I bought a new gadget recently to remove the top from a boiled egg. The packaging urged me to believe that at last, I could say goodbye forever to those ragged-edged, egg fracture blues. How I made it this far in life without owning such a device, or even knowing about it, is a mystery. Late on Sunday morning, still smarting from the previous day’s IKEA 5K, I limped into the kitchen, keen to give this new lifestyle aid a rigorous workout. Two eggs were removed from the fridge and placed on the worktop, where their temperature would rise to a level at which they wouldn’t crack in a pan of boiling water. As I gazed at them, I wondered … …
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Despite the words of his Bobness, don’t pity this poor immigrant — even if I do trample through the mud here and there. Any discombobulation I’ve felt since arriving, nearly four years ago, has largely evaporated — if it existed at all — but it’s a subject I reflect on from time to time. The disorientation of the immigrant is built with big, obvious blocks: new job, social circle, language. Then there’s the currency and driving on the wrong side of the road and that lake outside the window. But the small things make an impact too, like being trusted to get on trains and buses without having your ticket checked, and guiltily noticing that your Swiss colleagues clean their … …
It’s been a while, but let’s lift the latch and see what blows in. It’s good to be sweating and feeling the heart-rate soar once again. I experienced this at the weekend, when studying my bank statement and working out how much I was paying for the gym that I rarely visit. And so, today, a rather ferocious lunchtime session — my first in a long while. In terms of time, I couldn’t afford more than 25 minutes on the cross-trainer and 25 on the treadmill, but it’s a start. Nothing else resembling a run has occurred since the Berlin adventure last September — 317 days ago. It’s time to start thinking about the next, and almost certainly the last, … …
As I glanced at my GPS watch on Saturday afternoon, a moment after it finished recharging, I fancied I heard a snatch of this drifting in through the open balcony door. The watch was last stopped on September 29 at 15.15pm. It was now March 29 at 15.15, precisely six months — to the minute — since I’d tottered across the finish line in Berlin. Six months since I’d done any exercise worthy of a sports watch. If indeed Berlin had been worthy of such a device: perhaps a calendar would have been more appropriate. After 6 months of strategic ignorance about how long it had taken me to stumble the 26 miles, yesterday the watch blurted out its shameful … …
Friday: Early Last week I spent three days in a windowless room near Helsinki Airport, Understanding Leadership with ten silent, but charming, Finns — and my silent, but charming, Swiss colleague. The ladies fidgetted with their ID badges and worried about their figures — the ones they’d scribbled in the margin of the handout, to be compared with some other set generated in an earlier reverie. The stoical men in their warehouse yellow seemed no less tormented. I do like the Finns but I worry about their anxiety. I may occasionally moan about my job, but it’s good to be reminded that I never have to worry where the next pallet is coming from; no one beats me over the … …
1. SC Freiburg vs Bayer Leverkusen (26 January 2013) Germany is one of those pleasures I discovered late in life, like tinned artichokes. My first ever visit was for the Hamburg Marathon in 2005, followed soon afterwards by the series of work trips to Dusseldorf. I liked it then, and I like it now. Enough to think about living there one day. From where I currently live, the border is less than an hour away in the car, so I have few excuses for not visiting more often. It’s the Tower of London syndrome — the UK’s most popular tourist attraction with 2 or 3 million visitors a year, but a place I’ve never been to, despite living … …
The learning curve is as steep as some of the hills on this walk. After last week’s aimless perambulations above Bühler, and the spirit-shrivelling dehydration, I made a couple of small adjustments for this weekend’s outing. I dug out an old compass, last used in the Yorkshire Dales in the nineties, and found a water belt of more recent vintage to ensure easier access to fluid out on the trail. I repeated the format of previous weeks, first driving to the day’s destination, then making my way to the start point by public transport. This week I was aiming for Urnäsch, still in the Kanton of Appenzell. According to the typically detailed Wikipedia article, it’s a less cerebral place … …
I can’t now recall whether I’d ever even heard of Appenzell before I moved to Switzerland though it’s renowned within the country for all things pastoral — its beer and cheese for instance, and its velvetty, undulating topography. And then there are the countless ancient rustic Swiss traditions — like making it impossible for visitors to park a car for more than 15 minutes in one place. I was here just two weeks ago with M, when the hills, and the famous appeal of the region, were hidden by a thick curtain of rain and fog, and the highlight of our afternoon was a visit to the supermarket — its car park had proved irresistible. Now, in the sunshine, this … …
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Something’s afoot. Me. For 3½ weeks I’ve been eschewing alcohol and chewing vegetables instead. Leafing through my vegetarian cookbook a month ago, I realised that my quarterly campaign to make a public fool of myself was long overdue. Or was I just sensibly easing my way to twice-yearly shame, on the way to a more rational annual humiliation? This time at least, I was able to negotiate a one-month news embargo. I should have done this before. When purchasing previous metamorphoses, there should have been a nasal voice at my shoulder asking: “And would you like to include dignity protection with your transmutation, Sir?” I didn’t quite make it to the month because I want to write something about a … …