Saturday's radioactive offerings.

I have been sorely remiss this week in my gym attendance, an unusual state for someone like me who generally likes going to the gym*. But remiss or not yesterday was kickboxing and there was no way in hell I was missing that. So I took myself to the barn, ran 5k as a warm up, and...nothing actually, I was banjaxed after getting off the 'mill. Stupid fitness levels not magically sustaining themselves while I sit at my desk and eat mini snickers* for days on end.
Some days I think Non Memnoch gets a kick out of torture, perhaps it is an instructor thing. Certainly he can sniff when you're low on energy and punish you accordingly.
He had us sparring in three minute rounds yesterday, adding points for good strikes or good combinations, deducting points for dropping hands or leaving a hand out, anything in fact he deemed a false punch.
Three minutes can seem awfully long when you're going at it hell for leather.
Then to make sure he finished us off good and proper he made us sprint, round house, sprint, double round house, sprint, and so on until we were at ten. My legs were like jelly after.
This morning finds me ouchy, but at least I'm not skiing, like Finn, who has lost her will to live as well as the skin from her elbows.
Today I will take CG's dog for a hike. He will chase squirrels and get soaked, I will poodle along behind him, waiting to see if he ever feels tired* and hoping I don't run into a radioactive paedophile.
Oh yes, there is a radioactive paedophile loose in the country. Thomas Leopold absconded a few days before his child porn trail in the UK and police believe he hotfooted it here. Why do child touchers always think Ireland is a good place to hide out? Who knows, but he's thought to be here and like I say, radioactive from a bout of cancer treatment. I immediately thought 'watch out fall out boy' but I am sad that way.
Now breakfast I think, bacon and eggs sounds about right. I mean I've put on a kilo this week alone, I might as well. Who knew eating mini snickers, drinking all the beer you like and not going to the gym would make a body gain weight? Oh right, I did. Pfft.


*I keep telling myself that.
*I don't know what this is about, I don't really like chocolate.
* As far as I know he doesn't get tired, not really. His tail might dip slightly.

Whinging waffle on a sunny Friday.

All is not well in the land of the fat cat. Words are being typed arseways, jobs ignored, ennui is rampant, a hollow feeling of lacklustre nowtniess persists.
It was there when I went to bed, it was there when I woke, it's here now.
It's nothing grand, no large scale blow, just a sense of, "meh"
Whence did this malaise come?
Wither the funk?
Too much law and order? Too much CSI? was NY too much?What's going on with Gary's face?
It can't just be me. Surely all of us at some stage have patted our contented bellies and sat back to soak up the relative peace of our lives only to suffer a spike or jab, a whisper of, 'something's missing.'
I got up today and wandered down stairs, I made coffee and, as it is another beautiful day, I went out to the newly shorn garden to drink it. A small pride of cats followed me.
'Puddy.' I said, for she was the only one who sat under my feet. 'What is it? What's wrong with me? Is it because there's nothing wrong that I feel so out of the loop?'
Puddy considered my words most carefully, but in doing so fell asleep -she is old- so I was left to figure it all out for myself.
In my ridiculously mis-spent youth I lived on my nerves a lot, I left home in a rage at 16 and was forever on the cusp of being a total and utter fuck-up. Many a time I tipped over the edge and swam about in the pool of fuckupidyness, but somehow I always clawed my way out.
Now here I am, thirty-four, content, happily ensconced with a good man, I have a good job and yet I'm sitting about like a twat, pondering the unponderable, naval gazing.
Maybe it's because there is no more danger to be had. With Memnoch off foreign the weekly terror is gone. Oh I know that sounds over the top and dramatic, but really, I feared him, we all did. And going to that sad excuse of a class last week just reminded me that not only did I fear Memnoch I respected him. It was a one or twice a week lesson in rage, terror, pain and triumph.
'Oh thank you' we'd cry, picking ourselves up and wiping the sweat from our eyes, checking ourselves for cuts, limping from his class, beaten, but alive. Thank you!
Or maybe it's because I'm getting sensible. I don't drive too fast anymore, I don't smoke, I don't take drugs, hell and this might shock you most, I don't even like to get drunk! (although I do like to drink, don't get confused).
Or perhaps it's the fear. You know, when you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Stuff going well? Don't worry, something will happen, just you wait and see.
Maybe that's it, maybe I'm just the suspicious sort. Maybe the good weather is getting to me. Where's the rain and the clouds? The biting wind? Why can I sit outside in a t-shirt drinking my coffee in April? Why have I got a tan?
Meh, I don't know. Perhaps I just need to give myself a good boot in the arse, actually that's probably it.
Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to ring my mother. I'm going to tell her that I'm considering becoming a Wiccan.