For the first time in days, I didn’t feel like utter death this morning. I guess it was a combination of sleeping a bit more than a couple of hours, and not being hungover on cider. The little things.
I spent much of the morning reading Joe Abercrombie’s The Trouble With Peace, five hundred pages of neo-Luddite heroic fantasy with extra mad Northerners. In between drinking coffee and eating croissants, I finished the book – it ended more upbeat than I’d expected, but maybe that’s because I’ve been invited to George RR Martin’s lets just have everyone die approach.
In between that, I had to read to Destroyer about dragons, and distract the girls by dancing like a chicken around the living room.
It was Pi Day today (in US nomenclature, it’s 3/14) so pie shops were discounting pie. My wife ordered some delicious pies from our local store, via Doordash, but through some typical internet intermediary cock up, we never got any pie, which made me sad and hungry. I don’t like being hungry, I realise.
Possibly the psychic exhaustion of not having pie, or the physical exhaustion of walking around like a chicken, I was a husk when it came to climbing tonight. I managed less than half an hour, in which I spent most of my time just falling off things. Either that’s a week of not exercising has left me weak and feeble.