bookmark_borderOn the mend

“You’re free!” he exclaimed.

And, with that, I skipped down the hall.

Well, not really, but he did say I was free, free from attending physio again as, by all accounts my knee is on the mend and there is nothing else they can do for me. He was happy that my left Vastus Medialis had improved sufficiently (you can now see it on my leg, yay) and that I can handle doing some non-impact cardiovascular exercise (bike, cross-trainer and the like).

Now it’s down to me to remember to do my exercise and to get my lazy ass off the sofa and down to the gym a few times a week.

And, because I like to plan these things, I’m aiming to go Monday and Wednesday evenings, and then at some point over the weekend. I won’t be able to do all that much at first, I’m steering clear of anything approaching impact as it’ll only cause the issue to flare up again. But if I take it slow and easy, continue to build up the muscle around my knee correctly, then maybe, just maybe, one day I will jog again. One step at a time.

bookmark_borderWho are you?

Dear Reader,

Firstly, thank you for taking the time to stop by and read my paltry contributions. Thing is, I was wondering if you could do me a small favour, it really shouldn’t take too long.

Could you possibly leave a comment on this post, and let me know where you are from?

That’d be great!

Of course, feel free to heap praise on me and this humble blog if you so wish, but, really, all I’m looking for is to try and capture the people who read this blog and are willing to comment.

Yours in appreciation and thanks,

Gordon

bookmark_borderThe weekend that wasn't

Friday night, drinks are flowing, laughter is heard and, unfortunately so are the voices of … well I won’t names names. Suffice to say there is a very good reason I dislike karoake and Friday night only served to provide me with more ammunition for my argument.

If she talks very nicely to me I might not even put said evidence up on YouTube.

We were in a small restaurant in Dumbarton called Scruples. It’s a BYOB affair, and whilst pretty basic it’s good a well deserved reputation for good food and Firday night was no different. The food was tasty.

Unfortunately the food disagreed with me and I’ve been a bit bleuch all weekend. I had planned to go into work today but never made it and whilst I did get some work done at home it’s not quite the same when you are distracted by, say, a small black cat that is determined to get up onto the windowsill and, yes, he will break the printer drawer and bend the blinds should they dare get in his road!

Wee sod.

So, as I sit here I can’t help think that my weekend has been stolen. I did manage to go out and book an induction at the gym though so at least it wasn’t a complete failure.

And to make sure I have something to show for my weekend, other than an arse shaped dent in the sofa, I’m off to install the Windows 7 Release Candidate. Wish me luck!

bookmark_borderLessons learned

It’s all go at McLean Mansions but that’s nothing new for the first week in May with my sister celebrating her birthday on the 5th and my sister-in-law celebrating hers on the 7th. Of course that means presents and nice meals in restaurants, so we were out for dinner on Monday evening, and we’re back out tonight. Twice in one week! I know, I know, such a heady life I lead.

It’s not all fun and games though, I’ve spent the rest of my evenings either watching football, working on a client website, and royally screwing up my Windows PC (thank heavens I have a Macbook as well). Add in a fairly mental week at work and a rapidly filling list of things to do and I’ll admit that I’ve not really been fully concentrating on some things.

In other words I’ve fucked up a couple of things. But hey, a wise man once said you “learn by your mistakes”, although this stupid man is wondering how many more mistakes I need to make before being granted “wise” status.

However, in the spirit of sharing, here are a couple of the lessons learned.

* Geek warning active *
Continue reading “Lessons learned”

bookmark_borderWhy can’t I own Englishmen?

There was a bit of a stramash in the Scottish press yesterday, when a fairly high profile Reverend in the Church of Scotland coming out of the closest and declaring himself a big gay (those may not have been his exact words…). As many of you will already know, religion and homosexuality don’t mix very wel at all, with homosexuality being stated as an “abomination to God” by some.

Yes, don’t worry, it really is 2009.

Big Rab picked up on this news as well, saying:

The whole thing reminded me once again of the excellent “Why can’t I own a Canadian?” letter and the episode of the West Wing on which it is allegedly based. I don’t know if the letter is genuine but it sure covers all the relevant points.

I’m not going to repeat the entire thing here but it’s funny and pointed and you can read the full thing on his blog:

Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can’t I own Canadians?

bookmark_borderChapter 2

Her hair ruffles gently in his breath, deep and slow. Waking from slumber he dares not move his arm for fear of waking her, instead he lies there quietly holding her safe from harm. He savours moments like these, the gentle companionship of sleep holding her there with him and he feels the soft glow lighting inside. Slowly he gazes over her, taking in the sweep of her neck, the curve of her hips, the silk sheen of downy hairs that catch the light.

She snuffles and pulls his arm tighter, wrapping herself in him like a blanket, so content she almost purrs, and in that instant his heart explodes all over again.

A yawn now and pale eyes turn to gaze at him, sleepy and soft she blinks through the morning light which turns her skin golden, gently bathing the room through soft billowing curtains. It’s almost too idyllic, he thinks, as he lowers his face to hers, a gentle kiss to welcome another day.

Sleepily they doze on, happy and content to be there and now, existing only with each other. The morning starts to unfold around them, the sounds of neighbours getting ready for their day, the distant clatter of plates, the thunk of toasters and burbling motors churn away down the street. Pet sounds join the bird song and the melody is complete.

“We should get up” she murmurs, a quiet lie to herself.

“We should” he agrees, content that she won’t stir yet, that he has a few more precious seconds and with that thought he wills her back to sleep, desperate to keep her there forever.

Her breathing deepens again and he relaxes with her. His view shifts to the photos on the wall, the happy strangers and their blank stares. The sunlight casting soft echoes across the room, fluttering on the breeze, sliding smoothly up the wall. He knows the patterns of the morning well, the change in the air as the sun pulls itself up and over the balcony, the glow becoming warmth, and the growing babble in the street below permeates the room before being silenced by her presence; taboo sounds of everyday life jostle and bustle on the extremities but know better than to disturb such sacred tranquility.

Movement startles him back to reality as she stretches, feline and supple, and once more he enjoys the sensuous lines of her body, she uncurls from him and her tousled hair drops to her shoulders as she turns to sit on the edge of the bed.

She murmurs something he doesn’t catch and, with a pause, is upright and padding to the bathroom. He watches her go, laughing to himself as the corny line leaps into his head, he does hate to see her go but could spend hours watching her leave.

He rolls onto his back and shakes out his sleeping arm, enjoying the pins and needles and the final remnants of warmth in her bedsheets. He yawns, stretches and finally gives in, dropping his feet over the edge of the bed as he pulls himself up.

“Hey sleepyhead” she purrs as she walks into the room, “what do you fancy for breakfast… and don’t say me”.

With a quiet chuckle he stands and turns to face her, his mouth opens to form the usual reply but as she watches his eyes suddenly slacken. With a tilt he collapses forward, catching the edge of the bed as he spins and slumps heavily to the floor.

The room erupts in noise as she empties her lungs to the air. She frantically scrabbles her way over the bed and lands on the floor next to him, hauling him faceup whilst screaming his name. She feels something wet on her hands, letting him go in horror as the blood begins to flow, a small well of red at the base of his neck, weeping scarlet.

Across the street the sun mirrors off broken glass, jagged in a window frame, and a flicker of movement beyond is captured, a fleeting glimpse as the assasin retreats to the safety of the shadows.

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