I woke up today at six, after eight gloriously uninterrupted hours of sleep. I went for a run, proving to myself for the umpteenth time that fifteen hours of sitting on a plane isn’t a performance enhancer. Still, I managed to jog around a five kilometre loop that ended just by the 24 hour supermarket, where I could load up on milk and fruit. I’ve spent a large part of today eating that fruit, in between filling out forms and going through all the paper that had arrived in our mailbox while we we’re away. Basically, my afternoon was a series of attempts to remember passwords, coupled with massive frustration whenever I needed to reset my password by having a text sent to a phone number I haven’t had since 2008. I wonder how I’ll sort that out.
I also purchased the amusingly titled FFS, an album recorded by Franz Ferdinand (the band, not the assassinated Arch-Duke) and Sparks. I heard it during the flight home, and it has some hilarious tracks, not least Collaborations Don’t Work and Piss Off, although unfortunately that’s only the twelfth song on the deluxe edition I purchased, rather than the last track on the standard edition. Sometimes, giving more takes away. The whole album is too-clever guitar pop, which is something I have a great weakness for.
Walking back home after going to buy my dinner (I don’t have the brainpower to cook much right now) I heard some crazy music being played, and wished I could find out where it was coming from, and to ask what it was. Then I remembered I’d brought my phone with me, and the miracle of modern technology is that I now know I was listening to Fodd Till Att Synda by Akin Jensen, a ridiculous bit of Swedish hip hop that my phone would let me download for seven dollars. Or, miraculously, I could listen to it on YouTube for free, although that way lies madness. Or rather, that way leads to spending the late afternoon watching Swedish rap battles, where you can get the gist quite easily (Akin Jensen has no hair, and his mother and sister are both lacking in virtue, and his mother has a gold card, I think.*)
I was meant to go to a free concert of Cuban music this evening, but having tried and failed to nap all day, I decided it was best to stay in and recuperate. I read a graphic novel, a bit of a chapter of a book on power meter-assisted training, a chapter of the latest Charles Stross, and finished off by attempting a few of the poses in my yoga book. Oh, and I ironed a shirt. I’m not going completely to pieces with my wife in a different country, am I?
*My opinion is fundamentally untrustworthy here, as the main phrases I know to say in Swedish are “good girl” and “newly painted dogs”. But I’m a good bluffer.