Not drinking gin

After work I ran to the National Stadium, but somehow took a wrong turning and went out of my way by most of a mile, which wouldn’t be so odd if I hadn’t been running the same route so often for the last six months. When I got to the track, I had to run a 30 minute time trial: lap after lap of the track, after which I had the happy news that my threshold power is almost 10% higher than the last time I tried to estimate it. Which is possibly bad news, as it means I should up my intensity from now on.

I got the train home, feeling sweaty and exhausted, to find my wife and a friend of hers drinking gin. My dear, precious gin. The girls were both being loony and so as the only sober adult I ended up trying to get them both to sleep. Apart from histrionics (“I love you so much you can’t leave!”) from La Serpiente, which lasted until I’d prised myself off her bed and left the room, the bigger challenge was Destroyer, who wiggled and demanded milk and Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and to sit on me and to talk about breakfast until 10pm, while I was desperate to go and have a shower, or eat some cake, or just recover from my run.

Instead of which I got to be sweary when I finally got out of the girls’ rooms, and then I ate a bag of cheesy poofs because I’m so serious about getting down to my racing weight, and so on and so forth until I was in bed. Tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll be more rational.

Quiet night in

I was a ruin today, sleeping in until 9, then still exhausted and needing to nap in the afternoon. But come nightfall, when the kids were asleep and friends came round to visit, and we cracked open two different bottles of gin (Sipsmith sloe gin and Margaret River botanical) I finally felt alive again.

We played a game of Carcassonne and two of Blokus, and I had three gins, and in all this time neither of our children woke up and came out to complain at us. It has becomr clear that the most reliable way to get them down is to make sure they’re fairly tired, put them in a darkened room, tell them you’ll be back in five minutes, and then leave and don’t go back.

It works – will it instill a complex that requires deep therapy in twenty years’time? Who’s to say?

Anyway, I drank a lot of gin, I suddenly remembered that I’ve failed to collect my statin prescription for a few weeks, and that in turn means perhaps I shouldn’t have eaten so much cheese tonight. Guess I’ll have to go running tomorrow then.

A short walk, spoiled

This morning I went to Sentosa for a team building event. I took a train down to Harbourfront, then the monorail over to the island. Staring at my phone, I got off at the first stop, and then consulted Google Maps and realised I should have stayed on the monorail. I rushed back up to the platform and then had to wait for the next train.

At the next station, I got off and started walking. My destination was 5 minutes away. I began to trudge, my flip-flops beginning to chafe.

Twenty minutes later I was still walking, and now Google Maps was telling me I was 15 minutes away. I went along interminable roads through the jungle, up hills, down hills, through a crowd of peacocks. I went along a path hewn through the forest, eventually finding a bus stop, and then rode back to where I had started, where I discovered my destination was a five minute walk from where Google Maps has told me was the wrong place to get off the train. So thanks for that, Google Maps.

The team building event was a lot of running around in the sun, so this wasn’t a very adequate preparation for all of this. Plus by then I had blisters from the flip-flops, so that was two rather painful hours of my life, after which I went home and passed out on my bed until the evening, when we had to go out and drink gin and play Cards Against Humanity. Such is life.

Not Quite Drinking In LA

Tomorrow I’m visiting a friend for dinner, and since I failed to take anything with me the last time I went to see him, this time I’ve overcompensated by fetching two bottles of wine and a triplet of different gins from BevMo, some sort of beverage supermarket. This was as not much fun as it sounds.
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Here and there and back again

My wife came in at 3 this morning and woke me up, so when my alarm went off at 6:30, I blinked and it was already 7. Panic stricken, I rushed around the house getting ready to go to the Parkrun. (Protip: it’s much better to go to the toilet then put on a pair of bib shorts, rather than the other way round.)

I pedalled as fast as I could, and only arrived 5 minutes behind schedule. But fortunately, the East Coast Parkrun pretty much always starts ten minutes behind schedule, so I was there in time to help with timing the runners. I rode back, ten minutes faster than last week’s bedraggled effort, and then tried my best to entertain the kids.
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Tacos by the pool

This evening we had a Mexican dinner at a friend’s condo. They have a Mexican restaurant in their complex – well, a bit more like a Singaporean idea of a bodega, I guess, serving tamales and jarritos and tacos. They gave my wife a burrito as big asa her head, and I had delicious but very messy tacos, each slightly larger than my thumb, but I kept scoffing them and sinking beer and gin until it was time to retire.

Like an idiot, this was on top of an early evening birthday celebration of very strong microbrewery booze – this century’s response to homebrew is artisanally crafted IPA that blows your head off the next morning, although since there aren’t enough hipsters with beards here, it gets served to you by random aunties in aprons instead. Plus ca change, huh?

Does this life ever become normal, or is this how it will be for me from now until the end of time? Not complaining, just curious…

Fremantle to Margaret River

This morning we packed up and left the apartment in Fremantle. I liked it: it had a nice view of the harbour from the balcony, the kitchen was nicely outfitted, the underfloor heating was awesome and the bed was enormous. But it wasn’t suitable for children – whether that was the steps everywhere for small children to trip over, or the hard tiled floors that made the underfloor heating possible, or just my two little goons’ obsession with doing things as dangerously as possible. You don’t need to eat breakfast while jumping up and down on a chair that you’re simultaneously trying to lean back so you can be thrown over the railing and down a flight of stairs. It’s just that apparently that’s the fun way to do it, when you’re somewhere approaching four years old. Continue reading “Fremantle to Margaret River”