I’ve surprised people over the years with my knowledge of football. I’m a language geek, a wrestling nerd, not cool, a follower of football, a deifier of people earning plaudits and millions for kicking around a bag of air.
Admittedly I know nothing about nor care a jot about football from the 90s and onward, but this wasn’t always the case.
Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with a catchy title that summed up the various threads that woven together will comprise this post, so I stole a little from Radio’s post on the same subject.
The Moosemobile is the name that Big J (”He’s big, and his name’s J“) gave to my car, in reference to an old nickname for me that he still uses, Moosedog. (Now you know what that little drawing at the side of the Meddysong logo is 
)
Today’s been two days in one.
It’s not that I’m particularly busy, since I couldn’t honestly claim that this is the case. It’s just that my day in the office started at 06:30 and is scheduled to finish at 22:15.
This was totally the norm three years ago, when I was covering three positions. My timesheet once showed 92.25 hours once.
Somebody once asked me how it’s possible to work 92.25 hours in a single week, so here’s a quick explanation:
- Saturday, Sunday, Monday = 15 hours
- Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday = 13 hours
- Friday = 8.25 hours
I’m not slipping into bad habits though: I’ve had a few hours off around lunchtime.
So how does this pertain to now?
I had a meeting for the Language Show to attend yesterday. The meeting took place in Peterborough, which is straight down the A47, a happy coincidence being that my sister lives just off that same road (as do I, for that matter).
This worked out well for me since she’d cagily asked me whether I had any plans for the weekend. You see, it’s our dad’s birthday soon and she wanted her little boy to make him a card. However, she seems to have determined that I have the mind of a child and can probably help Alfie do it better than she can.
So, the die was cast, the fates sealed, and I replied that I could stop by hers en route to the meeting.
One of Radio’s character quirks is to label things she’s never done as ’scary’.
I can agree that an awful lot of things that remain untried could be classed as ’scary’. For example, I’d be apprehensive about doing a tightrope walk over shark-infested water. I’m not sure that Radio’s fears really belong in this category, so, one by one, I’ve tried to encourage her to do ’scary’ things.
She’s now showered several times (a fear of running water causing her no end of misery when hotels don’t have baths and she has to stay there for a while), rowed a boat, driven a car a little bit, and has now been able to somewhat stymie her instinct to squeal if I raise her so much as an inch off the ground.
Yesterday was another occasion to demonstrate to her that she can do everyday things that she thinks are scary.
I went to church today.
Nothing special in that; some three million of my fellow Britons did too.
In my case, though, it was a bit different. I don’t believe in deities. Not those of the Greeks of antiquity (not even when the Romans took them and changed their names), not those of the Vikings, though they live on as part of the days of our week, nor the Judeo-Christian, Muslim, or Hindu versions, regardless of their popularity in certain environments.
The sun would still have risen had Montezuma taken a day off from removing people’s hearts, rain will fall or not fall irrespective of whether villagers dance till their feet are nothing but worn-down stumps, and praying, however earnestly, for someone’s salvation the second you hear that he’s been in an accident won’t magically make him undead.
Yet at 10:30 this morning (plus an additional ten minutes of characteristic unpunctuality), I was present at Living Rock Church of my own volition, preparing to experience a morning’s worship.
Quite the paradox. Vegetarians don’t go to the butcher’s, feminists don’t visit strip clubs … and atheists don’t frequent churches.
Perhaps the most nonsensical post title ever. I am, however, intent on wittering about a chocolate that is apparently sporty.
No, it makes little sense to me either, but love rarely does. And I am in love. Deeply so, with a new beauty in my life.
Yesterday was the 21st of June. It marked our 17th anniversary. (Radio likes to ignore the ‘anni’ part of the word, celebrating every month instead.)
Of course, I had no idea, but she sent me a sweet text in the morning to say “happy 12 + 5 … 17th anniversary!”
In our relationship, though, that date will hold a lot more significance, since it marked a series of steps towards our future.
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