Early preparation still results in panicking

Today I crashed my work laptop for the first time since I was given it. I was just experimenting with a fancy new thing in Excel, where it will plot things onto maps for you, when it grumbled and died. It went down so hard that the blue screen of death was itself broken, a scraggy mess of pixels across the screen. Thankfully, as all my work was in Google Docs (apart from the Excel experiment) I didn’t lose anything, but it made me sad that even now, modern laptops can still go wrong quite unpredictably.

Quite predictably, I went to the track tonight, for another threshold session.

Tonight was 15/10/5: with a three minute rest after the first set, and a two minute rest after the second. I set off with the others at what I thought was a steady, sensible pace, doing 1:37s for a while, but it all went a bit wrong on the 10 minute segment, drifting up above 1:50. I seriously thought about packing it in, but that would have meant my graph wasn’t complete for this session, so I ground on to the bleak conclusion. After ten minutes, the others were all half a lap up on me. On the final five minutes, I was further off the pace: if it had been a bit longer, id probably have been lapped.

But still, done is done. I took a taxi back, put the laundry on (my shirt from Monday was emitting an unpleasant smell somewhere between rusty iron and a broken toilet, and I doubt that would have improved if I’d left it to fester until when we get back from New York), had a conference call, drank some water, wished I’d calculated how much food was needed in the house rather than have an empty fridge and a growling stomach after track, discovered my shaving lotions were all small enough to be allowed in carry-on, tried to turn off my computer only to find it had thirty minutes of updates to install, got a phone call from La Serpiente Aquatica Negra, left the flat, spent five minutes obsessive-compulsively checking I really had locked the front door, walked to the lift lobby, waited five minutes because one lift was out of action, one seemed to be refusing to move from the 6th floor and the other one had to serve 21 floors of residents, finally got downstairs, had to contend with all the taxis going on shift change rather than stop to pick anyone up, and finally got a cab, only to find the driver terribly worried about whether I knew which terminal I was going to.

But I’m here now and checked in, so really, how hard could it be?


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