My friend Ruth who had got me into all this running lark - and by association, dragging Noel into it too - had warned me about Runners' Tummy, latterly known as doing a Paula after world champion marathon runner Paula Radcliffe had to - er - go, in a runners' tummy kind of way, in full public view.
Seven kilometres into the 10k Abbey Dash, Noel got that sinking feeling. You know the kind, not the bottom dropping out of your world, more like the world dropping out of your bottom and the need for a quick solution to a pressing problem.
Well, as they say on the adverts, you can't get quicker than a Kwik Fit fitter and the door to the well-known tyre retailers and offerers of conveniences when they are most needed was open, long with the doors to the toilets.
Noel reckons he lost about five minutes or so during the unscheduled stop, that and about a kilo, but undaunted, he strided out, promising the Kwik-Fitters he'd buy his next tyres from them - and promise never to use their loos again.
He still managed to get in under the hour and beat me. I was running under a triple handicap. First I was taking photos as I ran; second, the fabulously solid and wobble-free sports bra purchased from my new favourite online shop Booby Do had somehow been put on inside out, I've no idea how I managed to do that, but the hook stuck into my back and must have added minutes to my time...My third handicap is I can't actually run very well, but, hey, it's the taking part! And at my age I'm not just a veteran, I'm a super veteran, so 79th out of 121 in my class wasn't bad.
Noel came first in the pebble-dashing class, though I think he was the only entry.
Meeting up with my old mate Andy Green is always an adventure. As you'd expect from someone who runs a creativity business offering the smallest conference venue in the world in his Smart car, there's never a dull moment.
The last time we met for lunch in a garden centre where we ate stew and dumplings surrounded by catoneaster and the local Darby and Joan Club who seemed to be holding some sort of quiz. Today was a business meeting, so it was back to our usual haunt at Batley's Red Brick Mill which offers posh egg and chips and poncy pie with mushy peas served up in an espresso cup.
After we'd managed to talk about everything except business for an hour, then serious business for five minutes, Andy announced I should meet his mate Claudio the Brazilian drummer.
Excellent, I thought, I could do to let my hair down at a samba gig, I might even persuade Noel to dance, well, I live in hope! I was wondering which of Leeds' many fantastic clubs he was inviting me to when stood up and said we should head up to the kitchen showroom on the next floor as Claudio was behind the carpet tiles.
I've known Andy a long time so I didn't question him. There was no sign of him being under great stress or strain, nor did he seem to be suffering hallucinations, so I went along with him, I mean, what's the WORST that can happen? I could just pretend to admire the kitchens and humour him. But there it was, behind the carpet tiles and down a couple of stairs, a door - and Claudio's office, which was crammed with drums, photographs, back-stage passes from worldwide gigs, CDs.and Claudio's coolness. Hey, the dude is cool.
Claudio greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks, swinging his impressive dreadlocks as he moved, with him was his producer Grant (oh good grief, a real life record producer!) I felt I'd gone from no-biz to showbiz. Andy's connection with Claudio is to act as PR guru to his Drumming 4 Business, which offers percussion team-building for the rhythmically-challenged. He celebrates ten years in Drumming 4 Business next year and why he ended up in Batley will have to be the subject of another visit. He and Andy were discussing ways of making PR capital.
'2010?' I asked. It's World Cup year in South Africa - where visiting countries want to ban the noisy trumpet used by supporters.
'Why not write a drum anthem for them?'........They liked it...maybe they'll let me join in...or even just carry the bags...I'll be no trouble...
As I left, Claudio kissed me again (sigh) and handed me a sampler of his latest CD, I may yet get Noel dancing!
His website is here
And this is me to him, like, how many of the top 50 albums have you got on your iPod?
And this is him to me, well I downloaded them all to my iPod and they're, like, sweet and stuff
And this is me to him, like, so did you go to the gigs and everything and get near the stage and throw your wee at them and everything?
And this is him to me, you're sooo 20th century with all that Oasis shit, I mean, like, they've broken up and not talking to each other and not even singing together or anything and, like, it's so, so...
Harsh, says I to him
Harsh, says he to me, but like, I'm into The Strokes and the Libertines
And this is me to him, yea, but they're so, you know, so.....I don't know, bro' 'cos I've never heard of them.
And this is him to me, like, you's such a, such a, well, square. You're so uncool, you're like a hit thing, like where they put coal and wood and set fire to it and shit..
And so it proves to be. The New Musical Express has published the top 50 albums of the noughties, top is The Strokes (Is this it?) followed by The Libertines (Up the bracket) then many bands I've never heard of, I won't embarass myself by saying, in a raised and incredulous voice 'Isn't Wilco that cheap shop?' or ' Interpol? Are they allowed to make records, aren't they top secret or something?' I actually have one album (Elbow) but that's my lot, though if the Killers and Coldplay had been there, I'd be, well, still very uncool...
If you want to check out your coolness factor, the list is here
Random
My septuagenarian in-laws are off on their travels again, this time with a mission. I've blogged before about their fame in the horticultural world. they certainly do have flower power. In fact it's coming up to the first anniversary of HRH the Prince of Wales pinning an MBE on James' lapel for his services to the tulip world.
But this latest trip is not tulip-related, it's all about daffodils; daffodils in winter, daffodils in Spain. Next week they are picking up their trusty friend Janet and flying out to Asturias where they hope to find Cedric Morris. Janet, the pet name for their satnav, is reliable in locating obscure map references. UInfortunately she's can't work miracles when it comes to tracking down Cedric, as he was last seen 50 years ago on a steep banking near Gijon.
Cedric Morris is a rare daffodil in those parts, with sightings rare and unsupported by photographic evidence. The daffodil, named after artist and plantsman Sir Cedric Lockwood Morris (1989-1982) is unusal because it flowers in November.
So it's off to Oviedo they go, with more optimisim about finding good food and wine than Cedric, but, hey, they'll certainly have fun trying.
Thanks to Wikipedia for the photo - let's hope I can take use James' next time!
I knew today was going to be cool and crisp and sunny, so chucked the sunglasses case into my bag and headed for the train. By the time I emerged in Nottingham, the sun was bright, so I unzipped the case, only to find I'd brought Noel's glacier glasses by mistake.
Mine have interchangeable lenses, so can be glacier glasses, but Noel's are the classic leather-sided black-rimmed sort seen on Chris Bonnington. I'd describe my fashion look today as Mountain Business Chic.
So I blame the low visibility for my getting lost.
As I tried to fumble my way across the city, I bumped into a postie who cheerfully pointed me in the right direction and kindly turned my map the right way round. The second time I saw him, he turned me the right way round.and told me to ignore the map as it clearly wasn't helping. The third time, he sighed, pointed up the hill I'd just stagged down, and told me not to worry, he'd be back there in an hour if I was still lost.
The irony was I'd arrived 45 minutes early and had wandered off to take photos, relying on my finly-honed sense of direction to get me back on track. In my defence, can I say I got to my destination on time? Just?
Just following recipes without question can lead to over-catering.
Granted, the recipe for Nigel Slater's scrummy figgy puddings is for two medium-sized puds is to serve eight each, but when I'd weighed out all the ingredients, they filled two bowls which were twice the size of the pudding bowls.
Now, let's just take a moment here, I have previous for lack of volumetic awareness - there was the emptying of the bean bag contents into a small box incident. I'm still finding the damned things all over the place.
Somethig must have gone wrong somewhere. The two medium puddings have become four, with four mini puds to spare. As Noel would say, result!
Pudding anyone?
The countdown is on. Come January, Noel is shunning the world of computers, project management and all things technical. He's swapping his suit for salopettes , his briefcase for skis and his pen for poles. He's threatening to grow his hair into a pony tail, dye it blue and cultivate a gnarl stripe. He's gone on a cheese diet to prepare himself for three months of Swiss fondue and is practising punctuality, setting his watch to Swiss Precise Time (that's the biggest challenge). He's even brushing up on his German, though where he's going in Gstaad is just on the border of the French and German languages. Yes, Noel is going to be a ski bum. Well, not quite a bum, more of a buttock, as he's training to be a ski instructor.
He's not in the first flush of youth, so when he tells people he's leaving sensible and stable work to train as an instructor, he's met first with incredulity, then with envy then raging jealously.
'You lucky b@!!!!!!' say mostt
'I wish I had the guts to do that', say some
and....
'Will you teach me?!' say the rest.
Of course, I'm totally supporting hi in this - who wouldn't want to be married to a ski instructor? And, hey, we'll never be rich! We did the sums, it made no sense for him to hire skis - and as I will be joining him at weekends, we thought we'd try get discount for bulk. Naturally mine are orange - and phat. And they arrived today. Unfortunately, Noel's aren't here yet....
I understand it's snowing in Utah....and I have time on my hands......
I couldn't believe it, The meal was finished, the plates were being put away, Clare had managed to eat two portons of the very rich, very chocolatey pudding and was giving her full tummy a contented pat.
'I know you wouldn't expect me to say this,' she said 'But my favourite was the cabbage'.
There was a stunned silence, you could have heard the sound of chocolate melting.
I wasn't counting who of the six around the table had eaten what, I only knew about the pudding thing because there was just one left - and everyone knows that once it's out if the wrapper and put into a pudding, chocolate goes off very quickly, almost immediately, and must be consumed straight away.
It seems the same was thought about the cabbage as here was a general confession around the table that the red cabbage braised in wine was a great hit - even with Martin who has an aversion to all things brassica.
I think I'll make that recipe again - maybe I'll try adding chocolate...
Forget about packing the picnic hamper with potted beef sandwiches and lashings of ginger beer, this more discerning Five headed straight for the coffee and cake after the 60-mile drive to Chatsworth House.
Digital Knave (Nick), JinkyJim (Paul, who has never been called Jim, it's not even his middle name) BaggyJumper (Julia, whose jumpers seem to fit well) and Sicliff (Simon) along with myself were the Flickr Five let loose with cameras to capture the Beyond Limits sculpture exhibition.
We're a pretty arty lot ourselves, the joint navigational skills of Paul and myself were poetry in motion, though the motion was sometimes in the wrong direction. This set the tone for the day, frivolity and giddiness, plus giggling at the anatomical features of some sculptures - and discussions of comparative sizes, the effect of the cold and artistic licence. And us all grown up, I ASK you.
The sculptures were scattered around the beautiful grounds, framed in a fabulous setting and reflecting the blazing colours of autumn. Given the challenge of getting there, the wisdom of either Paul or me stepping into the maze was questionable, but it seemed such a small maze. How wrong can a person be? After a bit of wandering and a lot of about turns, we gave up, exiting to see Nick watching us from a vantage point, he'd already been in, found the centre, signed the book there and left. We couldn't really challenge him, which of us was EVER going to get to the centre to prove him wrong?
Our artistic sensibilities were challenged when we came across this coloured scooter -like sculpture. Was it a political statement, or maybe a representation of love and its many facets? Could it describe loneliness and desolation? We pondered but had no answers, though glad of the intellectual stimulation and fired up for more cake to fuel our thoughts, we headed for the cakery, only to be overtaken by a child who had taken the scooter sculpture and was about to beat us to the last slice of ginger and Marmite cake.
Who says art isn't fun?
'
......Two of the final lines from a little-known but very enjoyable 1980 film starring Walter Matthau and Glenda Jackson. I know them off by heart, along with pretty much the rest of the film, its sets, the costumes and those quaint late 1970s fashions.
Not that Hopscotch is a great film, it's so-so, worth the admission price at the cinema. What makes it special is that along with Top Gun and the TV version of Pride and Prejudice, it's one of my comfort programmes. The programmes I watch when I'm poorly, sad or just watch to be massively self-indulgent. You see, I have Swine Flu. Well, probably not flu and possibly not porcine, but definitely a cold, or at least a bit of a sore throat. I'm not a very good patient, there's far too much to do and too little time to do it to spend languishing in bed coughing, spluttering, sneezing and making mucus (by the way, why IS it green?), but there comes a point where you just have to rest and let it takes its course.
One sure way of making me feel better when I'm poorly is to curl up on the sofa with a fluffy blanket and a steaming mug of tea, turn off the mobile, allow the cat to settle, usually making a warm nest on my tummy and zap the TV with the remote and let the credits roll. The sad and self-indulgent versions involve alcohol and chocolate, but as I currently have no taste buds, and feel dizzy enough, I'll go with the tea and save the chocolate for later.
I don't remember how Hoscotch became one of my comfort films, it's not soppy, or even a classic, I think it just happened to be on TV on one of the rare occasions I had to admit I was sick. I guess the same could be said of Top Gun which I can never watch too many times, what with all that fancy camerawork and fabulous flying and great, if corny, one-liners......ooooo, you can be MY wingman any time.......bullshit.....you can be mine. Pride and Prejudice is of course in a class of its own, I even managed to quote it in my dissertation, the wet shirt scene......gosh, I've come over all unnecessary. And do you know what? I feel better already.
Now, where's the alcohol and chocolate?
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Recent Comments
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Nicola said:
I've got 6 out of 50.... still not cool tho ;~) read more
on I'm like so uncool, I'm like a hot thing, man..... -
matthieuf said:
Can I join the uncool club as well please?I've got one: The White Stripes - ElephantMatthew. read more
on I'm like so uncool, I'm like a hot thing, man..... -
matthieuf said:
And I notice you're trying them out on your bed? read more
on Well, MY skis have arrived..... -
TahoeGirl said:
[this is good]Gorgeous skis! And yes, snow in Utah and Colorado <sob>. Not Tahoe. read more
on Well, MY skis have arrived.....
Oh, I tell you what, I had some terrible problems after the last half marathon I did. Sy no more.... read more
on Pebbledashed Abbey Dash and Booby-do boob