1. Bum ache: too much sitting today. And the glute machine yesterday.
2. Thigh pains from going up and down the stairs. Well, exacerbated by that. The pains date from many many many squats yesterday, plus two different sorts of leg press. Leg pressing a hundred kilograms at a time, for three sets of fifteen. Doing all this twice.
3. Headache. Haven’t got any nurofen and the coffee has helped, but not quite enough. Forgot to ask brother to bring me some.
4. Exhaustion: not strictly a pain but, you know, I need my sleep and am not being allowed it.
In other news: no-one is letting me watch the tennis.
I could do this more often, actually: sit outside on my laptop, typing. I don’t know why I never do, why I always write my blog on the phone. Actually, I do know one reason: the sun shines on the screen so can’t actually see what am writing, or have written.
Maybe can talk to my Seb in a bit. Haven’t checked my phone all day. Haven’t done Anything all day other than perform in front of the camera and repeat things and walk down the street several times and “can we just do that again with your legs pointing the other way” or “can we just go back to that bit where you said something dull at great length and can you repeat it” and “can you just adjust your dress so we don’t see the microphone” or “can you just make us all another cup of tea.”
On the plus side: tomorrow no one can make me do anything. Tomorrow am going to Spin at ten and then am coming home and am making The Omelette and watching the tennis and cannot wait for tomorrow. There is an extra frisson of excitement as Mum will be There, on Centre Court. So may well see her.
On Monday will be attending my Office for the first time in a couple of weeks, which either will, or maybe won’t, be good. Tired. And it is not that likely that will be feeling too much better in another couple of days.
Miss my Seb. Must get on top of things and, oh yes, must find the details of that thing am going to with Seb at the Zoo. Have an unpleasant feeling that need printed tickets for it and booked Months ago and wonder where is the email. Know that sent it to him, but that is no use is it. He won’t know where it is.
Didn’t end up seeing the fluffy monster that much yesterday. Achieved a small cuddle but there was an incident where…let us not think about it. That baby blackbird is absolutely fine. Apart from the wound on his back and, of course,he lost a few feathers. Seb says “it’s the little birds that die of shock straight away. A blackbird ought to be alright”.
Soon, very soon, it will be suppertime. Or it won’t. Who knows. Am exhausted. Am the most exhausted, and, it has to be said, hot and sweaty person ever. But it’s all in a good cause. Or it isn’t. Who knows. The last time I was on television I was ten years younger and a stone lighter than this. But it’s all Experience isn’t it. Or something. Tired. And have a bit of chest pain. Or that ought to have gone in Painventory although it has just arrived. And cramp in hands. No one should be forced to spend this amount of time writing a load of rubbish.
Now am at long last on my bike at the gym. The attached photo is the view that can see as am cycling and typing this.
Happy Saturday everyone!
*1956. By Carolyn Keene, the pseudonym of Harriet Stratemeyer Adams. Volume 34 in the Nancy Drew mystery series.