I bought an iPad a few weeks ago: my first ever bite of Apple merchandise. Is it true that Apple has a person, or perhaps a department — heck, let’s make it an entire business unit, one should believe everything one hears about Apple — devoted solely to enhancing the experience of removing the cellophane on the iPad box? I hope so, because I thought of her/him/it a few minutes ago as I… removed the cellophane on the iPad box, deciding as I did so that they hadn’t earned their corn. There was a small tear on the plastic in one corner for a start, which distressed me. Unless. Unless the tear is programmed into the wrapping process, giving the … …
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I have less than 5 seconds to hold your attention before you drift off to less challenging destinations. Quick, let me put this to you: You’re in a new car, or a hire car. Or perhaps you have just stolen a car. Or it could just be an old car you are driving while very drunk. You pull into a gas/petrol station to fill up. As you approach the pumps, you realise you don’t know which side of the vehicle the petrol cap is located. What do you do….? Are you aware that there’s a simple way to tell which side your car dresses without dislocating your neck trying to spot the petrol cap? Without winding down the window, … …
Remember when I used to give training updates? No, nor do I. Here is almost another one. Little to report. And anyway, I’ve never been convinced that the training regime of a rotund, indolent, middle-aged plodder can be of interest to anyone outside the psychiatric profession. Some say they find encouragement in this sort of thing, but I suspect that any comfort or motivation to be found here is more a case of “There but for the grace of god go I”. The latest revival began in November, when I pulled my running shoes on 7 times in a 12 days. The spreadsheet looks good — three or four miles each time, but as always after a lay-off, the first … …
Excuse me while I adjust these twenty-twenty hindsight goggles. They are causing me some discomfort. An old boss of mine used to say, in response to a mention of the H word: “Hope is not a strategy”. I should have listened to him. The 2012 Hyde Park 10K was strongly reminiscent of the 2010 iteration, and it needn’t have been. The two years separating the races could have been better spent ensuring that I had more than hope to rely on for an improved experience. I started today’s race with a dull ache in my right calf, and it steadily got worse, becoming bad enough to force me to limp and run-walk the final 70% of the race. These are … …
Here we are again. It’s usually with a sigh that I consider New Year resolutions, but this time around I feel strangely relieved. I need to break the downward Dolcelatte and Barolo spiral, and the appalling chaos and depravity it produces in a small community like, well, my apartment. The approach of 2012 is as good an impetus as I’ll get for a while. So resolution number one is to avert my eyes as I pass the bulging Käse counters in Migros and the Coop. Cheese, as I’m sure someone must have opined, is a good servant but a bad master. To my shame, I’ve shown I can’t be trusted to handle the substance responsibly. Alongside cheese on the naughty … …
Ugh. Post-nebbiolo cranial throb. I lay in bed and considered the day ahead. The trailer didn’t promise much, so I arrived at a decision to do nothing more strenuous than a spot of keyboard tapping, and later, to spend some quality time with the TV remote. A modest blueprint indeed, but with the lake barely visible through a curtain of blustery rain, no less than such a day deserved. The very possibility that by mid-evening I’d be grinning like a shark on payday, sipping Buck’s Fizz from a half pint glass, and reflecting on having run in my first race in two years, was a thought too insolent to dare present itself. But remarkably, it’s how this humdinger of a … …
That title might sound like a reflection on my previous post, but no — it’s a pun-charged reference to NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. The idea is to produce at least 50,000 words of fiction during the 30 days of November. I’ll save you the trouble of opening a spreadsheet to do the calculation: that’s an average of 1667 words a day. (Warning: more statistics on the way. Try to contain your excitement.) I first came across Nano, as its lonely practitioners, known as Wrimos, like to call it, in October last year. I briefly considered giving it a go then, but on November 1st I found myself sitting not in front of a keyboard with a … …
One year ago today, we arrived in Zurich with a carload of Branston Pickle. One year ago tomorrow, I started work. In an unintentional recreation of this momentous journey, I recently drove back to England for a few days. On the return ferry crossing, I did something unusual, and coughed up the extra £15 to travel first class from Dover to Dunkirk. I don’t know what impulse made me check that box on the form, but I’m glad I did. Paying a bit more gives you the use of a private lounge with free coffee, juice and biscuits. Naturally, you aim to consume at least fifteen quids worth of Custard Creams to ensure the investment isn’t wasted, before sinking into … …
The raiding party has been and gone, carrying off my wife like a trophy. So once again, the apartment is empty and silent — and seems even more so in this bright sunshine. Chatting to my mother-in-law last week, shortly before the great departure, she opined that the flat is beautiful and the view over the lake lovely. “But”, she added helpfully, “I would be lonely living here on my own”. Am I lonely here? I suppose I could be. But if it doesn’t feel bad, how would I know? M was here with me for six months, before the last granules of her six-month sabbatical dribbled away. She returned to Blighty four months ago, and despite her occasional trips … …
My arse collapsed, finally, as I creaked past Feldbach station. “No more”, it implored. “No more, you bastard.” And so the plan to cycle the 69 circumferential kilometres of Lake Zurich fizzled out, like a fag end tossed into a puddle, precisely two thirds of the way through. Forty-six of these clicking, biting blighters had drilled their way into my lower legs and wriggled upwards, filling my underpants. But I couldn’t squeeze kilometre 47 in anywhere. Until 15 minutes before setting off, I had no idea I’d be spending last Sunday afternoon chasing this doomed errand. It was while wading through the furthest recesses of a neglected wardrobe that I came across a carrier bag containing my bicycle pump and … …