First post of the working week.

A weekend of frenetic cleaning and shifting interspersing mucking about on the computer, lying around listening to music and watching telly: pretty much normal, then.

Saturday Furtle blitzed the living room and then hovered the bedroom while I spent the same amount of time tackling the built up washing up of a week (no matter how we try, within an hour, the kitchen looks like everyone on the planet has cooked in it again) and then cleaned the kitchen floor. I don’t know who, I don’t think it was me, did something to the floor and it was well on the way to developing that student union bar floor feel. A good sluicing with Flash later and you could eat your dinner off it.

Sadly that was Saturday; I wouldn’t recommend it now.

We found time to wander into Finchley on Sunday lunchtime and I impressed myself by spending only £3.99 on fripperies, being a heavily discounted Wolves calendar for 2008. I was mildly surprised to see it in North Finchley and less than surprised to see it discounted. The place is hardly a hotbed of support for the team.

Sunday afternoon saw Furtle set to the building of the new exercise bike while I partially dismantled a bookshelf and rebuilt it in a different configuration. Seven seasons of X-Files tapes are eventually to go elsewhere and we are using the space now for books. Well, we’re using the bottom shelf for books. The remaining shelves are, as ever, covered in ‘collectibles’ but they are better displayed now. So it was that I manage to type the phrase “I dusted Buffy’s cleavage” and mean it.

Meantime, the exercise bike grew and grew. It is officially a “Carl Lewis exercise bike”, but it clearly comes from the Topsy school of growth. Once Furtle had completed it, the handlebars sat there protruding like a bull’s horns and the entire thing looks like a pedal power version of a Star Wars speed bike. Just sitting on the brute risks nausea from vertigo; we decided that what with one activity and another, we had used up enough calories in the building and tidy up to excuse us from trying the bugger out. It is currently sitting there snorting at us and stamping its feet. I guess that we will have to bite the bullet and start pedalling at some point.

First post of the working week.

A weekend of frenetic cleaning and shifting interspersing mucking about on the computer, lying around listening to music and watching telly: pretty much normal, then.

Saturday Furtle blitzed the living room and then hovered the bedroom while I spent the same amount of time tackling the built up washing up of a week (no matter how we try, within an hour, the kitchen looks like everyone on the planet has cooked in it again) and then cleaned the kitchen floor. I don’t know who, I don’t think it was me, did something to the floor and it was well on the way to developing that student union bar floor feel. A good sluicing with Flash later and you could eat your dinner off it.

Sadly that was Saturday; I wouldn’t recommend it now.

We found time to wander into Finchley on Sunday lunchtime and I impressed myself by spending only £3.99 on fripperies, being a heavily discounted Wolves calendar for 2008. I was mildly surprised to see it in North Finchley and less than surprised to see it discounted. The place is hardly a hotbed of support for the team.

Sunday afternoon saw Furtle set to the building of the new exercise bike while I partially dismantled a bookshelf and rebuilt it in a different configuration. Seven seasons of X-Files tapes are eventually to go elsewhere and we are using the space now for books. Well, we’re using the bottom shelf for books. The remaining shelves are, as ever, covered in ‘collectibles’ but they are better displayed now. So it was that I manage to type the phrase “I dusted Buffy’s cleavage” and mean it.

Meantime, the exercise bike grew and grew. It is officially a “Carl Lewis exercise bike”, but it clearly comes from the Topsy school of growth. Once Furtle had completed it, the handlebars sat there protruding like a bull’s horns and the entire thing looks like a pedal power version of a Star Wars speed bike. Just sitting on the brute risks nausea from vertigo; we decided that what with one activity and another, we had used up enough calories in the building and tidy up to excuse us from trying the bugger out. It is currently sitting there snorting at us and stamping its feet. I guess that we will have to bite the bullet and start pedalling at some point.

High Anxiety

Well I just managed to scare myself for the flimsiest of reasons.

I had a very slight nosebleed and it scared the bejasus out of me.

Those of my friends list who have been with me for a couple of years ago will recall the horror of July 2005 when I ended up in A&E with a nose that had insisted on bleeding for large portions of the preceding four days and which was finally sorted by a procedure involving cauterisation.

This clearly left a deep and abiding impression on yours truly. It took one blob of blood to get me worried and a second after I’d blown my nose to raise me to an impressive level of anxiety that would no doubt have done my blood pressure no good at all. Once I’d calmed down a bit I had to go outside for some fresh air just to replenish my usual sang froid.

The trouble is, you see, that I don’t get nose bleeds. I never have, unless something has hit me hard on the nose, and not always then, even.

Two years ago I ignored the initial nose bleed, thinking it to be nothing. Then it came back and back and back. That, I think is the underlying anxiety behind something that most people –myself included in previous years- would barely register.

What a wuss I am. An anxious wuss, but a wuss nonetheless.

High Anxiety

Well I just managed to scare myself for the flimsiest of reasons.

I had a very slight nosebleed and it scared the bejasus out of me.

Those of my friends list who have been with me for a couple of years ago will recall the horror of July 2005 when I ended up in A&E with a nose that had insisted on bleeding for large portions of the preceding four days and which was finally sorted by a procedure involving cauterisation.

This clearly left a deep and abiding impression on yours truly. It took one blob of blood to get me worried and a second after I’d blown my nose to raise me to an impressive level of anxiety that would no doubt have done my blood pressure no good at all. Once I’d calmed down a bit I had to go outside for some fresh air just to replenish my usual sang froid.

The trouble is, you see, that I don’t get nose bleeds. I never have, unless something has hit me hard on the nose, and not always then, even.

Two years ago I ignored the initial nose bleed, thinking it to be nothing. Then it came back and back and back. That, I think is the underlying anxiety behind something that most people –myself included in previous years- would barely register.

What a wuss I am. An anxious wuss, but a wuss nonetheless.