Butternut Squash - the illusive veggie

Last night while watching YouTube, I caught a half hour of Jamie Oliver in a program with the name half hour meals.  It was interspersed with commercials which although annoying weren't so bad because I'd put the mute on and do a minute or two of surfing then come back to the window to check out if the program had began again.  Anyway.  Jamie was cooking a vegetarian Rogan Josh curry.  I got interested.  So grabbed some paper and began taking notes, writing down the ingredients and what he was doing with them.  Today I decided to go and buy the various veggies and make it myself.  It seemed from his recipe there were two important elements in his style of Rogan Josh.  One was a butternut squash, which I've seen but not actually done much with.  The other was a jar of Rogan Josh paste, which he swore by.  Though, I must admit as I saw him making his rice I thought it odd he didn't even wash it, because everyone knows if you don't get the starch out it turns into a gloopy lump of porridge rather than rice.  Porridge might be fine for breakfast with some syrup, but it is not the right stuff for curry.  So transfixed I saw him do the curry.  The program then went onto another element, I think it was going to be the ten second lemon dippy stuff, but at this point the bloody thing froze on me, so sod the lemon stuff I'd have to go without it, and of course I didn't get to see the finished porrage article anyway.  So today list in hand off I went on a cooking adventure.

The thing with cooking programs which is always annoying is being able to purchase the same ingredients as the chefs use, or similar.  Also, the other thing with cooking programs is they might be made in a time of year when certain ingredients are quite easy to come by, say for instance butternut squash.  This I found out.  I checked supermarket after supermarket and could not track any down.  In the same supermarkets I intently looked for the Rogan Josh paste.  A paste which Jamie describes as wonderful because it's the basic stuff with loads of herbs in it, and on a thirty minute meal it would take too long to show and prepare the real thing. This is either his excuse or he's gotten lazy of late.  Maybe Jamie is getting a little jaded and would rather be on TV earning his millions by doing something quite different.  Perhaps he'd be a footballer, if not a barrow boy or if all those vacancies were filled he could try his hand at politics.  So I couldn't get the butternut squash and made do with normal potatoes.  Then I couldn't find the Rogan Josh paste so found something in an exclusive market called a Jalfrezi.  My dish had metamorphosed from one thing to something quite different.  I nearly forgot, I put minced beef in it as well so now it was no longer vegetarian, no longer a Rogan Josh or inclusive of the lovely but illusive butternut squash. One and a half hours later, it was ready to eat.  Yep, even the timing wasn't the same.

I learnt, sometimes it's good to set out on a journey with the hope of getting to some place, unfortunately circumstances prevailing this isn't always possible and other paths have to be taken, in this case it was a  meat Jaflrezi instead. Bom Bom.

Who Killed the Emperor? - Lets get him!

Imagine this, there you are, a big Stag, no letters removed the adjective, and say magnificent Stag all of 9 feet tall around and about is your hareem of deers.  One of them might be a descendant of Bambi's mum, so she's really hot.  You stick you head up high on alert, and exhale great big condensation clouds in the cool morning air, no other stag dares come on your territory and the darling girls are just queuing up waiting for a bit of attention.  It's rutting season and they love all male strutting and bashing of antlers, then suddenly in this calm and idyllic countryside of Exmoor National Park there is a loud "crack" sound.  You stumble, not knowing what has happened, it certainly wasn't anything you ate, but something is definitely very wrong.  Then there is a second "crack" her hareem scatter leaving you as now you have collapsed in a heap on the ground.  Gasping for breath, straining but the countdown is now nearly over.  The figure of a man walks through the terrain with a purposeful stride, he's accompanied by a few others behind.  You would normally panic, normally run, but nothing works legs wont move.  Finally, your head and beautiful antlers also drop down to the ground, a last signed breath and mixed exhalation of blood and internal pain.  Eyelids closed and darkness forevermore.

This was how the largest stag on Exmoor for many decades has now passed on.  A hunter paid for the privilege of killing the grand and beautiful beast which went by the name of the Emperor.  He must of strayed off public land and onto a farmer's.  As news crews hit the community, no one was saying a thing.  But they know who's land it was on.  The farmer has denied the Emperor even existed.  Except of course for a few thousand pounds extra he now has in his bank account.   His hands are red where he has been rubbing them together from an outward show of greed.  The nation is in shock.  The poor Emperor didn't even have time to service his waiting deers and so pass his genes on. 

Somewhere in a parallel universe, there sits on a bench a Green Peace activist, she pulls out of her pocket a ray gun.  Sights a farmer and then a hunter who vigorously chat about the thrill of a good kill.  She raises her gun and fires.  In one blow both the farmer and the hunter are evaporated.  Two days later she is asked about the disappearance of two men.  Scratching her head  pretending to recall she says "I don't know who you are talking about.  I've just been sitting here watching the beautiful wildlife of this wonderful country now what reason would I ever have for doing away with a farmer and a hunter.  After all, it's not like they are an endangered species."

The X Factor Fraud - your having a laugh

Well anyone who is stupid enough to think this is a BLOG about X Factor better go somewhere else, because it isn't.  The reason why I put this as a heading was because I'd put a heading some time ago on a BLOG about Sponge Bob and the gym and for some completely unknown reason to me it had more hits than any other BLOG.  So sorry to disappoint you - not.  If you like X factor go and see your GP for a brain transplant, because I hear nowadays there's a special NHS subsidy for people with poor taste.  And if you are actually bothered to read this because you like X Factor and are slowly getting wound up by my remarks.  Then shame on you sap, because I don't give a monkey's arse what you think, but leave a comment and I'll be sure to read it and publish it.  I'm making the assumption you know how to string a couple of words together and can write, because there certainly is no pictures to look at.  Personally I'm fed up with reading or hearing about Cheryl Dull, Loius Wash-out and Simon Cuckoo (surgically enhanced breasts self opinionated raving loon), these are not my words, just those I overheard in a pub, but nodded my head to in agreement.  Note in order to protect the innocent, the comments made in this BLOG are not necessarily the same made by any other brain dead viewers, they are solely the comments of a crazed lunatic who goes against the general consensus, someone who is not a fair weather marker of public opinion.  I wonder who?

Now on to something more interesting.  Yep, life in the Fish Factory is beginning to feel like life in a sausage factory, I think I am being salami sliced into non existence.  As more and more fishes try to take a bite out of me, or rather request a bite.  It can be like some are unable to wake up in the morning and decide what to have for breakfast but then decide to consult their almanac only to be unhappy of the result so they knock on their neighbour's door searching for the view which coincides with their own.  I am being invaded by time wasting fishes.  Some of which come from outside of the Fish Factory and want explanations to events which would overshadow an analysis of War and Peace.  I'm beginning to think I don't get paid enough.  In fact, I'm beginning to think someone has said to me they want to play stick the tail on the donkey, have asked me to bend over pull my trousers down and then randomly give tails and pins to every passerby they could find.  My arse is now littered with little red pin pricks, you got it.  Every one is a pain in my arse.

Thank heavens for my sanity, sense of humour and the ability to slag off X Factor.

Zombie abduction by way of PSP

Layabout Lad has a thing for Zombies, be it movies or books, he about knows everything there is on Zombies.  Personally it would not be my preference, but as the saying goes, each to their own.  However, sometimes things can happen right under your own nose and you're not totally aware of it.  This is what I think.  Layabout Lad's little brother Monster Boy has been abducted.  Yes. It is true.  In a real life Zombie attack, he has been sucked into Zombie land and can't even see it.  Well he is only 10 years old, so at this age sometimes you don't know when some big nasty staggering zombie wraps his arms around you and then takes a bite.  Yep.  Poor Monster Boy is no longer the energetic ever manic person he used to be.  The Zombies have got him.

I first began to notice this when I turned up at his house and he was engaged in playing PSP.  It's a portable games consul for those who don't know.  After about fifteen or twenty minutes of no movement, and his complete fixation on the LCD screen I wondered whether he was alive.  He barely was.  I put my hand over his eyes, tickled him and twisted his ears, one at a time.  The respose time was slow.  Whereas a normal fully com pus mentus Monster Boy would of come back at me immediately in retaliation this Zombie infected PSP Boy didn't.  I don't know whether I can rescue him from the brink of Zombie and human being transition and pull him back into the living.  It is going to be an extremely hard task. He also makes grunts and groans as he plays on his PSP, not all the time, which would be silly.  He makes these when I try to engage in conversation with him.  Nothing but monosyllabic responses come back to me.  I just don't know where the happy and excitable Monster Boy has gone.  He just lacks the engagement he used to have, the smile and cheeky demand he showed has been replaced by quiet, concentration.  The PSP is held in front of him like he were Zombie transfixed by it.  A long electrical cord can be seen trailing behind to the mains socket.  Occasionally full and complete disengagement from humanity happens when he has headphones plugged in.  Then whatever I say gets drowned out by the events of the PSP.  He is more than hypnotised, he is now becoming brain dead to the world.  The PSP is not a nanny, but it has become in effect a child minder and child abductor to Zombie land.

I hope this is not the ending of the world.  I quite like human contact.  Looks like I will have to head towards the closest DIY store around.  Now, where do I find instructions for making your own cattle-prod I'm sure I'll get some notice then.

Sore head morning

My head hurts.  I got drunk last night.  On account of it being POETS day (Piss Off Early Tomorrow's Saturday).  I was very happy.  I like the feeling of being chilled and enjoying conversation.  Debate, politics, music (which I know very little about) films, football (again something I know little about) and more politics.  After leaving the pub I then went and got a Chinese to eat.  What a pig.  I took the train back and then phoned Sparkling to have a chat while I walked the remaining distance from train to home.  The walk seemed to go on forever, on account of not being able to walk straight.  Walking in a sway from side to side. It was odd.  I was very happy chatting to Sparkles.  She seemed to find me funny as well, it must of been the dribble coming out of my mouth, a quite incoherent property intoxication gives.  So Now I am hung over.  With no paracetamol to help my sore head, sweaty feeling and need for liquid.  Non alcoholic.

Taylor Swift is not as talented as some think

Well I've just caught a bit of Taylor Swift on TV, it's the first time I've come across her and, I know talent when I see it.  Her tune is catchy, it hits the teeny market, but she don't have what it takes to be a great.  Nope, it is all hype and show.  What amazed me was when checking out YouTube every gig she was at looked very much like she was miming all the way through.  I don't know if it is me, maybe it is. because I don't think she has talent.  I have seen her give interviews and she puts on that semi shy nearly bashful appearance where she always thanks the host for their opinions.  To the extent I'm almost vomiting and wondering where on earth was this one picked up from.  Other people seem to think she is a great, but she's not.  She's popular, and popularity is a fickle finger of fate.  At any moment according to the zephyrs of public emotion it will swing towards another direction.  There was  a pretence in the interview I saw.  She is only twenty years old!  Do we expect more from such artists and project more on them than they really deserve?  Because I certainly think so, definitely in this case.  Taylor Swift sweetheart, you're not as talented as you think you are, the reason I say this is because your life as began and you are still crawling about in baby nappies and the rest of the world is saying how beautiful you are, I'm not.  So someone come and shoot me.  I definitely do not agree.  Give me Kylie any day.  Someone take this girl away, give her some real experience of life then see if she can write songs, see if she can come across with real talent and not the serendipity of good fortune she has at the moment.  Someone tell me if I am wrong, and let the someone who does tell me, say it from the bottom of their heart and be at least 30 years old, anyone below does not count.

Grow up, learn what life is, what it is not because Swift darling you are still a baby.

Pulling whale teeth is hard work

Time at the Fish Factory goes by fast.  Like a rocket.  Presently it is too noisy there and I'm on the verge of killing half a dozen people.  It's like I have work to do dissecting this whale and it takes all of my concentration but, other people chatting away invade and steal my concentration.  I get interrupted constantly with people asking me questions or opinions, I get phone calls just as I'm pulling a tooth and whale tooth's are pretty big.  Then there is the tap on the shoulder by another fellow, asking me whether this fish qualifies as a fish because it looks like a turtle.  I say to him "hey I don't know" they are all the same to me.  I turn back round and wonder what I was doing and have to revise and get back into the mood.  These people are stopping from doing my job.  One more interruption and they better watch out because the placid personality will become a beast, it will tear of their heads, not just the one, all of them.  At this point in my day it is then usually time to for lunch.  I run out of the door and consider the prospect of getting completely drunk because those fishes back at the factory just won't let me get on with my own job. 

The Layabout lad has broken up with his girlfriend.  He is mortified over it.  A few days before he told me this I saw him and his ex, they were sitting at opposite ends of a settee.  I spoke to him and said he didn't have a relationship.  He was in complete denial of this and couldn't see how his requests and guilt trips on her were the only thing which made her tolerate his presence.  So I've asked him if he'd like to go out for a pizza at a new restaurant I know.  I might get him drunk then see if he has heard of Monty Python and their song "Always look on the bright side of life" which although depressive is quite catchy and is meant in good humour.  I will find some comedy films and give them to him to watch, he desperately needs to take his mind off his ex and get on with life.  I told Sparkling about this.  Her response was a little less tolerant.  Seeing as she now has little in the way of finger prints from working at her own Fish Factory she advised if Layabout Lad didn't sort himself out she'd come and beat the living daylights out of him.  Which makes sense.  It would take his mind of his ex and he'd think more about the pain he was in.  I ask how come I love Sparkling so much, it must be because she speaks her mind and has very sparkling eyes.  Yep, Layabout Lad had better look out a visit could be pending.

Mr L & B is on holiday in America.  He sent me some pictures of an elephant, he told me the pub I was in was probably full of gays and he then went and spent five bucks squirting water at tourists in the resort he was at.  It was giving him the best kick of the day.  Sparkling has also heard from him.  He'd been grumpy because he wasn't getting updates on the completion of a loft conversion.  It sounded like his mind was elsewhere.  I think he wants to beat me up as well.  Then it wouldn't be normal if he didn't threaten me with some form of physical violence or deliberations on my sexual orientation.  I do the same with L & B as well.  It's a man thing.  A bonding thing.  Well not bonding, but you know manly thing.  But not too manly.  Just butch manly.  It sure beats trying to pull whale teeth that's for sure.

Who spied a Space Station then?

Last night I had a short chat with Sparkling and she told me in an excited voice she saw the Space Station.  I must admit to being a little incredulous to this happening.  She then said if it is still there when I next go up I can see it to.  Of course this didn't make a great deal of sense to me, being a man.  Sparkles was so overcome by seeing the space station she then had to go and wake Rock Chick up so she to could look up into the night sky and see it. I must admit my doubting Thomas was really kicking in.  The reason is, if the thing up there was visible then surely there would of been some kind of TV announcement so everyone could rush outside and have a look.  In the back of my mind I stopped myself from saying it was more likely she had seen a flying doughnut with a cherry on top than the Space Station.  But I didn't, because maturity has led me to the most knowledgeable thing of all, which always be very careful when doubting a woman, if she happens to be right then you are in pretty big trouble.  So my doubt was unspoken.  Further, I also ran out the front door and looked up into the night sky.  But London unlike the East Coast of Scotland is positioned in a different place on the globe.  Also there was a scattering of clouds so if there was anything up there it would of been difficult to find.

My next option was to check on the Internet and see if there was a map tracking the International Space Station.  Which it so happened there was.  I checked it out and it indicated at that moment the ISS was above Spain.  Well about an hour had passed since Sparkles had seen it, and it was travelling a few thousand miles per hour which means it don't stand still for long, relatively speaking it don't stand still at all.  The NASA map showed a set of three wavey lined routes the ISS may have taken, but not one of them was near the UK.  So I wondered whether it may have been some other satellite and found another set of maps for various satellites again none of these were anywhere near Scotland.  My call finished with Sparkles and I puzzled over what had taken place.  Sparkles was going to have Rock Chick photograph it next time it just happened to be hanging about.  Like a Christmas light no doubt.

About another forty minutes or so passed and it was getting close to bedtime.  So yet again I checked the NASA web site.  I found a field where it was possible to put a post code in and see when the most likely night would be to see the ISS.  So I entered it.  Blow me down and stuff my arse with a pineapple.  Feck, the results showed that very evening had was the best time to see the ISS from Scotland.  I checked the map again and something must of happened to NASA because it now showed the direction of the ISS as just clipping Cornwall area of the UK.  This means, the map must of been wrong, the route had been re calculated and therefore it would quite probable Sparkling had actually seen the ISS and not a doughnut with a cherry on top.  I'm glad I didn't vocally disbelieve what Sparkles said and only thought it.  Except now she's likely to read this blog and will hold me to account next time she sees me. 

Then I sure hope she has no pineapples at hand.

Shorter up top than ever before

It was a day off from the Fish Factory so I decided to hit the hair dressers.  Yep.  The Afghanistan man who has only one real style of hair cut.  Short.  If this isn't your preference then there is always the Shorter.  Lastly there's the where's my hair gone cut.  I could of gone without a trim for another couple of weeks, but walking to the hair dressers gave me a chance to get out of the house.  Maybe I should of stayed in, then at least I wouldn't feel the draft as much as I do now. 

I got there and two grey haired gents were sitting in chairs being trimmed.  One of them seemed to of had quite a bit removed from behind his neck.  Which was the Afghan bloke who did it.  Then I was up.  The door remained open to the shop so traffic could be heard.  Mr Afghan seemed a little jittery today.  He was even singing to pop music piped from the TV.  However, he was also dancing, the kind of dance I see ravers do when they are high on something.  Which led me to the conclusion Afghan may well of been high.  The conversation I had with him served two purposes.  One so I could see if he accidentally loped one of my ears of and secondly to keep his attention on my head and less on his dancing.  We chatted a little about pop music and I found he was also a Lady Ga Ga fan.  He said she had produced 50 plus songs in only two years.  It may have been an exaggeration on his part.  However, he thought if she carried on like this she would be big, I mean very big in music.  He didn't think a great deal of Cheryl Cole and was up for giving her a good slagging off.  He remarked if Cheryl washed the make-up from her face she would look like a monkey.  I wasn't sure if I agreed with him.  But this was secondary to seeing what was going on up top.  Now lets just say there's very little left up top.  It's cold up there.  When I walked back home I thought my hat had got bigger, but it couldn't have, I'd just lost more hair than normal. 

Memo to self.  Don't get hair cut by someone who may be high on acid or some other fidgeting invoking substance.

Pressed buttons

My buttons are being pressed lately.  Usually I am the mild mannered, it's all O.K. with me type of bloke, but there are times when my buttons are well and truly pushed.  Family is usually a good direction to look in.  Especially if you have some family which could be considered on the verge of mentally ill, although not diagnosed.  If there is someone out there who disputes this fact then I'd say to them have a good look at yourself then pal.  The reason family can easily push these buttons is because I've had years and years and years of suffering their behaviour, it's as though my fountain of tolerance has run dry.  But not only family can achieve this, so can petty minded bigots, who can not be swayed in their opinion or can not argue with reason.  If an ordinary person uses reason it is somehow shredded up like the confidential paper waste machines.  Poor old reason just takes a battering.  For the ordinary this is where tolerance kicks in and it becomes a matter of ignoring them, walking away or getting in the first punch and making it a really good one, one they are not going to get up from.  So yes, for some reason my buttons are getting pressed lately and unfortunately my temper then begins to rise and physical violence dances in and out of my imagination.

Because of this heightened state of strain perhaps this is why when I meet someone for the fist time I don't like, I feel like beating the shit out of them. There are a list of subtle clues which kick into place, and no matter how hard I suppress this first impression an individual gives me, it don't go away. Some mental calculus starts to turn over in my mind, their dress sense, body language and the way they talk.  Then I just know it.  I suppress it with the strength of Superman, which must pay off because it is a very strong inner control which manages to pull down the shutters.  The shutters being those which keep the Bear/Gorilla/Monster at bay.  To protect both myself and the individual I am so and truly pissed off with. 

It's odd all of this button pressing, because there really are times when very little will phase me.  When I am at calm with the world and forgive every idiot I see.  Forgive mentally, when I make the judgement then whatever they did was not a fault of their own.  However, we are all responsible for our own actions, or rather also responsible for our inaction's, yes, the raging Hulk inside which so wants to tear another living human being limb from limb.  It is a waste of energy letting events get to oneself.  It's better to accept and let them roll over you like a wave in the ocean.  Calm, hummmmmmmmm like a master of meditation.  Hummmmm, bullocks, it don't always work.

Being the same

I hit the gym for a short while this evening, breaking a sweat, just about, but not overdoing it at all.  This may be some kind of wisdom with age thing going on.  Although not all older people are wise, mostly people don't change much, they have and keep the same personality traits.  It don't matter if they are high powered or just a Joe Blogs.  However, if someone is young and stupid what's the odds of them turning out to be older and wiser?  Me thinks, the odds are, stupidity is some kind of genetic thing and it will persist regardless of age.  Especially where it is related to a trait of personality.  I heard once some where, don't ask me where.  I heard "we are slaves to our habits" which is what our fundamental personality characteristics are all about.  However, there must also be examples of people in the world who have changed their personality and improved, just as there certainly are those who have got worse.  Maybe we're all relatively stable within a degree of variance.  Which goes back to the original assumption. 

An arsehole will always be an arsehole.

Fred or Fredericka not something else

The past week or so, it has been bucketing with rain.  Which probably explains why two nights ago when returning back to the ranch, there not so far from the front door, right in full view of the world, sat a toad or frog.  I'm not sure which creature it was, but what I can say is it was one of the biggest toad/frogs I have seen in quite a long time, in fact I probably haven't seen one as big as this.  It was the size of the palm of my hand.  The pavement was wet and a dull unenthusiastic rain descended.  The Toad/frog who I shall call Fred for short didn't take much notice.  It took so little notice I couldn't tell if it was interested in anything at all.  Certainly Fred wasn't up to reading the Times newspaper, on account it would of gotten too wet for him.  He was stationary.  I wondered how on earth Fred could got to this place.  At first walking along the street I thought Fred was a turd.  I didn't let him know this on account of not wanting to hurt his feelings and all.  Who knows, his brothers could of been hiding round the corner and they'd of come jumping out had I thrown an insult.  He was content there.  The night was warm and wet, what more could Fred want?  Safety I expect.  With cats, dogs, rats and foxes about Fred might easily appear as a tasty snack for any of them.  When I advised Big Moma, her curiosity got the better and she had to run out and have a look, then proceed to prod Fred, who I was told wasn't a very good jumper, towards a cul-de-sac set of garages.  I advised this wasn't a good idea, with cars going in and out, and the large pool of water which had collected there was likely to drain away, as it usually did.  So Moma somehow took Fred under her wing and into the back garden.  I've not seen or heard from him since.  Though I can't say the same for the cat, who has remained quite on the subject.

However, what if Fred was actually a Frog and was previously a beautiful princess.  O.K. what if Fred was actually Fredericka and a beautiful princess just waiting for the spell she was under to be broken.  Broken by a handsome man with a single kiss.  I hadn't thought of this at the time.  On account beauty and brains don't go together, odd.  But the truth be said I'm probably more brainy than I am handsome.  So at the moment I saw Fredericka I was likely more handsome than I had been for a while.  It was the street lighting which can hide all forms of facial deformities, the rain and thinking Fredericka was a turd.  Then to a turd any bloke walking around would be handsome.  I don't understand how this line of thinking has come about but I'm going to Vere away from it quickly.  So somewhere on the little bit of waste land behind the back garden, eating flys is a beautiful princess.  Unless of course she has been absconded by the fairies.  Pesky things. In all probability Fredericka was just a toad and fishing around to see if life was different on the other side of the street/hill/pond or what have you.

So the moral of the story is quite simple, watch where you step because a turd in poor lighting could actually be a Fred or Fredericka.

The sound of a phone call

It seems ages since I last managed to get a conversation with Sparkling.  So I decided to give her a quick phone on my lunch break.  I knew she had not been well lately, with some kind of flu like virus.  However, being we hadn't chatted I didn't know the extent of it.  Blimey.  When Sparkles answered the phone she didn't sound like she should of been up and about.  More like she should of been in bed with chicken soup and a pharmacological supply of the strongest medicines available.  Sparkles didn't even sound like Sparkles, she could of been someone quite different.  I knew though it was her number I'd rang.  Meanwhile,  this evening, Sparkling has gone to her Fish Factory to do a shift and will be off again tomorrow.  When in fact time recovering is what is needed.  I wish I could do something.  Sparkling, please take the time off if you are not up to it.  The world will carry on, even Rock Chick can do without a personal chauffeur.  Get well soon honey.

Back at the ranch, life carries on.  A colleague at the Fish Factory has left and decided to go back to school, or rather University than carry on working.  Another colleague today announced the start of their sabbatical leave with an intention of not coming back to the Fish Factory if they could help it.  But being one of the drinking pals of the after hours Fish Factory group this will mean their presence will be missed.  Gone will be the addition of acerbic wit over a pint of Stella and discussion about politics, films and music which I have never heard of before.

I'll have to find something else to do with my time after hours.  Even possibly play with the notion of return to the gym, which presently I've been avoiding.  Under my desk there lay a rucksack with trainers, and kit, just waiting.  To go and get used.  It must be lonely and dark under the desk as it sits waiting for use.  Mind I did leave an apple on top, if it feels hungry at least it can sneak out and have something nutritious.  Either that or I go and buy some chicken soup.  Who else could do with some of that?