Sheridan’s Blog

From the last post it would be easy to assume we went to NZ and just rode a bike down a hill. Which is only partly true.
Back in 2008 when we went to NZ for the first time, we were lucky enough to go on a wine tour so ace that we ended up buying some wine and quite a bit of cheese to bring home. They’ve really got the good stuff over there. Anyhow, we ended up leaving the cheese in the hotel fridge, never to be seen again. This was particularly sad for Tim, who loves cheese just as much as any other vegetarian. (That sentence made little sense, possibly due to lack of cheese in my diet).
Just recently, we revisited the Gibbston Valley winery and cheesery, taking many a tasting and again purchasing some of their wares to bring home. This place is just fantastic and the food is also ace in their restaurant. We also visited another favourite, Amisfield, who do the best bubbles you can buy. And you can afford to buy quite a bit because it’s ridiculously affordable. So we did just that.
Well – we got the wine home ok. No problems there, since I had been hoarding it around and protecting it like a mother might a newborn. On the plane we were busily filling in our landing cards and deciding whether domesticated horses are considered ‘farm animals’ or not, when we asked each other who had the cheese (and thus who had to declare it). He thought I had it, I thought he had it. Realistically neither of us had it. As such, I had filled out my stupid landing card to say I had to declare food and I had nothing to declare. That was awkward trying to explain to the guy at the airport:
GUY AT AIRPORT: (looks at my card) ‘Do you have any food with you from NZ?’
ME: ‘No – I thought I did but I don’t. Do you realise how hard it is to get cheese out of NZ???’
GUY AT AIRPORT: (totally ignores previous comment and begins going on about shoes and horses and the like). ‘You can go’.
After this experience I have been forced to ask: why is it so hard to get cheese out of New Zealand? Does the cheese not want to leave? I couldn’t even tell you where we left the cheese. It just kind of vanished in the night. Mark my words – we will go back there and we will get the cheeses and bring them to Australia. I will not be beaten by magical cheese.
As a final note, it’s horrible being back at work.

After deciding it was too expensive to go to Europe again this year (that’ll be 2011, then), I decided NZ might be an idea for a short break. Tim was already attending a computer-nerd-type conference in Wellington so I decided to head to Chrstchurch and meet up with him in Queenstown.
There is not a shortage of things to do in Queenstown. You can jump off, out of, through, into and over all kinds of stuff. We sat in the hotel sifting through hundreds of brochures trying to find something to fill in our time. Since I find death and permanent injury unappealing, I am somewhat limited in the activities I employ to entertain me, particularly in Queenstown. Most of the heavily-advertised options involve a distinct chance of death so these were avoided. I happen to believe that jumping out of a plane (a plane at a high altitude, not one sitting on the tarmac) flies in the face of human nature. As does jumping off a cliff or bridge with only elastic tied to your feet. What kind of idiots do these things?
However, since my last visit to town there is a hint of revolution in the air. Someone has upped the ante, so to speak, by making extreme activites more extreme: whatever activity you wish to do, someone, somehow can insert a helicopter into the equation. Want to go to breakfast? Sure thing – a helicopter will hover over the cafe and you can rapel down and eat. Can’t be bothered climbing that big hill with your own leg power? No problems – a pilot will chopper you up so you can get the gondola down. No energy expenditure required. It sounds ridiculous and it is. But the best one we came across (which did sound kind of ace) was the heli-hunting. This is for the really lazy people who also like guns. A helicopter will fly you onto private land where you can shoot at an animal of your choosing. YOU DON’T EVEN NEED TO GET OUT OF THE HELICOPTER! I await the heli-horsing, where you rapel down from the chopper to horseback (perhaps with a gun or something else remotely cool) and ride on to a winery or something. Perhaps in 2011…
By far the best activity we came across was the downhill mountain biking. Having basically designated mountain bike riders to a group of baggy-short wearing, hairly-legged monsters who can speak only a phrase or two of English (or any language) I wasn’t that keen. And after seeing a few of these clowns out around the place, throwing themselves down hills, I was pretty sure I was going to: a) be really bad at it; and b) possibly sustain serious injuries. I resisted the urge to upgrade my health insurance. The night before the ride I dreamt I had been provided with a track bike (no brakes, no gears) for the ride. Suffice to say I was terrified to my very core.
Yet strangely it was actually really, really, good. Mainly due to the high-quality guide, Mark (who was hot, by the way, in an outdoorsy, flowy kind of fashion). Or maybe I just though he was since it was his advice that was basically preventing me from riding off a cliff (and possibly into a nearby hovering helicopter). It all began innocently enough with a short ride in the minibus out to the mountain. The cool part is that you don’t have to ride up to the summit. How ace it is to have someone drop you off at the top. The guide handed me my bike, which I struggled to hold up due to it’s sheer enormity. Then I tried to ride it, which made me look like a complete muppet. And then we rode off a cliff. After the initial horror of riding down a steep embankment the terror continued. In the early stages I was ready to give up, and I probably would have if the bike hadn’t been so bloody heavy and cumbersome to get on and off of. But after mild coaxing (and less mild peer pressure) I took my hands slightly off the brakes and the bike rolled away with me still on it. These bikes are amazing – they will roll over anything. I’d be disappointed if I couldn’t roll right over a 4WD on one of these. It’s pretty painful for the first few minutes as the thighs adjust to being in a static standing position for a long time, but they soon go numb. The first run down the hill took about 40 minutes and the next was half that time. By the end I was up for another run down the hill and kind of wishing we’d not left it until the last day in town to try this out. I suspect if we hadn’t, a lot of $$ and time may have been spent at Vertigo. These guys will even chopper you to the top of a hill and then let you ride down. And, for a nominated fee, they can also organise the helicopter transport to the hospital, if required. Is there nothing that cannot be made better with the addition of a helicopter???? We will definitely be visiting Vertigo again.
Now, after getting home, eating breakfast, visiting the local bike store and unpacking (in that order), we are plotting when we might be able to do this again. I am also researching to see if there are some new mountain biking words I can slide into my vocabulary, or perhaps some hand signals or something. If you have any suggestions, feel free to forward them along and I’ll try them out. Now I have to have a nap since early morning flights from Christchurch to Melbourne allegedly make me snappy.

In between googling for the recipe for brandy snaps (which I couldn’t remember the name of, which of course makes it much harder to google for) and watching consecutive episodes of Ugly Betty, I thought I’d wander in here and see what was happening.
Evidently not much.
The other week I did something I’ve always wanted to do. I did a triathlon. A very small one. The smallest there is. But let me tell you – even though it equated to only about half an hour of exercise, it was a half an hour of frantic, gut-wrenching, puffing, heart-pumping activity. Where else do you work at that level for that amount of time? You don’t.
The thing that appeals to me about this kind of activity is the variety. I bore quickly and easily. I’d rather sit for half an hour and eat corn chips on the couch than run for half an hour. But if you ask me to do a few things, all of which are relatively short, I can handle that. I might eve wish to excel at it.
Triathlon seems to also appeal to my competitive nature. I was a bit of a fatty as a kid, and this kind of activity gives me a chance to compete at a level I feel comfortable at. Who can put their runners on the quickest? Who can identify their bicycle amongst 3000 others? Who looks hottest running out of the ocean? I can do all of these things, and do them well. I think you’ll find that I am mega-quick at getting my shoes on. I can also take clothes off quickly, which helps in triathlons too. It’s like someone invented the sport for me. It really is almost a women’s sport on account of all the clothes/shoes changing that goes on. I wouldn’t be surprised if they put up one of those tents (like at the races) where you can go and fix your make-up, etc, as a transition. As the sport evolves, who knows…
So off I go in this mini event (which features young children, old people and more rotund people) thinking I will just blend into the crowd. Upon arriving at the water’s edge, I am filled with two feelings: dread and terror. I have swum lap upon lap upon lap in the pool and have even done a little in the bay. In fact, in Thailand I would happily jump off the edge of a boat from which land was not visible. On my own. However, there are no waves in Thailand and the water is beautiful and clear and doesn’t taste like the sewer. It is not the same experience here. The horn goes and we move off into the water. I am running. I’m still running. I keep on running and I am getting pretty close to the turning buoy and I’m still running. Eventually the sand under my feet goes away and I try swimming. This is pretty much the point at which I stop trying to swim and start trying to stay afloat and not get kicked in the head. I continue this way until the sand comes back and then I start running. I am at the back of the field. I reckon I would have drowned the people (person) behind me just so I wasn’t last out of the water. But I didn’t have time so I just got out and tried to run, which is hard when you can’t feel your legs. But people are cheering and it’d be poor form to let them down so off I go. Miraculously, I find my bike immediately, put my helmet on and then try to put my shoes on. This is hard. And I remember being amused by this as I have put shoes on most days of my life and it should be simpler. I think I nearly laughed at my lack of balance and general coordination. It was like my arms and legs were from separate bodies that spoke different languages and/or had never met. But I got my shoes on and took my bike off towards the exit. There were people going everywhere. I am fairly tall and imposing and people generally move out of my way in the street (and I push the ones that don’t), and the story was no different in this sporting situation. I avoided the bike-mounting tricks I had practiced. There were a lot of people at the mount line and from experience I understand that this is where you are most likely to see some incredible falls and general carnage. So I just got on the regular way.
Realising that the swim leg cost me a lot of time, it was my ambition to hunt down the rest of my group. Not being able to identify them made that difficult, so I just set a goal to overtake everyone in front of me. And I did, except for one person who clearly possessed superhuman powers. Consequently, I made up loads of places during the ride. It was nice to ride on a big wide road with no traffic and not have to stop at lights, etc. I really enjoyed it. But then I had to get off (again in the traditional manner) and get ready to run.
Putting the bike back was simple. I was riding in my runners (it’s only 8km – why would you not?) so I ditched the bike and helmet and put my hat on and ran off again. This transition cost the ‘pros’ a lot of time and I again made up places, just for being such a novice. Running is supposed to be sheer murder after the ride. I didn’t find it so. But I had done a lot of riding and then running straight after so my body seemed ok with it. I was, however, trashed.
I came in 27th (of a field of around 77) and am pretty happy with that. It seems clear that I need to be able to swim better. I have been working on that in the ocean and pool in anticipation for the next race.
Anyway – it was heaps of fun and the opportunities to wear brightly-coloured lycra and one-piece body suits are so abundant that it seems silly not to go on. I am looking for variations to the triathlon theme, and have so far grouped up the housework in an attempt to make it more fun (and quicker).

Is it wrong to go to the gym on the non-training day/s? Or, just how wrong is it to go to the gym on a non-training day? I’m supposed to be ‘resting’, but ‘resting’ is not as cool as everyone seems to make it out to be. I’m so bored of resting – what do people think I do all day at work? It’s hardly stressful.
So I have time to be in here… writing things.

The other day one of my home-grown tomato plants appeared to have a small tomato growing on it. It’s still there and I’m taking extra special care (ie – watering the plant) to make sure I can eat this tomato. Hopefully more will grow. I’m pretty impressed with myself. The other plants have not gone quite so well. They are dead. I blame that spell of very hot weather we had. It was too hot to go outside and water them. I would have perished.

I went back into the ocean last night on the way home from work. It seemed like a nice enough day until I got to the beach, when it turned dark and stormy-looking. And windy. I had a look around and there was no-one in the water (apart from a cargo ship a good few miles out). I stood there and assessed the situation. Who drives all the way to the beach only to stand there looking at the water? I certainly don’t. I go there, stand and look at the water for 10 minutes, get changed, go in up to my hips and then get out 3 minutes later. I wasn’t impressed with my lame effort so I decided to go for a small jog. In the meantime, some other person of unparalleled bravery had gone in for a swim so I decided to swim near them (I hear swimming on your own in the ocean is a no-no). So it wasn’t a complete waste of time.

So now I sit here, looking out the window (the same window through which a masturbating man could be seen on Sunday morning), wondering if I’ll get through that block of Cadbury’s Top Deck tonight or if it will be tomorrow night. And – masturbating man – if you happen to be reading this – go away – next time there may be legal consequences. Maybe I’ll go do some stretching…

Ok, fastest post ever since I’m meant to be doing something else (no – I am not at work). Here’s a synopsis:

#1. Had my hair cut off. And dyed back to it’s ‘natural’ colour, or something similar to that. See #3.
#2. Entered mini triathlon. Supposed to be fun. Turning into a nightmare. See #4.
#3. Doing lots of swimming and exercise (due to #2). Blonde hair going green in the pool and generally being a nuisance (and attracting a lot of unwanted attention elsewhere). Long hair getting in the way of looking sporty.
#4. Limbs practically falling off and muscles snapping like old rubber bands from rigorous training. Plus, personal trainer ‘conveniently’ did his Achilles and has been unavailable for guidance. Physiotherapist relaying what can only be described as triathlon horror stories whilst looking generally evil. Trying to find appropriate AND cool-looking tri gear to wear is impossible. Who designs this stuff?
#5. Have nasty rash from moisturising product and cannot stop scratching.
#6. One tomato plant has actually produced a tomato. Most other plants have not gone so well.
#7. Should go and have a shower now. Work Christmas party tonight. Have great dress with which to complement ulcerated legs. It’s going to be a great night.

Monday’s are hard, aren’t they? Even though it’s Tuesday today, I’m still reeling from yesterday, which was Monday. In fact it’s entirely possible I’m still showing the effects of last Monday.
Things aren’t going as they should. First of all, it’s hot. I have air-con but I seem to spend a bit of time walking to and from places (outside, not just walking from the couch to the fridge in the apartment). And when I get to these places I am sweaty. It’s one thing to go to the gym and walk out glistening and dripping. It’s another thing completely to wander into work in a uniform which looks as if you swam there. I haven’t ridden to work in a while since I have to factor in shower (and blowdrying) time which effectively means I only get halfway home before I have to turn around and go back in for the next day’s work. And have you tried sleeping in the heat? It’s difficult. I’m considering dragging the bed out into the air-conditioned area until it cools down a bit. Of course, the coolest time of day is normally between 6 and 7am. Which is typically when I get up to go to the gym or work. So it gets to 9am and I’ve drunk about 4 coffees and am seriously considering heading back over to the coffee place (the one on Albert St) and ordering an additional coffee and asking them politely if they’ve switched to decaf or something. Still tastes good but it’s no longer working.
The benefits, however, of a bit of sun have been revealed on my arms and legs, which are now a golden tan. Many thanks to Around the Bay and random Capital City trail rides for helping me out in this area.

I have been doing a bit of training for some kind of miniature triathlon. God knows why. I seem drawn to the idea, possibly because I enjoy variety and dislike doing the same activity relentlessly. Oddly enough, all I seem to be doing is trying to swim, or trying not to drown, rather. Swimming is odd. I’m putting in a lot of energy and concentrating really hard yet barely moving. It’s a really strange activity because of this. I’m taking tips (from likely invalid internet sources) and this seems to be helping.
I must be working hard because mentally I am deficient (that came out wrong). It seems by the time I get to work (or anywhere I need to concentrate) I am completely exhausted and incapable of saying or doing anything of use. And I’m losing a lot of stuff lately. The other week it was my heart-rate monitor watch, which has since been found (not by me). And just this week I have lost my gym card. This is doubly upsetting in that I had just reassured myself that I haven’t lost my marbles from the watch losing scenario and now I lose another important item. I can easily get another one but that’s hardly the point. They know me at the gym since I practically live there, but it’s having to acknowledge that I put it down somewhere and for some reason forgot to pick it back up. I have been ranting about this for days and the only way to find the card is to organise a new one. I’ll do it on Monday. Stay tuned for me finding the old one on Tuesday.

After working all year and sitting through a full complement of exams, there’s nothing more relaxing than a leisurely cycle down (or up) the coast with a few thousand others, is there? That’s what I decided to do anyhow. The ride actually can take on a few formats, be it a 250km marathon or a more reasonable 100km jaunt. I opted for the 100km, which is probably enough for me, although it’s just the day after and whilst I am a bit weary, I’m not sore, nor do I have any muscular aches. Yet. Then again, I wasn’t really going for it since it’s not a race and I was looking for an enjoyable day, not 2 weeks of recovery.
A few things struck me during the day (not literally). One was that cycling seems to be a man’s sport. I didn’t see many other women. There were the few here and there, all riding along on their own. It’s kind of lonely. But then again, if the guys were around I imagine they’d want to turn it into a competition. Oddly, they are mysteriously absent from the ‘cleaning up the kitchen’ and ‘wiping down the stovetop’ competitions. I suppose I wouldn’t enter a contest I couldn’t win either. So cyclists are generally male. This was also evident by the lack of queue when I went to the toilet. You’d think with an event of this magnitude (15-16 thousand in total) that there’d be a massive snake-like queue for the ladies. There wasn’t. I walked right past the 12-deep queue of men and into the toilets. It was phenomenal. It’s worth taking part in male-dominated sport for this alone. Awesome.
Another thing that occurred to me (since I had a lot of time to myself to think) was that I found myself comparing my bike with everyone who went past. Is this natural? I mean, I’m no fool – I realise that a good bike does not make a good cyclist any more than standing in a garage makes you a car. Yet I was unable to stop the comparing. And I don’t think it was only me. Perhaps I am easily fooled into believing that something good-looking is actually good. Studies show that at an elite level equipment is sometimes the difference between winning and losing. I guess having nice things makes average people feel extraordinary. The theory works with nice shoes, anyway. Consequently I will need a new bike shortly to make up for my lack of riding ability.
Other aspects of interest include the scenery. I should really be an ambassador for Victoria and talk of the calm waters of Sorrento and the gentle slopes along the way, etc. But I cannot. I was bored by the scenery, which is a very good thing in cycling because it means there are probably no hills. Maybe it’s hard to be overcome with the natural beauty of the land when it is littered with so much fluorescent man-made fibre. To be honest, I found the riding in and around the city much more exciting. Might be the adrenaline rush from darting in and out between moving vehicles that has something to do with it. It’s also a bit of variety – you get to steer and brake and stuff. I even turned my light on for a while there. And, to top it all off, on the way home I was going for it (fully) up a steep embankment and yelling encouragement (to myself, very loudly) and I failed to see the other, more professionally-behaved cyclist coming the other way. He got a bit of a laugh out of it anyway. Just goes to show – you can still have a nice bike and be a complete idiot.

In other unrelated news, I have finished my exams and expect the results to be quite good. Don’t let me down, university. I woke up this morning and was forced to just lay there since I had nothing else to do. I felt so common. I quickly need to fill the abyss before I become complacent. I have been toying with the idea of resuming dance classes of some kind. This will probably happen.
I am also enjoying using the shredder at work. Nothing soothes me more than feeding documents into it’s jaws. But that’s a story for another time. I’m off to water my tomatoes.

Have been doing some riding lately. On a bicycle. Just for health and fitness, etc. Plus it’s much quicker than getting public transport to work. Tim recently up-graded his bicycle with new pedals, which I have experienced from both on the bike and also lying tangled underneath it on the unrelenting concrete basement floor (but mercifully out of the public eye). And I have the bruises to demonstrate that unexpected stopping is generally a no-no with these things. So we have been riding around a bit, Tim with his death pedals and me with my pedals for the physically uncoordinated. I do look much hotter than him in tight pants and a jersey, though.
The other weekend some clown convinced us that riding to Sorrento (from Melbourne) seemed a good idea. It woudl be a nice day and we’d get the ferry across the waters to Queenscliff, from whence we would roll easily down into Geelong and get the train home. Sounds relatively simple. And it is. In a car.
The getting to Sorrento wasn’t the problem. Although there was one hill (Oliver’s Hill) which is so steep it is practically stairs. The other hills aren’t steep but are painfully drawn-out.
The ferry ride was psychedelic. The coulours and textures of all of the foods we ate will be with me forever. I recall Tim eating a slice of hedgehog meant to feed a family of 9. Some others may have consumed 2 or more pasties. I went to the toilet in an actual private room designed for the procedure. It was bliss. And we spent our time lambasting the BOM (Bureau of Meteorology) for their seemingly inaccurate weather forecast. Wind? What wind? Sure, there had been a torrentail downpouring back in Frankston, but the skies were blue and luckily we were on a ferry, not a yacht. Surely the very short ride from Queenscliff to Geelong would barely register on the pain scale.
How very wrong we were. Just outside of Queenscliff the BOM’s prophecy was quickly turning into our reality. Winds of 50km/h, gusting up to 70km/h were recorded. We rode as a tightly-packed foursome, trying to avoid being blown into the path of an on-coming Kenworth as we pressed towards civilisation and a cold drink. At about the half-way mark, I got off my bike and was ready to push it into a ditch and walk away wiping my hands. Ideally, we had stopped outside a rural retirement home and I let the task of locating a cab fall to Tim while I fantasised about having a hot shower. The other half of our team continued on, not to be defeated by the wind. A cab materialised not much later and we rode in comfort to the station, handing over the best-spent cash of this year, if not this lifetime, when we arrived. Normally we would never pay anywhere near that amount for a cab, but I was only too happy to part with it. I would have paid double.
Conveniently we all met up at the station and rode home in comfort courtesy of V/Line, sharing conversation that would have been more at home in a room of people sharing mind-altering drugs. But nonethelss, we made it back to Southern Cross and proceeded to not ride home.

Today I went to the gym. The rest has been a waste of time. I decided I would go to uni and pick up some books (to read from), and do a bit of study. I figure this might make me less stressed during the week, resulting in me actually sleeping at night instead of just shutting my eyes and breathing deeply. The plan was well thought out and the intentions were good.
Unfortunattely, uni seems to be located rather close to Chadstone Shopping centre. Since they’ve had a whole new renovation scenario going on there, I thought it rude to not drop by and have a look. So look I did, after finding that the road into the shopping centre (yes it has it’s own road/s) has been widened to allow more cars into the centre than to the freeway. Ace.
Now, most people know that I rarely go anywhere (as in out) since I already have a boyfriend and I don’t really see the point in going out dancing/etc if not to pick up. And pick up I most likely would, so I don’t go. I do like the dancing part, but it always gets really messy and it’s not a look I’m going for. Occasionally we’ll go see a live band or other similar activity, but even then I think boyfriend (perhaps men in general) are made uncomfortable when I (or any woman) dresses a bit outlandishly. So shopping isn’t really my thing. I do love it, but I have nowhere to go to wear the cool clothing and shoes I already have. Thank goodness, when my dancing gets back up to speed I can splash out on many more outfits/legwarmers/dance shoes/sequins that I don’t need.
So I went into the flagship Sportsgirl store. Ruby Rose was in there doing whatever it is that she does (who knows?), as were a bunch of young girls with way too much makeup on for the daytime. The thing that struck me the most was not the size of the store, or the pseudo-celebrity or even the goods for sale – it was the music. It was like I was inside the speaker. Does it have to be SO LOUD?!?! I couldn’t even shop straight, I forgot my size and I got confused over what is a shirt and what is a dress or what is a shirt that can be worn as a dress…I had to leave. LOn my way out I smiled bemusingly at the shop assistant as she inflicted permanent vocal damage upon herself trying to ask the customer for money. It was like being in a club with a date and screaming ‘Do you want a drink?’ three times before they eventually understand you. I could tell she was seconds away from going into a mime or charade. And the madness did not end there. Maybe it was because the new mall at the shopping centre was opening. Maybe shopping has evolved since I last did it (obviously I need to do more). Outside the general stores I normally go into were semi-naked men. Just standing there, looking good and holding catalogues. I felt unable to enter any of these stores. Eventually, I found one with no naked people out the front and went in. This turned out to be a mistake. Not only was it loud, there was a DJ in the store. A DJ. Why? It’s 11.17am on a Saturday morning. And he wasn’t even a proper DJ. He looked about 9. (as in years old, not on a scale of 9 out of 10 for looks or anything). I thought I might commit an act of violence so I hurriedly left. Good thing, too, since I feel it was only a matter of time before my ears began to bleed.
So what is it? What has changed in the few brief moments I have not been shopping? Is it the GFC that is causing the shops to go crazy and install DJ’s and male models to entice you in with goodie bags (I bet some of them had goodie bags…) It’s simply not necessary. Had I been able to find a store with no music and shop assistants who were dressed and not under the illusion that they were in a club, I’m sure I would have laid down my cash. But as luck would have it, I left the shopping centre disenchanted and with no shoes.

Clearly the one-post-a-day thing is not working out for me. It was going well until uni started back and then it fell to the bottom of the priority line, along with general health and fitness and most recreational activities.
Some recreational activities that have been occurring involve our new bikes. The old bike was taken to a nice farm in the ‘country’ to live out it’s final days. The new bike goes like a rocket (even with me on it) and I have successfully shaved about 20 minutes off the ride time to work. Plus I look way cooler. And it is nice to have more than 3 gears. Gears that don’t sound like a boat hitting rocks when you shift. Loving it. Next to buy some appropriate footwear and make the appropriate bike adjustments so the bike and I can become one. Don’t think I’ll do this before Around the Bay since I have to work the day after and will need the use of my legs to do so. Riding amongst a group of non-riders is not the place to not be able to get your feet clear. And I can barely disembark safely as it is (why do we have to be so high off the ground?)

Next semester, apart from not taking this many subjects and subjecting myself to the act of trechery that is full-time work and full-time uni, I shall take one subject only and re-introduce myself to the piano and the social dance class and maybe even the singing lesson. I know a few good teachers…

In more inane news I got off at a station called Glenbervie tonight, instead of the usual station (the one before Glenbervie I imagine, but I wouldn’t swear on a bible). I’ve been a bit out of it all week, kind of like the flu is trying to get in but my body is resisting. I could go on about how ace my immune system is. If I had any energy, that is. Whilst I’m not getting sick, I’m far from ‘well’, as noticed by my stunned colleagues when I failed to eat lunch. Which never happens. In my delirious state I seem to be attracting all kinds of people who are up for a brief chat. It’s the strangest occurrence. And I can’t tell if this is normal or if I am just really tired so I notice more when other people require some input from. Just last night I was trying to shop (failed, though), and the shop assistant went well beyond the usual ‘Hi, blah blah blah’, and just continued into a story about how her boyfriend rode his bike home from work and got mugged and had his bike stolen. How do you respond to that? What did she want me to say? ‘That’s no good – do you have this in a 10?’
Then there was the lady on the train yesterday morning. I was just standing there, staring at my shoes, trying not to cry from pure exhaustion when a lady with a large pram (baby enclosed) and a small girl squeezed in. Although the lady didn’t look particularly out of control or frenzied, it was obvious that it was difficult for her to manouvre the pram and mind the toddler in a packed-out train with nothing to grasp onto. At each stop she was unable to move out of the way and was forced to constantly apologise to busy and important commuters as they rushed by to get to work. The small child looked positively terrified by the sheer amount of people passing by. I felt quite bad but I’m not sure why and there was nothing I could do. Eventually my station (or one very similar to it) rolled along and she got out in front of me, and then turned to me and asked me where the exit for the Eye and Ear Hospital was. It was as if the universe had interpreted my desire to be of assistance and thrown me a bone! And yes – I walk right in front of the Eye and Ear Hospital on my way to work, hence I could practically escort her to the door if necessary. However, since I don’t even know where the lift is at the station, nor where it goes to (apart from up, obviously), I was very little help. But we did then proceed to have a little chat about stations, mainly, all the time with me trying to be of at least some small speck of help.
And finally, the guy in the lift in my apartment building this morning. I go in lifts a lot, and normal protocol is eyes ahead, no talking, unless you’re with a group of people you know. Well, this guy had not received the protocol. I was in gym clothing and had not showered (yet), so birds may well have been nesting in my hair. Along with mushrooms. But no worries. This guy enters in his very nice suit, does this massive smile and says hello and enquires about my health and general disposition. He appraises me in an acceptable fashion and then asks which gym I’m going to. Turns out he goes to the same place and is very keen to have a chat about it, launching into a conversation that was clearly not intended to be finished in the confines of the elevator. But as we get out, I wind it up and slow my walk so he continues ahead in front of me (making me late, but what can you do?)
So all in all, it’s been a strange week, for most of which I have been delusional from:

*lack of sleep from my stupid bum and it’s muscular issues (why can’t it be my leg or something?);
*worrying that I won’t know what to say to the next stranger that strikes up a convo;
*obsessing about how I might pass any subjects this semester (and generally what I’m doing at uni and why).

Until next week (or the one after) xxx