A new t-shirt

Today I was given a new t-shirt by El Capitan, the leader of our pub quiz team. It has a swear word on the front of it, which I won’t quote, because my mother reads this, and which I possibly won’t be able to wear outside, in case I get arrested for being a public nuisance. However, it is a very nice yellow colour, and expresses a fine sentiment, so I think I will wear it in the office and see what happens.

If you’re feeling in the mood for sweariness, there’s a picture of it skulking down the page. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
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This didn’t happen: a short history of time wasted

For a time, when I was bored or couldn’t sleep or had nothing better to do, I would play Solitaire on my iPod. This was a dreadful thing, in so many ways. The user interface was miserable: move virtual playing cards around an inch-high screen by rubbing your thumb in circular motions. It was boring. There was no reward, apart from (one third of the time) completing a game, where there was nothing wagered, no truth or semblance of truth offered as you played, not even the sense of getting better at filling in your tax return, as a game like Sudoku confers. And yet I played and played and played, when I could have done something worthwhile, like contemplate my existence.

And now I have an RSS reader.
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More discipline

There was a huge thunderstorm at five this morning, lightning painting the inside of our bedroom bright white while the rain crashed down outside. Our daughter was very happy that morning had come so early and celebrated by crawling all over my face, but I wasn’t so happy; I was meant to be going for my long run at 7.

In retrospect, I know I shouldn’t have turned my 6:30 alarm off and stayed in bed. The storm was well over by the time I was meant to be running, and all I’d done was allow a passing distraction to disrupt my training. That is not the behaviour of a winner.

And so this evening, having read the first seven pages of Under The Frog to our child, I changed into my running kit and headed out to the track to put in 5k. My plan is to do it in 22:30; that should be attainable, as I can do a sub-45 minute 10k. In 2012. It will be something of a reliability test to see if I can run 12 and a half laps at 1:48 pace every time. Will I burn out? Will I idiotically nail the first lap in 1:30 and live to regret it? Or will I deserve my post-run bottle of ginger beer?
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Shouting At Art

Today we went back to Limehouse, the Caribbean bar where I drank so much on Christmas Day that I had to go home and be sick. It was also the first place where La Serpiente Negra ate solid food, and, four months and a day later, she marked another step forward by walking across the floor of the restaurant. I suppose that was actually six steps; at the time, I didn’t even really notice. I was busy ruminating on her resemblance to my paternal grandmother (it’s the grin, I think, or the lack of teeth at this point) so it was only in retrospect that I realized she’d beaten the goal I’d set for her, of walking before eleven months.

Satisfied with her performance, and because it was raining too much to go to the park, we went to the Singapore Art Museum instead.
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Red Dwarf: Back To Earth

The dehumidifier has been running in the spare room for almost a week, and every night there’s a full bucket of water to empty. I’m hoping that eventually it slurps less water from the air because the room dries out, but without being able to hermetically seal the spare room, that may be a forlorn hope.

Speaking of things that could be hermetically sealed, this evening, feeling intellectually weak and unable to start on my Spanish homework, we watched Red Dwarf: Return To Earth instead. This is a mini-series of three episodes, made 9 years after the previous series.
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Good things come even if you don’t wait

Our child recovered from her fever today, and returned to being lively and cheerful. She was still lively and cheerful an hour after her normal bedtime tonight, and while seeing her crawl around the bed with a big grin on her face was rewarding, I really wanted her to go to sleep.

And not try to feed off my chest. Explaining to a ten-month-old child that men don’t lactate is not an easy task.
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