Two for the price of one, son
It's all about Drew...
... as McFly would no doubt croon earnestly, raising millions for charidee in the process.
Andrew is finally back in Blighty, which technically negates the purpose of this blog. I shall, however, ignore this fact. It is absolutely wonderful to have him back, although by the time we'd spent a couple of hours lounging about in front of the telly, I'd forgotten he'd been away in the first place. The best bit will now be suddenly remembering all the things that I absolutely had to tell him right away or would probably die, but couldn't, and didn't, but now can. I imagine the filtration process will last for at least a couple of months, and span a wide range of subject matters from the smutty to the sublime, and sometimes both in one go.
Hey, hey hey, do the high-speed shuffle
... if Mick Jagger would no doubt sneer, if he could see me running.
After a bit of a lapse last week (yeah I didn't get a chance to run for seven days, whatever), I've gone all dominatrix on myself and have managed to drag my confused, pathetically bleating self out of bed at 7:30 every morning this week to go.. you know.. faster.
Getting up at 7:30 is brilliant because:
- I am too confused to make up cunning excuses and talk myself out of going
- I have more energy and it doesn't hurt so much
Getting up at 7:30 is not brilliant because:
- Who the hell wants to get up at 7:30? Not bloody me, are you mad? Why can't I be thin without trying? *sits on pavement and cries*
The thing is, I saw this poster today with a photo of a woman running over a bridge. Now, at no point have I ever made any pretensions towards your actual running running, I just use it as a generic term for, like, going faster and getting well hot. But this woman in the poster, her leg was kicking out behind her as she flew like a really fast runner across the edgy paving stones of the metropolis. But my legs do not kick out behind me. They hardly even leave the floor. Clara told me it's all about the heel-toe action and maximising your, you know, thingie, by, um, minimising your... output? Yeah.
Basically, what I think it means, is why try harder than you have to (and to be honest, trying as hard as I am - which wouldn't really be high up there on the athletic chart of trying hard - is already killing me). So I try to keep my feet close to the ground and my hands steady. Well, if I didn't, I'd drop me keys and me tape recorder.
I also keep my head down, for fear of catching the eye of the many pubescent school lads who roam the badlands of Chessington at that time - mainly because I want to think they are unrealistically but madly in lust with me, and cannot face the reality of having them shout "Knees up Grandma! Ha ha, look at that red-faced fat bird," or similar.
But I am becoming aware that, with the low feet and the slowness and the low eyes, I am doing something of a high-speed shuffle, and probably look like a fast-forwarded video of Bez, or maybe the old man downstairs going to the shops.
However. I am not longer on the verge of physical collapse by the time I get home, and think that maybe, at the weekend, I might try and go a little bit... further.
But not faster. I'm sticking with the high-speed shuffle.
... as McFly would no doubt croon earnestly, raising millions for charidee in the process.
Andrew is finally back in Blighty, which technically negates the purpose of this blog. I shall, however, ignore this fact. It is absolutely wonderful to have him back, although by the time we'd spent a couple of hours lounging about in front of the telly, I'd forgotten he'd been away in the first place. The best bit will now be suddenly remembering all the things that I absolutely had to tell him right away or would probably die, but couldn't, and didn't, but now can. I imagine the filtration process will last for at least a couple of months, and span a wide range of subject matters from the smutty to the sublime, and sometimes both in one go.
Hey, hey hey, do the high-speed shuffle
... if Mick Jagger would no doubt sneer, if he could see me running.
After a bit of a lapse last week (yeah I didn't get a chance to run for seven days, whatever), I've gone all dominatrix on myself and have managed to drag my confused, pathetically bleating self out of bed at 7:30 every morning this week to go.. you know.. faster.
Getting up at 7:30 is brilliant because:
- I am too confused to make up cunning excuses and talk myself out of going
- I have more energy and it doesn't hurt so much
Getting up at 7:30 is not brilliant because:
- Who the hell wants to get up at 7:30? Not bloody me, are you mad? Why can't I be thin without trying? *sits on pavement and cries*
The thing is, I saw this poster today with a photo of a woman running over a bridge. Now, at no point have I ever made any pretensions towards your actual running running, I just use it as a generic term for, like, going faster and getting well hot. But this woman in the poster, her leg was kicking out behind her as she flew like a really fast runner across the edgy paving stones of the metropolis. But my legs do not kick out behind me. They hardly even leave the floor. Clara told me it's all about the heel-toe action and maximising your, you know, thingie, by, um, minimising your... output? Yeah.
Basically, what I think it means, is why try harder than you have to (and to be honest, trying as hard as I am - which wouldn't really be high up there on the athletic chart of trying hard - is already killing me). So I try to keep my feet close to the ground and my hands steady. Well, if I didn't, I'd drop me keys and me tape recorder.
I also keep my head down, for fear of catching the eye of the many pubescent school lads who roam the badlands of Chessington at that time - mainly because I want to think they are unrealistically but madly in lust with me, and cannot face the reality of having them shout "Knees up Grandma! Ha ha, look at that red-faced fat bird," or similar.
But I am becoming aware that, with the low feet and the slowness and the low eyes, I am doing something of a high-speed shuffle, and probably look like a fast-forwarded video of Bez, or maybe the old man downstairs going to the shops.
However. I am not longer on the verge of physical collapse by the time I get home, and think that maybe, at the weekend, I might try and go a little bit... further.
But not faster. I'm sticking with the high-speed shuffle.
posted by Elizabeth at 5:17 PM
2 Comments:
I can't even pee standing up at 7:30 in the morning.
"probably look like a fast-forwarded video of Bez, or maybe the old man downstairs going to the shops"
ROFL. A delicious image.
LOL Evan.
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