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?)

27th February. Negative Positivism.

"For once I'm not going to be working in Boots this weekend." says Junior sipping a cup of coffee with two sugars requested from Mrs R. to lighten the mood (four for Daddy as he's a bit grouchy please)

"See when you look at what you said there - it's negative."

"No it's not, I'm a happy bunny looking forward to the weekend."

"If you'd said 'I'm not going to be in Boots this weekend' that would be neutral but what you're really saying in effect is - I'm not in Boots this weekend, normally I am and I'm sick of it, life's passing me by etc. so it's actually you not me that's being all negative."

"Bollocks."

23rd February. I'm No Oil Painting.

Mr W. the horse's head painter tells me he's entering the BP Portrait Competition, the world's most prestigious portrait competition.

It's unlikely you could scoop the £25,000 prize with an oil painting of a horse no matter how pretty a face.

Mr W. seats me in the kitchen chair and takes 20 odd photos to form the basis of this next canvas.

"I'll be on display at the National Portrait Gallery" I mention to Isabelle.

"Why did he want to paint you?"

'A lot of character he said."

"What he means is like the face of a homeless person."

15th February. Ypres.

Isabelle quizzes the hotel receptionist, of Moroccan descent, how to get to Ypres.

"Is it a hotel?"

Well, only if you were killed sometime between 1914 -18.

And then when we finally step off the train several hours later there the sign says Ieper.

"Is this Ypres?"

"There must be two Ypres." says Isabelle.

"The only thing I know about Ypres is it was completely flattened in the First War, Perth looks more damaged than this place."

Opposite the medieval town hall we try our luck at a bookshop with various munitions in the window.

Turns out Patrick the proprietor is a local expert on unexploded Mustard Gas shells and the identification of dead German soldiers.

"There are no buildings in the town less than 90 years old."

"Amazing! Who paid for all the rebuilding work?

"The Germans."

 

14th February. Antwerp Aberration.

"Platform 23, where is it though?"

"We've only got 4 mins."

"There! Look!" I say pointing to the overhead monitor.

"WHAT?"

"Wait. It'll come up with the stations in between... There! this one's going to Antwerp."

"BUT WE'RE ALREADY IN ANTWERP!!"

"Errr..."

The intervening twenty-five years since last visiting Antwerp seem to have exacted a hefty toll.

50% hair loss, memory, etc.

 

13th February. Pre Dawn Brussels.

I run through canyons of glass and steel, home to ranks of suited clones, no doubt. 

On through a semi-industrial bit into a hinterland of ethnic diversity and gang tag graffitti - VYKEA, SKEMS, whatever.

After the turnaround a billboard for some new Lancia proclaims "Marquez Votre Difference!"

Yeah, well, quite.

12th February. Fat Belgian Bastards?

My cappuccino arrives at the Cafe De L'Opera, wow black coffee trapped below a layer of proper solid whipped cream.

"Nothing squirty out of a can here." I say as Isabelle pours her rich dark melted chocolate over a delightful lattice work of waffle dusted with icing sugar.

Statistically one in two Belgian adults are overweight - apparently. 

11th February. Tesco Holidays.

We have been awarded a holiday courtesy of Tesco Clubcard points which Isabelle has somehow converted to Air Miles.

Belgium in February.

It's gonna be...

-3 C.

7th February. The Cone Police.

"They cones belong tae the site!" says a council worker in a Hi-Vis jacket all accusatory.

"I seen you takin' it, what were yer daein' wi' it like?"

I offer up a feeble excuse, in fact the only possible ready explanation, that I'd put it by the back of the trailer in case someone else was reversing into the space by the Inert Waste skip.

I don't think Hi-Vis is buying it but walks off, together with the recaptured cone.

I mean the alternative explanation seems even more unlikely: that someone would bother to nick a single traffic cone. 

6th February. The Big Event In June.

Mr T. tells me the Big Event is in June. "That's not long I say."

"Hah, don't remind me!"

This big event isn't Ironman France, which coincidentally is now only 20 weeks away but a far more grueling Ultra-Marathon that will test human endurance both physical and mental to the upper limits and beyond...

Mrs T. is expecting a baby. 

1st February. Ramsay's Round.

"I've actually found something in life I'm good at" trumpeted the Otter about the recent enthusiasm for hill running.

"You mean besides eating Fruit Allsorts and drinking Tennent's lager?"

"I don't think it would be for this year though...although I was planning to do all the Mamores one Sunday afternoon" he said squinting at the official website.

56 miles, 24 or even 28 Munros with 28,500 feet of climbing - The Classic 24 hour Scottish Challenge, a feat performed by only 52 mad people to date.

"Although no one has ever yet completed 30 Munros in under 24 hours...mmm..." ponders The Otter.

"What? You must be effing joking." 

30th January. DIY & Ultrasound Therapy

In the absence of an NHS Physio appointment less than a month away the Bosch PSS 230 orbital sander can do double duty for enhancing the recovery rate of damaged tissue usually present in an injured area.

If memory serves, the orbital sander can also bring a woman, fully clothed, to orgasm in less time than it takes to bring a kettle to the boil.

 

29th January. Three Weeks In A Fucking Limbo.

To be honest I couldn't care less if I never saw another chimney again or listened to another woman's concerns about "How it's going to look when it's finished."

Course if I'd had a properly boring career with an index linked final salary pension I could now be choosing to take early retirement and a golden handshake.

In fact now I do feel like I've retired.

Isabelle says we should go away with SAGA for my 50th.