlessly flat, mercilessly hot miles are rolling towards me. I'm trapped in a barrel of slow-setting lard. If I'm to do myself and the old boy any justice I have to break the cycle of lethargy and corporeal self-abuse. Lets look at the facts.

Yes, my heel remains painful and doesn't like it when I run.
No, I'm not getting proper treatment (which is, in an ideal world, complete untrammelled rest including minimal walking, no driving and certainly no fun whatsoever).
No, holding my foot off the floor and rolling my eyes at everyone who asks in an ugly parody of my Cocker Spaniel isn't helping.
And finally no, jumping on a static bike and pedalling furiously for the best part of an hour isn't fun, but it also isn't hurting the aforementioned appendage either.

Back in the hotel room, dripping nastily into the quite ancient 70's style carpet, I managed to wrestle the top off a beverage purchased from a deli on the way back from the Palais. It looked for all the world like some form of tomato juice. Half right. 'Clamato' is not, as I had foolishly surmised, some clumsy amalgum of brand name and the word 'tomato'. It is, horrifically, the very real blending of tomato and, quoting from the ingredients, 'dried clam broth'. It is, I assure you, quite as foul and disgusting a taste as you might imagine. Canadians (sorry Suzie) are quite, quite odd.

It's time, as the lovely Ms Hynde so succinctly said it, to stop my sobbing.
If EG can overcome mere trifles such as losing half a lower limb to do battle with the infamous Boston hills I can get off my business class seat-sized derrier and shift some sweat.

Cue stirring music (Land of Hops and Glory should do it - er, Hope) and look out world. Flabzilla's awake!

PS Niguel if you're referring to that trick with the tennis ball and a garden hose I lost her number months ago. If not, er, never mind.