28th March. A Tranent (Pyrrhic) Victory.

Approaching the end of the race I kept an eye on the stopwatch, with a slight sprint towards the finishing line things looked good for finally breaking the 1hr 20min barrier, despite being lapped by everyone in my swim lane.

1hr 18mins 53secs! A Personal Best! Fully 12 mins faster than last year in much the same cold and windy conditions.

A while later I approached 'The Otter' - "1hr 18 how did it go?"

"1hr 14mins."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!"

 

26th March. Know-The-Game FAKE PASSION.

Saturday Showdown in Tranent - a chance to see if all this endless Ironman training regime makes any difference to anything vis-a-vis 'The Otter'.

It's as if it mattered, as if I was interested, as if I was passionate about Triathlon.

By rights, after following the Fink Ironfit training program for about eight weeks, as if I was dedicated, there should be an improvement.

But maybe if you only go through the motions, it doesn't work?

20th March. Love's Young Sandwich.

The youngish joiner working at the Icelander's had a bit of a clear out of his van including all his sandwiches today.

Each round appeared to be individually wrapped in cling film, after a quick look round I fished them out of the skip.

A fresh granary bread, low fat spread with healthy sliced chicken on a neatly trimmed bed of lettuce and cucumber, followed by an individual pack of mini Jaffa Cakes as a concession to unhealthy eating. Mmmmmm...not bad.

Obviously the work of  a loving wife but why throw them  out?

Simple. 

Further investigation of the skip revealed evidence of a consumed take-out from 'Macky Dee's.

Obviously the uneaten 'official' lunch had to be binned wholesale as it would certainly be construed as rejection, with Friday night consequently ruined - in it's entirety.   

19th March. Fake Passion Part 1.

"It's one of mine" says Mr B. "Didn't sell." referring to the large landscape on the living room wall.

"There's a lot of work in that." I suggest - peering at the detail, wondering how he does it.

"Yes but I don't feel I have to paint, it was just something I was good at, at school,  then I went on to Art College.

It pays the bills but if you said I could never paint again I wouldn't miss it, in fact I'd probably be relieved. On the other hand if you said I could never play music again - that would be a very different story."

In comparison my approach to everything in life has been consistently half - arsed. 

Like Mr B. I was also accepted at the same Art College but just stayed for one morning then skipped the following four years.

 

17th March. NHS Speech Therapy 1.

"The way I see it - if people can't understand me it's their problem not mine, they're just bad listeners."

"Mmmm?"

"I can't express what I feel because it all comes out in a monotone but then I don't want to reveal myself anyway."

"So how do people react?"

"Are you on drugs? Are you drunk? In fact I was refused drink once when I was completely sober, another time the Police thought their breathalyser was on the blink ."

"Well we can start with some basic exercises - try increasing the volume from low to high."

"What should I say?"

"Just say Ah."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

15th March. How To Cure Wanker's Wrist.

Wanker's Wrist is a painful overuse injury involving inflammation of the tendons in the lower forearm, chiefly those connected to the thumb and first finger, (also known as Wrist Tendonitis).

The Physiotherapist helped to some extent but she'd changed her tune a bit last week, recommending immobilization, I walked out with about 4 feet of crepe bandaged wrapped around the wrist and hand.

Now I looked like the sort of tosser who can't even make a decent job of slashing their own wrists.

Anyway Google suggested repeated plunging of one's entire arm in a sink full of ice and water.

To be honest this is a bit nippy but it seems to work.

I'm left wondering if extending this theory to the whole body with a cold shower every morning could actually make you a better person - physically... morally?

14th March. An Evening of 'Excellent' Guitar Shredding.

The first band comes on, Swordfish or something - Satriani meets the twin guitars of Wishbone Ash on a strict diet of amphetamine.

The thing with this Instrumental Metal seems to be - why play one note when a hundred and fifteen will do?

To be fair this is a "Guitar Night" Isabelle tells me. The onlookers, predominantly male, stare transfixed by the miasma of well practised fingers on fretboards I nurse a single pint of Belhaven with earplugs in. 

You can't really dance to it.

Isabelle is all a-gog at the sheer quantities of notes.

I think of Bill and Ted.

"It's just shite." I say.   

7th March. Chalking Up Another Handicap.

I'm afraid I had to cry off from The Wee Triathlon in Fort William with another cycle related injury, thus recording a DNS, (another clear win for The Otter, despite claiming to be shepherding some woman round the Mountain Bike course as her birthday present?? Jeezo.)

This latest physical weakness of mine actually only involved repeated use of a spanner but there you are almost completely useless with an overused wrist. (Could it be too much wanking again Doctor?)