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…both metaphorically and very literally.

2pm local time yesterday I sat sweating in the relative cool of the hotel reception, the thermometer on the wall proudly boasting 34 degrees C in said relatively cool area (it must have been another 5 degrees warmer outside.  It was – and at the risk of dumbfounding you with meteorological jargon - stinking fucking hot).  Shortly before midnight last night our flight captain cheerfully announced that the temperature at our destination was minus 1.  At this point I regretted my choice of returning-home outfit: shorts and flip flops.

Fast forward selecta to 7am this morning.  I’m scraping ice and frozen snow from my car windscreen.  The driver’s side of the windscreen cleared, I move around the front of the car to clear the other half, only to slip on a patch of ice, and literally legs up in the air, land full on my cold, flabby bottom.

Fortunately the additional padding from a fortnight of ridiculously cheap beer and ridiculously cheap and ridiculously good food softened the blow somewhat.

 

Actual conversation with whatsername:

 

Her: I think we’ve both put weight on this holiday.  We need to go on a diet when we get back.

Me: I thought I’d lost a bit of weight.

Her: Boobs are bigger.

Me: Well that’s good news.

Her: No, your boobs are bigger.

Me: Oh.

 

So it’s back to dieting again.  The knee feels a lot better now, so after Christmas I will attempt a couple of short, slow jogs to test it out.  Then I have until March 14th to prepare myself for the kilomathon, hopefully losing a bit of timber in the process.

 

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