Well, on Sunday morning, I donned my tracksuit, wired myself up to the heart monitor, and headed out. Given the lack of training over the last week, and the fact that I was going be running in Edinburgh (less flat than Peterborough) I decided that a circuit of Arthur's Seat, which should take about an hour from the flat, would be an excellent start. I went outside and turned the Garmin on, whereupon it started to tease me. It has to locate the necessary satellites, and often takes a few minutes to do this. Irritatingly, it has a bar that supposedly indicates its progress in this, but what actually happens, especially when you change locations, is that the bar indicates almost complete, and then drops back to half way. Sometimes it does this several times. I think it's going, "yep, yep, yep, Woah, it says we're in Edinburgh. That can't be right! I'd better check that again. Woah... still Edinburgh. Right, once more. NO!" Then it asks some questions, which go, "Are you indoors right now?" "Have you moved several hundred miles since you last used this?" (This part is true, by the way). Then it starts again. This is OK in Peterborough, where summer means that the temperature is, you know, over 16C, but let me tell you, ten minutes of this in Edinburgh, I had nipples like bullets.
Anyway. (I definitely overuse the word anyway). I set off eventually. I was struck by how much less friendly runners, and passers by generally, are in Edinburgh, than in either Thornbury or Chirk. Never mind. I suppose in cities you have more reason to be suspicious. I passed two American ladies out for a run, when I'd started my ascent of Arthur's Seat, and caught a snippet of their conversation "so all the hours of organising and making sure the clients were covered, has all been absolutely worthwhile, because I got to do THIS". Which made me wonder if she's always been looking forward to running around Arthur's Seat as some sort of dream goal, or whether she was enjoying the Edinburgh Festival.
I had a minor dilemma over which way round I should run Holyrood Park. I intended a complete circuit this time, so could choose - either downhill first, then a slow ascent, and then downhill again, or steep ascent, slow descent, and then a climb. I suppose in potential energy it shouldn't make too much differenece, but I decided that the second would bethe more challenging option, and I needed challenge. I could tell you about managing to get my running nose to go down my throat without gagging, instead of down my face, and then almost choking, but you wouldn't thank me for it, so I won't. Oh, whoops.
On the way back home, I observed how quickly a light breeze reduced my warmth gained from running to shivers in an instant. Moments later I passed a lady wearing a green sari and a full length woolly winter coat, whose shoulders were hunched into the wind and we exchanged a meaningful glance that said - this chill is miserable, isn't it? Although in all honesty, her glance might equally have said - what on earth are you doing out dressed like that, in this weather? Generally I like having meaningful exchanges of glances with people, though it almost always happens in foul weather, I've noticed. (Mind you, I tend not to notice the more romantic sort...)
I somehow struggled all the way home, egged on by some heavy droplets of rain, and maintained a good spead of 10 m/m average, for my 6 miles, which I was pleased with. The shower helped warm me up, and I hastily set out to catch "Best of the Fest", which again, had a guest appearance from The Magnets (again, enabling me to a comp ticket). After the shenanigans of a ventriloquist, a card sleight of hand artist and an Australian comedian (who made me think of Sally, actually, as he recounted a problem he'd had with gulls waking him in the morning. In Australia, it was a couple of crows, and in Ireland, it was pigeons. But in Edinburgh, it was seagulls. He said they tapped on his window in the morning. And as he said, "But you know, your seagulls aren't just bird-sized, they're like 12-year-olds in costume" which I thought was remarkably true.). After the show, I set out to see a show by a girl I met at Andi Osho's show early in the month. I don't know what it was that had impressed me about her and her friend, but they both told me about their shows, and they sounded powerful stuff, so one of the things I really wanted to use my extra time for was to see their shows. Happily they hadn't sold out. Hers was called Dream Pill, and was about the sombre subject of sex trade of young girls from Nigeria.
I saw my friend in the ladies just before the show, and she remembered me, too, and seemed really pleased I'd come to her show - it was her last day. But, wow. It was brilliant. The two little girls (well, actually young women, but convincingly playing a 9 and 10 year old) were utterly charming, and we loved them straight away. It was with trepidation that we engaged with them. We knew this story wasn't going to have a good ending. And we were right. The innocence of the two girls made their horror story unbearable. It made me feel utterly helpless and genuinely horrified and sickened. I was in tears by the end of the show. I wanted to do some shopping, but my emotions were so intense, I felt it was only right to wait for the actress to come out so I could congratulate her. And her friend, who I'd met with her, was also waiting - like her, he remembered me immediately. He was delighted when I said I was coming to his show, Mad about the Boy, the next day. I was excited to learn that he had picked up a Scotsman Fringe First award earlier that week. It baffled me that Dream Pill hadn't had an award too, in all honesty.
Well, the evening held my penultimate Magnets gig for the 2011 Fringe, and had a drink with the Magnets and their fanbase, including Britta, who regularly travels over from Germany to see them (when they aren't touring there), proving that they do have fans more devoted than me (you can also replace that with "bonkers") and was actually celebrating her anniversary of the first time she saw the Magnets; then I was honoured to be a guest at the Magnets "aftershow party" (even though they hadn't quite finished, it made most logistical sense to have the party then) which was a meal in a delightful family-run Italian restaurant, Cafe Artista, in Marchmont. It was a merry occasion, with much vino consumed, and toasts made by all. I suggested a song for the owner, Bruno, which, once he understood that we weren't asking him to sing, seemed quite pleased, and certainly tapped his foot all the way through "I don't feel like dancing", which was sung by not just the boys, but all the "WAGS" as well. (I didn't spoil it, although I did hum along a little). Maybe the Magnets should consider broadening out a little...
Perhaps a little too much wine though... to really consider myself "back on track".
Monday 29 August 2011
Another trip.
I'm still going with the best plan for dealing with a cold being to ignore the fact that you have one. Well, that and drinking a tonne of orange juice, green tea (which I have recently decided is the cure of all ills) and glug echinacea (tincture, always) at every opportunity. In accordance with the instructions. Under no circumstances, though, should you pander to a cold by taking time off from your hectic lifestyle. But that's a given already, right?
Well the weekend came round eventually, after four days of not (really) training - pilates counting more as an antidote to aching muscles than training per se. And what I had planned this weekend, the August bank holiday weekend, was a weekend off, where I would relax, do a bit of gardening and housework (long-overdue) and possibly pop over to Melton for my cousin's birthday celebration, advertised on Facebook as a party called "Destroy the Silence", where I am assuming his band, Pretentious, Moi? would be playing. Although in all honesty, I decided some time ago that I wasn't going to be able to do this, so I actually have no idea where the party was. In the event, it was as well I'd let him down gently at an early stage, because I ended up going back up to Edinburgh.
I know, I know, I've already been to Edinburgh - and what a great time I had! But you know, there are some friends that you'll do anything for, because when they ask, it's because they need your help, and you both know that when you need each other, that's when it's important. It kind of reinforces the friendship. It's good. Well, that happened. Emma rang. She said her plans had fallen through, and she didn't know what to do. She had to get her 8-week old daughter Dorrie, her son Jasper, and a month's worth of stuff, home from Edinburgh on the train. Her husband had to go straight to the next gig. She was by herself.
I'd like to sound like a hero here, and say I just told her straight off, "yep, I'll come". That is, of course, what happened, but the lack of heroism is because of how close I was to doing that anyway. The rational side of my brain said that I needed the weekend at home, sort self out, sort house and garden out, and most of all, sort cat out, train sensibly, get on track. The part of my brain that has taken over as dictator, however, already had a list of shows it wanted to see and had missed. It had psychologically already spent the money for the train ticket. This was simply the extra justification it needed. I'm happy(ish) to report that the majority of those shows had already sold out, so my Dictator-for-Life, Party-till-you-drop brain was foiled, but the missed shows weren't replaced by early to beds and healthy diets.
So, let's see, I had planned on coming up on Friday afternoon, but owing to feeling full of cold, I changed my plans to come up on the Saturday. I actually had a sober, and early to bed week, in a desperate attempt to clear the cold. I thought I'd better do a little more sorting of the house as well, so on Friday, I did some washing up, and generaly tidying, and also picked up about 400 rotten pears off the garden floor, and tried to disperse the drunks (made entirely of wasps, you understand), in preparation for Ian who was coming round to salvage some of the unrotten (less rotten?) pears, and I was keen that he wasn't killed in the process by my stripey, humming friends. More because he had kindly agreed to look after Frank at the same time, than out of genuine concern.
On Saturday, I continued the assault on the house, it was long-overdue, and several loads of washing were achieved. I set off for Edinburgh in the afternoon. I have to say, it still lifts my spirits every time I arrive. I walked over to the Magnets' venue, ensconsed myself at a crowded picnic table outside, and waited for the show to finish. The heavens opened, and a deluge of rain came down, doing little to diminish the crowds, but making me feel slightly smug at my umbrella-protected shelter. I later learned that the deluge had started at about five to seven each night with such precision that the backstage crew were genuinely unnerved by its regularity. The Magnets were just pissed off at the dip in sales on CDs that resulted from their crowds rushing off to seek shelter elsewhere. We made our way back to the flat in the downpour, and had some dinner, before heading out to see the Magnets guest on "The Horne Section" at 11pm, which is a great show, mixing some comedy banter with whacky games, set to some improvised musical accompaniment (including, but not restricted to, horns) and guest turns that I remember fondly from last year. However, we left the flat somewhat late, and had to run all the way to the venue, which was helpful, as it was a great way of kick-starting my belated training activities.
It wasn't the early bedtime Sally has been beseeching me to take. Somehow, it never is.
Well the weekend came round eventually, after four days of not (really) training - pilates counting more as an antidote to aching muscles than training per se. And what I had planned this weekend, the August bank holiday weekend, was a weekend off, where I would relax, do a bit of gardening and housework (long-overdue) and possibly pop over to Melton for my cousin's birthday celebration, advertised on Facebook as a party called "Destroy the Silence", where I am assuming his band, Pretentious, Moi? would be playing. Although in all honesty, I decided some time ago that I wasn't going to be able to do this, so I actually have no idea where the party was. In the event, it was as well I'd let him down gently at an early stage, because I ended up going back up to Edinburgh.
I know, I know, I've already been to Edinburgh - and what a great time I had! But you know, there are some friends that you'll do anything for, because when they ask, it's because they need your help, and you both know that when you need each other, that's when it's important. It kind of reinforces the friendship. It's good. Well, that happened. Emma rang. She said her plans had fallen through, and she didn't know what to do. She had to get her 8-week old daughter Dorrie, her son Jasper, and a month's worth of stuff, home from Edinburgh on the train. Her husband had to go straight to the next gig. She was by herself.
I'd like to sound like a hero here, and say I just told her straight off, "yep, I'll come". That is, of course, what happened, but the lack of heroism is because of how close I was to doing that anyway. The rational side of my brain said that I needed the weekend at home, sort self out, sort house and garden out, and most of all, sort cat out, train sensibly, get on track. The part of my brain that has taken over as dictator, however, already had a list of shows it wanted to see and had missed. It had psychologically already spent the money for the train ticket. This was simply the extra justification it needed. I'm happy(ish) to report that the majority of those shows had already sold out, so my Dictator-for-Life, Party-till-you-drop brain was foiled, but the missed shows weren't replaced by early to beds and healthy diets.
So, let's see, I had planned on coming up on Friday afternoon, but owing to feeling full of cold, I changed my plans to come up on the Saturday. I actually had a sober, and early to bed week, in a desperate attempt to clear the cold. I thought I'd better do a little more sorting of the house as well, so on Friday, I did some washing up, and generaly tidying, and also picked up about 400 rotten pears off the garden floor, and tried to disperse the drunks (made entirely of wasps, you understand), in preparation for Ian who was coming round to salvage some of the unrotten (less rotten?) pears, and I was keen that he wasn't killed in the process by my stripey, humming friends. More because he had kindly agreed to look after Frank at the same time, than out of genuine concern.
On Saturday, I continued the assault on the house, it was long-overdue, and several loads of washing were achieved. I set off for Edinburgh in the afternoon. I have to say, it still lifts my spirits every time I arrive. I walked over to the Magnets' venue, ensconsed myself at a crowded picnic table outside, and waited for the show to finish. The heavens opened, and a deluge of rain came down, doing little to diminish the crowds, but making me feel slightly smug at my umbrella-protected shelter. I later learned that the deluge had started at about five to seven each night with such precision that the backstage crew were genuinely unnerved by its regularity. The Magnets were just pissed off at the dip in sales on CDs that resulted from their crowds rushing off to seek shelter elsewhere. We made our way back to the flat in the downpour, and had some dinner, before heading out to see the Magnets guest on "The Horne Section" at 11pm, which is a great show, mixing some comedy banter with whacky games, set to some improvised musical accompaniment (including, but not restricted to, horns) and guest turns that I remember fondly from last year. However, we left the flat somewhat late, and had to run all the way to the venue, which was helpful, as it was a great way of kick-starting my belated training activities.
It wasn't the early bedtime Sally has been beseeching me to take. Somehow, it never is.
Friday 26 August 2011
Rough with the smooth...
This week started so well... and I had a busy schedule ahead of me. I had the Welsh run "in the bag", and had already made my apologies for Tuesday. Wednesday was an hour's steady run, and , as if she needed an excuse to get into my blog, Sally put under instructions "Just plod along happily but lightly!" She seems to find no irony in issuing two instructions neither of which I stand any likelihood of achieving. On the bright side, I can do plodding along. Thursday was a half hour run to remind my legs they could run two days in a row; and Friday was 45 minutes' swimming. But a facebook query last night from Jeanette prompted the blog updated today... she wanted to know how far I'd run.
I didn't run, however; that's the fact of the matter. I did pilates on Wednesday, which was much more stretchy, and also had the advantage of fitting into a lunch hour. (Having said that, I was ten minutes late for pilates). I promised myself I'd do running straight away after work, but you know what they say about well-laid rodent's plans: they oft gang agley. I went down to the end of the garden to pick runner beans, and ended up being harrassed by drunken wasps. Note to self: wear shoes; don't wear a skirt. I came back inside, going via Maggie's house, and messaged Ian that he should come round immediately and remove the pears from the garden. Then the phone rang, and it was someone who had a delivery for me, and could they come over in an hour? It seemed like a good opportunity to have dinner, but by the time they got there, I was engrossed in planning a play that I'm hoping to direct soon. I couldn't just stop for a run, it would have impeded my creative flow. But I did decide that I'd go to bed early, and do extra on Thursday. I'd get up early or something. Well, what happened then was, I did get to bed early, but I had a whirlwind brain, and couldn't sleep. To the extent that I got up at quarter to one to send some emails.
Needless to say, getting up early didn't happen. Neither did lunchtime, and in the evening I started listening to my body. I came very close to arranging my run, but the sofa won me over, Frank on knee (he's been doing a lot of that lately) and Good Will Hunting on iplayer. I was feeling a bit not altogether, really. I did succeed in going to bed early, and this time it worked (10:30). I woke up feeling refreshed, but unwell. Also, it was really raining. I had a half-day at worked scheduled, in order to do some housework before leaving for Edinburgh... I thought I might do a half-hour run and then go swimming, at lunchtime, which would make up most of my losses, if I recalibrated Monday's run as Wednesday's run. But then what happened was, (a) I didn't succeed in leaving the office till 3, not having stopped for lunch (by which time my timesheet said I'd worked a full week, so taking a half-day was redundant); it was still raining, and my throat was now growling, and interestingly my left eardrum is now crackling gently like a bowl of rice crispies. Swimming, and running in the rain, are not going to happen. I'm still wondering about going out later, but I can't see it happening. It's also going to be difficult to persuade Sally that I didn't rush back into this too quickly, and prolong my cold. I'm still going with the fact I can harbour a cold for several months, and there's no point in waiting for it go away. I'm also wondering if running in a place I like is going to make me feel better, because I'm heading back to Edinburgh this weekend, with slightly different aims this time... I'm mainly going to hang out with Emma and the Magnets, and my added babysitting aims may help incur some early nights... although that might be wishful thinking on my part. Odds are that I'll definitely be in bed earlier than Jasper, from reports I've heard.
Come on everyone... send me some good health vibes. Altogether now... I'm off to drink some green tea, orange juice and echinacea. Not necessarily all at the same time. I could also try some Scottish medicine... whisky.
Oh, on the bright side, I'm all booked up with Races! It's been a very good week for races, I got my registration for the Great Eastern Run! And also, I've successfully booked two other races in between time, so keep in touch, and to find out whether I actually manage to run them... keep checking in!
I didn't run, however; that's the fact of the matter. I did pilates on Wednesday, which was much more stretchy, and also had the advantage of fitting into a lunch hour. (Having said that, I was ten minutes late for pilates). I promised myself I'd do running straight away after work, but you know what they say about well-laid rodent's plans: they oft gang agley. I went down to the end of the garden to pick runner beans, and ended up being harrassed by drunken wasps. Note to self: wear shoes; don't wear a skirt. I came back inside, going via Maggie's house, and messaged Ian that he should come round immediately and remove the pears from the garden. Then the phone rang, and it was someone who had a delivery for me, and could they come over in an hour? It seemed like a good opportunity to have dinner, but by the time they got there, I was engrossed in planning a play that I'm hoping to direct soon. I couldn't just stop for a run, it would have impeded my creative flow. But I did decide that I'd go to bed early, and do extra on Thursday. I'd get up early or something. Well, what happened then was, I did get to bed early, but I had a whirlwind brain, and couldn't sleep. To the extent that I got up at quarter to one to send some emails.
Needless to say, getting up early didn't happen. Neither did lunchtime, and in the evening I started listening to my body. I came very close to arranging my run, but the sofa won me over, Frank on knee (he's been doing a lot of that lately) and Good Will Hunting on iplayer. I was feeling a bit not altogether, really. I did succeed in going to bed early, and this time it worked (10:30). I woke up feeling refreshed, but unwell. Also, it was really raining. I had a half-day at worked scheduled, in order to do some housework before leaving for Edinburgh... I thought I might do a half-hour run and then go swimming, at lunchtime, which would make up most of my losses, if I recalibrated Monday's run as Wednesday's run. But then what happened was, (a) I didn't succeed in leaving the office till 3, not having stopped for lunch (by which time my timesheet said I'd worked a full week, so taking a half-day was redundant); it was still raining, and my throat was now growling, and interestingly my left eardrum is now crackling gently like a bowl of rice crispies. Swimming, and running in the rain, are not going to happen. I'm still wondering about going out later, but I can't see it happening. It's also going to be difficult to persuade Sally that I didn't rush back into this too quickly, and prolong my cold. I'm still going with the fact I can harbour a cold for several months, and there's no point in waiting for it go away. I'm also wondering if running in a place I like is going to make me feel better, because I'm heading back to Edinburgh this weekend, with slightly different aims this time... I'm mainly going to hang out with Emma and the Magnets, and my added babysitting aims may help incur some early nights... although that might be wishful thinking on my part. Odds are that I'll definitely be in bed earlier than Jasper, from reports I've heard.
Come on everyone... send me some good health vibes. Altogether now... I'm off to drink some green tea, orange juice and echinacea. Not necessarily all at the same time. I could also try some Scottish medicine... whisky.
Oh, on the bright side, I'm all booked up with Races! It's been a very good week for races, I got my registration for the Great Eastern Run! And also, I've successfully booked two other races in between time, so keep in touch, and to find out whether I actually manage to run them... keep checking in!
Monday 22 August 2011
North Wales... Flatter than Peterborough.
Are you keeping up? I did say quite early on that I needed to train in order to keep up with my hectic lifestyle. Well, I had a choice about whether I returned home from Bristol yesterday, or whether I came directly up to my next destination. It seemed to me that I was making a 4+hour journey for one reason only, and that was a furry one. Several people have said I shouldn't let a cat dictate my life, so I decided to entreat upon Maggie and Graham to look after the beast for a bit longer, which they very kindly agreed to do. (If I ever move house, they will probably be able to sue for joint custody, although this is largely making massive assumptions that they might want it. I'm thinking Maggie might try it just to stop me from leaving though, but it would be a big risk - she might win.). So instead of taking a train for 4.5 hours yesterday and a lift to North Wales this afternoon for what turned out to be 5.75 hours, I took a train from Bristol to North Wales this morning. It was a productive move, I worked out of another office this afternoon and had a good discussion with colleagues, which was really useful. Also, much more restful than the extra journey-age. I got a lift across to the hotel, which is close to Chirk. In case you don't know Chirk, there is a massive aqueduct (or "aquaduct" as the Welsh say) running from one side of the valley to the other. This implies that there is also a massive hill, although as we are speaking about North Wales, you probably didn't need this pointing out. As Pauline drove up the hill (her car engine only straining slightly) I debated where on earth I was going to run that wouldn't actually kill me. "The tow-path" said Pauline immediately, leading me to realise that I'd spoken outloud. Now, this was talking my language. The hotel was right on the canal edge, and I had a choice of running to Llangollen or back into Chirk, which would take me across the aqueduct, which I'd previously only seen from afar. I chose Chirk, because Llangollen is about 8 miles away, and I wasn't intending on running that long - and it's kind of satisfying to reach somewhere.
This was something of a dilemma, nonetheless - Sally told me yesterday night on Facebook that she would do a plan for me, and my next run was on Tuesday. I said Tuesday was something of an impossibility because I had a full day's meeting and then a long drive home from North Wales, and suggested switching to Monday. She said "No, cancel the meeting", which I took to be light-hearted facebook banter, so I ignored it. However, that meant I also had to take a punt on what she would ask me to do. Given the lack of proper hills on the tow path, I opted for "50 minute conversational run" which I decided to do without the medium of conversation, now I'm experienced. And had no one to talk to. Helpfully, it was the sort of balmy summers' evening that frankly, you don't expect from North Wales, and the tow path was very pretty. I set off aiming to do a nice steady 10:30 minute mile, although I marred my average speed a bit by pausing to take photos. There were quite a few joggers along the tow path, and the North Wales joggers appear to be quite a friendly bunch.
When I reached the aqueduct, however, it wasn't so much friendly joggers as friendly site-seers. The tow path (and the canal) was at its narrowest, for obvious reasons (to architects/structural engineers). Sadly, said architects didn't think to put in any handy "pass places" so the people who insisted on bunching together to take their photos were something of a problem. The pace was noticeably slower over the bridge, anyway! Anyway, I made it, and carried on along the canal, past various narrow boats going the other way, until I reached my 30 minute mark, and then (rather to the surprise of some dog walkers who I'd passed 30 seconds before) I turned around and headed back. This did afford me a good view of the aqueduct from a distance, so here it is. Although when I say "from a distance"... I don't have a zoom on the camera, even after "cropping". I've kept this picture "medium size" so you stand a better chance of actually seeing the aqueduct.
Then I saw something that made me do a double take. And stop. At a guess, only my family and childhood friends would be able to identify why.
I stopped. "I used to have one of those!" I called out. "A schipperke?" the owner said, not quite believing me. "Yes!" I said excitedly (it's pronounced skipper-key). This is proof I used to have one. If you say the word "schipperke", especially to someone who purports to know about dogs, they will say "A what?". It's the rule. I used to say it for them. "He's a schipperke. A what? A schipperke," I'd say, facetiously. There is (or used to be) only about 100 in the country. I don't think my parents had any idea how unusual a breed they had picked (largely because of its diminutive size and character trait of not being too moulty) out of the dog book I bought from my school bookclub when I was 9. I not only had to stop my run, I had to go back and cross the bridge, to get a photo in. Well of course, as all dog owners are, I immediately got a huge amount of facts about the little Schipperke. She's 13 years old, and never had her tail docked, as the breed used to require, even before the recent law was passed that stopped this. She's not very friendly, which the owner encouraged because of fear the dog might be lifted (my dog got pinched once, but I didn't tell them). "And it's even on a canal!" they said excitedly. They were right (obviously). The relevance being that the schipperke is a Belgium barge dog, specifically a ratter. They made a non-commital noise that suggested they didn't think that their dog would have made a good barge dog, but I know where they were going. The dog almost certainly didn't like water. My dog was terrified of water. But think on - would you want a retriever on a boat? It would be in the water more times than it was out, and on a canal, you're not going to want to be fishing a dog out (because of both the steep sides and the smell of the water). So it makes perfect sense to me that the schipperke doesn't like water. Having said that, my dog also never caught a rat, although he was very proficient at catching a sock on a piece of string. Other evidence would suggest that he'd have let an actual rat go, he was a bit soft-hearted. He often barked at birds that he would have otherwise caught, had he not alerted them to his presence. But you know, dogs: they take after their owners.
Fortunately the conversation didn't take as long to have as it did for me to reminisce about. And from then on, I was able to maintain a nice steady pace, which I aimed to keep at around or just under a 10 minute mile, with the exception of across the aqueduct. As I passed the end of the aqueduct, I noticed a pathway running just below it that would take me back to my original tow path, without my having to run across a carpark and road bridge, which I thought would be a good idea. I didn't take into account that "beneath the aqueduct" would mean that I had to run down, and then back up, a hill. This, needless to say, almost killed me. When I was able to focus again, I glanced at the garmin, which said my heart rate was 180. I think this was higher than when I did my Fartlek things. In fact, I only discovered when I got home, that I maxed out at 190. I have no idea when that was. I tried, valiantly, to maintain my 9 and a half minute mile, for the rest of the run home, which was just under 2 miles from that point. It was a struggle. My heartrate settled at 176. I was also determined to finish on a fast (even though I was already going quite a bit faster than usual). So when I saw what I believed to be a familiar bridge, I increased the speed. I maintained it for two bridges, at which point I thought I was going to die. But I remembered Dave encouraging me on my fast bits, and my brain argued convincingly that if I ran faster, I would get back faster, so I tried. I think I was going at about 7 and a half minute miles. My right lung hurt. My breathing was difficult, but not actual stitches. And then I remembered a particularly random recollection, which was from (I think) my brother's "MAD magazine" books. He had "the mad book of magic" which had the following conundrum in. "Imagine you are in a room with no windows and no doors. You have no tools or other implements with you. The walls, floor and ceiling are made of an unbreakable material. How do you get out?". And I could see my bridge, where I knew I could stop, and it wasn't even very far away. But I stopped: it was the logical thing to do. I didn't feel bad. I'd run over 50 minutes, and I think I did pretty well.
In conclusion, perhaps North Wales isn't flatter than Peterborough. Especially if you leave the tow path.
Then I saw something that made me do a double take. And stop. At a guess, only my family and childhood friends would be able to identify why.
I stopped. "I used to have one of those!" I called out. "A schipperke?" the owner said, not quite believing me. "Yes!" I said excitedly (it's pronounced skipper-key). This is proof I used to have one. If you say the word "schipperke", especially to someone who purports to know about dogs, they will say "A what?". It's the rule. I used to say it for them. "He's a schipperke. A what? A schipperke," I'd say, facetiously. There is (or used to be) only about 100 in the country. I don't think my parents had any idea how unusual a breed they had picked (largely because of its diminutive size and character trait of not being too moulty) out of the dog book I bought from my school bookclub when I was 9. I not only had to stop my run, I had to go back and cross the bridge, to get a photo in. Well of course, as all dog owners are, I immediately got a huge amount of facts about the little Schipperke. She's 13 years old, and never had her tail docked, as the breed used to require, even before the recent law was passed that stopped this. She's not very friendly, which the owner encouraged because of fear the dog might be lifted (my dog got pinched once, but I didn't tell them). "And it's even on a canal!" they said excitedly. They were right (obviously). The relevance being that the schipperke is a Belgium barge dog, specifically a ratter. They made a non-commital noise that suggested they didn't think that their dog would have made a good barge dog, but I know where they were going. The dog almost certainly didn't like water. My dog was terrified of water. But think on - would you want a retriever on a boat? It would be in the water more times than it was out, and on a canal, you're not going to want to be fishing a dog out (because of both the steep sides and the smell of the water). So it makes perfect sense to me that the schipperke doesn't like water. Having said that, my dog also never caught a rat, although he was very proficient at catching a sock on a piece of string. Other evidence would suggest that he'd have let an actual rat go, he was a bit soft-hearted. He often barked at birds that he would have otherwise caught, had he not alerted them to his presence. But you know, dogs: they take after their owners.
Fortunately the conversation didn't take as long to have as it did for me to reminisce about. And from then on, I was able to maintain a nice steady pace, which I aimed to keep at around or just under a 10 minute mile, with the exception of across the aqueduct. As I passed the end of the aqueduct, I noticed a pathway running just below it that would take me back to my original tow path, without my having to run across a carpark and road bridge, which I thought would be a good idea. I didn't take into account that "beneath the aqueduct" would mean that I had to run down, and then back up, a hill. This, needless to say, almost killed me. When I was able to focus again, I glanced at the garmin, which said my heart rate was 180. I think this was higher than when I did my Fartlek things. In fact, I only discovered when I got home, that I maxed out at 190. I have no idea when that was. I tried, valiantly, to maintain my 9 and a half minute mile, for the rest of the run home, which was just under 2 miles from that point. It was a struggle. My heartrate settled at 176. I was also determined to finish on a fast (even though I was already going quite a bit faster than usual). So when I saw what I believed to be a familiar bridge, I increased the speed. I maintained it for two bridges, at which point I thought I was going to die. But I remembered Dave encouraging me on my fast bits, and my brain argued convincingly that if I ran faster, I would get back faster, so I tried. I think I was going at about 7 and a half minute miles. My right lung hurt. My breathing was difficult, but not actual stitches. And then I remembered a particularly random recollection, which was from (I think) my brother's "MAD magazine" books. He had "the mad book of magic" which had the following conundrum in. "Imagine you are in a room with no windows and no doors. You have no tools or other implements with you. The walls, floor and ceiling are made of an unbreakable material. How do you get out?". And I could see my bridge, where I knew I could stop, and it wasn't even very far away. But I stopped: it was the logical thing to do. I didn't feel bad. I'd run over 50 minutes, and I think I did pretty well.
In conclusion, perhaps North Wales isn't flatter than Peterborough. Especially if you leave the tow path.
Sunday 21 August 2011
Finally!
I had no idea when I took up this running lark, exactly how much will-power and motivation it was going to take to keep it up. In fact, I'd be so bold as to say that if I weren't so willfully stubborn as I actually am, that laziness would have won over months ago. The disheartening thing is, taking a short break virtually resets the clock. Not entirely, you obviously do achieve some sort of fitness level that you didn't have before (thank goodness it doesn't reset the waistline, that would be very upsetting) but nonetheless you've built up all that mileage, and you kind of struggle with three (again) and that is just... where's your thesaurus when you need it? You know. Downhearteningeningen.
Well, I wasn't entirely sure that the cold had gone, but I was entirely sure that I was fed up with even thinking I had a cold. I am never sure about whether colds just start sticking around because they think they're welcome, with me. Anyway, Sally said I could run on Sunday, so I decided to just go for it, and deal with the fallout later.
As luck would have it (you didn't think I was going easy on myself just because I've had a cold for a week did you?) I was in Bristol this weekend. I'd gone to see my godson Oscar, with the express reason being to take him to see Shaun the Sheep on stage. Oscar has liked Shaun the Sheep cartoons since -well, since his dad started watching them when he was about 4 months old. Even the theme music sent him into rhapsodies. He got me hooked - for a kid's cartoon with no verbalisation to speak of, which does hold children's attention, it has a great deal of humour to it. So when I saw Shaun's Big Show advertised, I thought immediately of Oscar. And volunteered to go with him. Selflessly.
As it turned out, it was a bit selfless, although mainly on Oscar's part. There was no storyline to speak of, there were a few sheep indulging in dancing, which is what sheep often do, my training tells me. Occasionally they were joined by Bitzer, the dog, or the farmer, or the pigs. And sometimes the music was reasomably entertaining, like "I believe in Miracles", or YMCA, but no one under the age of 15 (and given that the show was really aimed at those below 8) was going to fully appreciate the choice of music. And in all honesty, the majority of four year old boys were going to find the ballet a little dull too. I wasn't averse to the dancing myself (I like ballet), but I did think a storyline wasn't out of the question. Even Swan Lake has a storyline. Anyway, fortunately Oscar pulled at the theatre, so it wasn't an entirely wasted trip. The little girl next to him offered him her chocolate buttons, saying "I think boys can have these too", and he got a hug out of it at the end of the show.
Come Sunday morning, things weren't entirely right around the nose-throat-glands area, but a deal's a deal. I didn't feel slightly put out about going to a park all day with a bunch of kids, so I didn't see how a 3 mile run was going to change things. I thought maybe doing the run might blow those cobwebs away. I found a route on runkeeper, and managed to get it showing on my phone. This turned out to be invaluable. One thing I learned about Thornbury is that it is simply a mesh of footpaths, and I came so close to taking directions from Rebecca to go a non-road route... it's a blessing I didn't. It's also as well I didn't take instructions from Sal to "run for 15 minutes and then back along the same route" - there's no way I could guarantee getting back, with that many paths to choose from.
On my way, I noticed exactly why Runkeeper is inferior to the garmin in giving me my distance and speed. The lack of satellite updates meant that Runkeeper, which was drawing a red line behind me, frequently sloped that line through inanimate objects such as houses. This meant that I started to develop images a la Matrix films, where I may just have run through the walls of houses, bricks flying. I imagined grabbing the odd piece of toast, or sip of tea, on my way past. This gave the whole run a slightly sci-fi atmosphere. It wasn't too bad overall, and I definitely felt like I'd been out for a nice jog (I use the word loosely) and not a death-defying feat.
When I got back, we headed out to Old Down Country Park, had a leisurely picnic, and then headed over to the adventure playground. I found the general design of it as lacking as Shaun's Big Show, to be honest, but among definite attractions was a jumping pillow. Obviously the word "pillow" already holds attractions for me, but this was something else. A massive air-filled square with sand all around it, protruding up like a massive pillow.Jumping or sitting, it was great fun, and I noticed that dads particularly liked playing with their kids when it was an option. It sure hurts the backs of your legs though, and I think bouncing is probably excellent exercise. Note that it also helps levitation, as the little girl at the back of this photo illustrates nicely.
When I came home, I mowed Beck's lawn, because it was great lawn-mowing weather, and I wouldn't have wanted her to miss an opportunity to cut grass, and also, I have great friends who help with my garden, so it was a sort of garden-karma to pass it on. However, I think I did over and above my three-mile training...
Well, I wasn't entirely sure that the cold had gone, but I was entirely sure that I was fed up with even thinking I had a cold. I am never sure about whether colds just start sticking around because they think they're welcome, with me. Anyway, Sally said I could run on Sunday, so I decided to just go for it, and deal with the fallout later.
As luck would have it (you didn't think I was going easy on myself just because I've had a cold for a week did you?) I was in Bristol this weekend. I'd gone to see my godson Oscar, with the express reason being to take him to see Shaun the Sheep on stage. Oscar has liked Shaun the Sheep cartoons since -well, since his dad started watching them when he was about 4 months old. Even the theme music sent him into rhapsodies. He got me hooked - for a kid's cartoon with no verbalisation to speak of, which does hold children's attention, it has a great deal of humour to it. So when I saw Shaun's Big Show advertised, I thought immediately of Oscar. And volunteered to go with him. Selflessly.
As it turned out, it was a bit selfless, although mainly on Oscar's part. There was no storyline to speak of, there were a few sheep indulging in dancing, which is what sheep often do, my training tells me. Occasionally they were joined by Bitzer, the dog, or the farmer, or the pigs. And sometimes the music was reasomably entertaining, like "I believe in Miracles", or YMCA, but no one under the age of 15 (and given that the show was really aimed at those below 8) was going to fully appreciate the choice of music. And in all honesty, the majority of four year old boys were going to find the ballet a little dull too. I wasn't averse to the dancing myself (I like ballet), but I did think a storyline wasn't out of the question. Even Swan Lake has a storyline. Anyway, fortunately Oscar pulled at the theatre, so it wasn't an entirely wasted trip. The little girl next to him offered him her chocolate buttons, saying "I think boys can have these too", and he got a hug out of it at the end of the show.
Come Sunday morning, things weren't entirely right around the nose-throat-glands area, but a deal's a deal. I didn't feel slightly put out about going to a park all day with a bunch of kids, so I didn't see how a 3 mile run was going to change things. I thought maybe doing the run might blow those cobwebs away. I found a route on runkeeper, and managed to get it showing on my phone. This turned out to be invaluable. One thing I learned about Thornbury is that it is simply a mesh of footpaths, and I came so close to taking directions from Rebecca to go a non-road route... it's a blessing I didn't. It's also as well I didn't take instructions from Sal to "run for 15 minutes and then back along the same route" - there's no way I could guarantee getting back, with that many paths to choose from.
On my way, I noticed exactly why Runkeeper is inferior to the garmin in giving me my distance and speed. The lack of satellite updates meant that Runkeeper, which was drawing a red line behind me, frequently sloped that line through inanimate objects such as houses. This meant that I started to develop images a la Matrix films, where I may just have run through the walls of houses, bricks flying. I imagined grabbing the odd piece of toast, or sip of tea, on my way past. This gave the whole run a slightly sci-fi atmosphere. It wasn't too bad overall, and I definitely felt like I'd been out for a nice jog (I use the word loosely) and not a death-defying feat.
When I came home, I mowed Beck's lawn, because it was great lawn-mowing weather, and I wouldn't have wanted her to miss an opportunity to cut grass, and also, I have great friends who help with my garden, so it was a sort of garden-karma to pass it on. However, I think I did over and above my three-mile training...
Friday 19 August 2011
Stagnation
I know you probably all think I am backing up with hundreds of posts again, and are all agog to keep up with my busy schedule. Sadly, this has not been the case, although I was put in the peculiar, and uniquely disturbing, position on Monday of emailing Sal to say I thought I should get back on the case anyway, and the hell with the cold, and she reiterated the importance of my waiting until the cold had subsided. Training through a cold prolongs the cold. Let me tell you something about me and colds - we have a long and not very fascinating history together: briefly, though, I get them often, and they stay a long time. So on the one hand, I'm in favour of not prolonging them for any longer than they already stay; but on the other, it could take out a lot of training time. However, the current, disturbing scenario was that I was begging to go running, and being told, no, by the fitness freak. This was deeply unsettling. On the other hand, I didn't have to go running, which was OK. I did feel a bit **eugh** so not going was something of a relief. And Sal said I had to listen to my body, and the message it was giving was stronger than usual, because there was a definite part of my brain that resented seeing Dave dripping with sweat on the way back from his run, when I was going to get a sandwich. Mind you, he said he did the fengate run at 7.5 minute miles, which would explain the sweat. I couldn't run for 20 minutes at that pace. I doubt I could run to the end of the road, to be honest.
On Wednesday, I did go to my pilates class. Well, it's hardly aerobic, is it, and could only help stretching out some muscles. The cold had reached its usual sort of plateau level where it leaves me feeling OK enough to go to work, bar swollen glands around the throat, but exhausted by the end of the day (let me tell you, on Tuesday evening, I turned down wine in favour of tea). I think pilates probably did me good, even though I got Anna into trouble by mentioning to Anita that I'd heard rumours that she'd said that either the classes had been very quiet, or I'd been absent. Anita said, in fairness, that she hates it when we're quiet. (I offered to come to her other classes for a modest fee, but she didn't take me up on it). Oh, I had a quiet evening in, but had a good long facebook conversation with one of our reserves managers who recently left the organisation. I'd tell you his name, but as it's Dave, we're just going to get hopelessly confused. Anyway, he says he's got a new job with RSPB, so I could dub him RSPB Dave, so you don't get confused with Running Dave and Theatre Dave. (And my Dad. Anyone remember him, from my first blog? I've probably blown it trying to hide his true identity for fear of him suing me, so I'll just have to try not to say anything libelous about him or my damaging upbringing.). Anyway, I am trying to persuade RSPB Dave to come and visit us in Peterborough, which would be fun.
I had all but decided to ignore Sal and the final throes of my snotty cold, and go on a short run at lunchtime today. I brought in my running things, and remembered to charge up the garmin and everything. About 10:30, it started chucking down. My day wasn't going terribly smoothly anyway. I'd had a hiccough with Mapinfo in the morning - GIS is one of those things that is amazingly convenient but when you actually try to use it, it eats up hours and hours of your time. Even the GIS person I asked, Babs (AKA the NE tea lady), was unable to laugh derisively and sort out my problem with a couple of easy keystrokes, although she did ultimately sort out my problem. (She did entreat me to get Richard to help, but I actually couldn't do that incase he made reference to the fact I mentioned him on Facebook, which I know he doesn't like, the previous evening, so she had to persist with the problem herself). By lunch time, I'd sorted out the map, but didn't like what it was showing me. It was still raining, which felt like an apt reflection of my spirits. I was in no mood to get wet through, no matter how ambient the temperature was. The remnants of my cold hanging round me like a talisman against running, I was nontheless forced to stomp downstairs and face the misery outside, in the hopes of doing battle, with my bad mood pitted against the elements. I had the good fortune to borrow Jim's umbrella, and a little solace from him as I vented my rage on the way passed, which meant that my mood had some chance at least.
And as if Jim set me off on the right pathway, I passed Justin on my walk, and he said nice things about my blog - he sympathised with my lack of enthusiasm for running in the rain, and says he lacks motivation for running, so I suggested he join the Natural Runners, and he's promised to think about it, even though he's aware that this could make him fodder for the blog. Then I met Jill, and I didn't have the energy to tell her that nothing she says will make me think any less of myself as a director (another long story) so I just buried the hatchet like an adult or something; and then Luke and Keely, who always cheer me up. So it ended up being considerably more sociable than I'd felt like being, and although I did sort of share my bad mood around a bit, on the whole I came back feeling suitably refreshed.
I started thinking about how uncanny it was that the rest of my life mired at the same point my training did... and then I thought that if you are stuck in stagnant water, the only way out is to make a big stink. Which was pretty much what is going to happen when I get my work sorted out. Oh well. Think I can cope with that.
Sunday 14 August 2011
Pride comes before...
Do you know, I've always oscillated between thinking that saying went "a rise comes before a fall" or "a ride comes before a fall", both of which made some sort of sense. Unlike pride. Never mind. Pride certainly didn't enter into it. In fact, anyone who has just perused the Edinburgh experience will realise exactly what did for me. It was clearly training too hard when I should have been partying. Yes, I took a lovely cold back with me from Edinburgh. I'm not pointing the finger here, but you'll notice I said that Summer had to go and nurse a cold on our last night? Well, actually, I think we probably shared it from the start. When Summer first announced her symptoms, I was already taking First Defense, stuff I swear by. She got the cold, and I held it off, bar the odd sneeze and dizzy feeling, until Wednesday. Clearly, we had Pint and Poetry, and had to march in being the reigning champions of the Festival, so heavy amounts of drugs were needed, especially on Summers' side. I was just feeling slightly sore-throated, swollen glands and remarkably giddy. Still, it works. I've been telling everyone I've got a Summer's Cold. We made it though. I wrote a poem about flyering on the train home, when I should have been catching up with the blog - what can you do? I'm sorry.
I came back to a mewling cat, who has now taken to sitting on Maggie's doorstep, more or less howling. This is ironic, as Maggie recently had to put down her black and white cat, Rosie, who was somewhere over the age of 19, and mainly mewled in a startlingly similar manner. That manner being "annoying". I suspect part of the torrent of abuse may be the number of fleas he is now harbouring though. He's been de-flea'd, although now he's not tasty, there seem to be critters hopping all over the place, some of which seem to be dying. I had to boil-wash some bed sheets. Ick. Don't think about it. Anyway, on Thursday, he was so distressed and I was so woozy that I decided to deal with my 180 emails and 2 teleconferences from home, and he enjoyed my conversation a lot. I hope no one else heard his, he was quite vocal at some points. A 50 minute cycle ride wasn't on the books. Sal said I should listen to my body, and although it's sometimes hard to differentiate what my body says it's capable of doing from what it wants to do ("Stay on the sofa! Stay on the sofa!") this was a day when the two facets were definitely singing in harmony with each other. The sofa won. Frank helped with that decision. He's not been making typing this up any easier at all...
Friday wasn't a lot better. I made it to the office, and got generally harassed by phone calls and more emails, but managed to sort out some things by the end of the day. I packed my swimming costume, in case the 50 minute swim at lunchtime was a goer, but by lunchtime, I wasn't convinced. I walked into town to get some more First Defense, and realised I'd made the smart move - that distance was making me shaky. I decided that I was just going to have to get over the cold. I felt that I'd amply demonstrated (perhaps a bit too much) that I'm willing to put the effort in, and the cold, while it may be the fruits of that effort, isn't an excuse. Still, early nights, good food, and rest. It'll all be fine. Funny, that's what I've been telling myself at work too...
Next week I'll be back. Fighting fit. Running hard. Getting out from under the cat...
Friday wasn't a lot better. I made it to the office, and got generally harassed by phone calls and more emails, but managed to sort out some things by the end of the day. I packed my swimming costume, in case the 50 minute swim at lunchtime was a goer, but by lunchtime, I wasn't convinced. I walked into town to get some more First Defense, and realised I'd made the smart move - that distance was making me shaky. I decided that I was just going to have to get over the cold. I felt that I'd amply demonstrated (perhaps a bit too much) that I'm willing to put the effort in, and the cold, while it may be the fruits of that effort, isn't an excuse. Still, early nights, good food, and rest. It'll all be fine. Funny, that's what I've been telling myself at work too...
Single Ladies
Tuesday, my last full day in Edinburgh, and, obviously you will have realised that I like packing the day with activities, this was no exception. Having discovered a pool so close to home, I was moderately pleased to have another session down to use it. I headed in, paid up, and the lady said "It's just a half pool till 11, is that OK?" I said, "Yes, fine", but as I was leaving, she said "the shallow end's cordoned off". "What?" I asked. She repeated this, slowly for the English person. I couldn't really quite grasp it. They were really expecting me to swim widths? Apparently so - without even halving my entrance fee, which I think would have been fair. Fortunately it was actually five to 11 at the time, so I was able to dawdle for long enough getting ready that I had the whole pool. Something very weird was going on though. There weren't any lanes today, as there had been on Sunday, so I scanned the pool and decided that I'd cause least problems if I stuck to the middle, and let the meanderers have the edges. I guess there were about 40 people in the water, it was quite busy. As I slipped into the shallow end, I realised that I'd just dropped the average age to about 62. To be honest, I felt as if I'd inadvertently joined a set of Dr Who. Especially since they sometimes seemed to all move in the same direction, without really communicating. I did apologise to a granny for disrupting their leisurely swim, and she said, "nonsense, we just wish we could still swim like you", which was both kind and a bit creepy.
Today's task was to swim for 45 minutes, taking as few breaks as possible, and sticking with the crawl as much as possible. That' easy for Sal to say. The pensioners were not only drifting up and down the pool, they were also drifting across it - and diagonally. Every which way. I stuck with my sets-of-five principle which had seemed to work, but in truth, it really didn't today. I came unstuck so many times, breaststroke is a far easier stroke to negotiate other swimmers in. Also, bear with me on this, I suspect it might be my rising insanity. I felt sick when I did crawl. The thing is, with crawl, I mainly looked at the swimming pool floor, with brief glances up to see which side the pensioners were attacking from. With breaststroke, on the other hand, I mainly look up, or at least forward at the pool. What I noticed about the floor of the swimming pool was it was filthy. Then I noticed that as I was in the middle, swimming directly towards a water filter, that the filter was 3/4 blocked. This is awful, and has no connection, but about that time, I started thinking about old ladies and incontinence. Then I started feeling sick. I don't know why breaststroke made me feel any better. Perhaps I was coming down with something, and the crawl was actually moving too fast for me, I don't know. But the swim, while I completed 62 lengths, was not as satisfying by any stretch as the Sunday swim. I was relieved to get out and leave, and grateful that, thought I wouldn't particularly boast about the cleanliness of Peterborough's regional pool, and I know where all the cracked and missing tiles are, and where the funny brown marks are, it has never made me feel like that.
On Tuesday, I had a treat, which was that I was having lunch with Mwara, a friend from the olden Edinburgh days, and her three girls. We met at Bruntsfield Links, and headed into Bruntsfield for lunch at Montpeliers, which was lovely, and generally pretty good value, although wine by the glass is extortionate. On the way back, we called into Nippers, where I was able to pick up a gift for the younger Loat, and also observed that the fine and upstanding "Peckhams" sells Thistlycross Cider, which is Scotland's only cider. It comes in some amazing flavours though, including with strawberries, in malt casks, and my favourite, with ginger. In fact, I happened to be having lunch with the wife of Scotland's only cider-maker. There should be a film about that: "The Last Cider Maker of Scotland". Or something. I think Peter's up for the lead.
After lunch, I just had time to stop off at the Udderbelly/Cowpasture, and drop off apricot jam (my second delivery after Mwara) with Emma, along with the cute ladybird leggings I'd got for Dory, and have a quick cup of tea with her and Mike, before heading off for The Seagull Effect. This was another up and coming theatre company, who did some impressive feats with projection during their play, which was largely about the 1987 hurricane, and climate change, and the impacts on people's lives. It was a well-put-together piece.
I had some time before my next show, and we'd realised the problem with finding Simon's friend the day before - his show, So Much Potential, was in the venue where we'd been watching comedy the day before... but in a different room. So we went to check it out. Annoyingly, they weren't doing it on Tuesdays, but kind of weirdly, they'd chosen to spend their "day off" sitting in the room, having a banter with anyone who came in, having an open mic, and drawing people. They were relaxed and friendly, and drew Summer, and didn't object to people walking in and out, which was lucky, because that's exactly what I had to do to get to my next show. We wished them well for the rest of their run, and bid them farewell.
Well, my next Show was "All the Single Ladies" with Andi Osho, which I was very excited about. I think she's a very funny lady. While I was waiting in the queue, a strange bloke came up, and asked me if I'd put my arms out, scarecrow like. You might think I was wrong to do this, but there was something I couldn't quite... "Van? Is it you?" So this was a man I'd met in my Freshers Week at University, who was at the time setting up a society called the Hugga-Bugga-Jaffa-Appreciation Society, and it largely involved hugging people (and eating jaffa cakes). Clearly the bloke is mad as a hatter, and it goes without saying that I love him. I asked someone to take a photo of us, and he immediately swept me into his arms, like this:
He was in town with his wife and three kids, but it was amazing, the people you run into. What a find!
Anyway, I'd rather accidentally got a ticket for Andi Osho, because Tom's mum Diane had bought one, but because it was a 2 for 1 day, she'd thought she'd get the spare one incase anyone wanted it, so my luck was in there. I found her in the queue, which was good, because it's fun to have someone to see comedy with. We sat kind of near the front (obviously avoiding the front row), and as we sat down, noticed that she was right there! Perched at the edge of the stage! She spoke with one or two of the brave folk in the front row. I looked at her in awed admiration, unable to think of a single thing to say. She started off the show saying she liked sitting out front for two reasons - one was that it's really boring back stage, and second because it's really funny seeing people's reactions to her sitting there, doing a sort of bunny at car headlights impression. So I guess I behaved pretty typically.
She asked who was in couples, and who wasn't, and I guess I may have been a little exuberant in my whoop when she asked for single ladies, because she was able to identify my position in the audience. She asked how long I'd been single, so I told her, since Christmas, and then she asked me if he was a dick, and I agreed, and she said "yeah, they all are". She asked me if I was ready to date again yet, and I stood up and said "Hell, yeah", which made everyone laugh, and Andi said I could go on a double date with her! That is easily the most exciting offer I have ever had! The gist of her show is that she finds single men in the audience, and then, really, picks one and goes on a date with him. There is some other audience participation in which person she picks. Tragically, there was no one in the audience who would admit to being single that night, so I lost my chance. She did address a lot of the rest of the show to me, though, as she ran through internet dating disasters - I shared her pain! It was an awesome show. I wish I could have gone on a double date with her. I did hold onto my last shreds of dignity and not shout out "Me and you, Andy, sod the men!", so that was lucky. I also didn't offer to read out my poem about internet dating (although I think it's one of my better ones, and I had it with me) because, well, you know, it wasn't actually my show.
At the end, I spoke to a couple who were in the front row, and Andi had picked up that they hadn't said they were in a couple. She asked the girl, who said, No, they were just friends; then she pointed out to the guy that his friend was very attractive, and asked if he'd thought about it, to which he nonchalantly said "Yep", which also got applause. It turned out they were both in shows themselves, one called Mad about the Boy, and the other called Dream Pill, about kids from Nigeria being trafficked. They both sounded really powerful pieces, and I'd have loved to see them.
I set off to catch up with the others for Outland, and for a change, I arrived first. It was quite a hard piece to follow, being very dreamlike, and dipping in and out of childhood and adulthood, and dreamland and reality. I think it drew on the life of Charles Dodgeson, or Lewis Carroll, although confusingly there was the odd Narnia reference thrown in as well. But largely the play was dealing with a younger man trying to break it to his older, and respected friend, that he had a disease and needed to face up to it; needless to say, he dealt with it by running away to Outland and hunting the Snark. I'm not sure if it was supposed to be semi-biographical or not, but it was a stunning piece. After Charles collapsed, and the young couple hugged each other, weeping, the play was clearly over, but as a mark of how moved the audience was, they were going to creep out respectfully without even applause, which seemed to me to be a massive accolade that the audience preferred to believe it was real, and not disturb their final grief, than clap. Needless to say, I lead the applause, which was still quiet and respectful, because I really enjoyed it, and if I hadn't have clapped, I'd have had to wait and explain to the actors why not at the end.
At the end of the evening, Summer set off to nurse her cold, and also ice a cake which she was madly proposing to carry back on the train, in time for Pint and Poetry's Fifth Birthday Extravaganza at Charters the following day. (I had already pandered to her madness by bringing a mixing bowl up with me). Ashley and I wanted to max out on our last day at the Fringe, by staying out late and seeing more stuff. We shouldn't have done. We should have quit while we were ahead, and gone back and had a glass of wine with Summer. We instead, went to see "Stand up, Fall down", and boy, he did. Not literally, although he did have cerebral palsy, but he really didn't have a funny line, nor enough stage presence to carry off his show such as it was. Mind you, it's quite reassuring to have it confirmed to you that stand-up is actually really hard. The cabaret show after that was entertaining, but only in a "this is free" way. I suspect we'd both have preferred some sleep.
What a city! What a Festival! I love it.
Today's task was to swim for 45 minutes, taking as few breaks as possible, and sticking with the crawl as much as possible. That' easy for Sal to say. The pensioners were not only drifting up and down the pool, they were also drifting across it - and diagonally. Every which way. I stuck with my sets-of-five principle which had seemed to work, but in truth, it really didn't today. I came unstuck so many times, breaststroke is a far easier stroke to negotiate other swimmers in. Also, bear with me on this, I suspect it might be my rising insanity. I felt sick when I did crawl. The thing is, with crawl, I mainly looked at the swimming pool floor, with brief glances up to see which side the pensioners were attacking from. With breaststroke, on the other hand, I mainly look up, or at least forward at the pool. What I noticed about the floor of the swimming pool was it was filthy. Then I noticed that as I was in the middle, swimming directly towards a water filter, that the filter was 3/4 blocked. This is awful, and has no connection, but about that time, I started thinking about old ladies and incontinence. Then I started feeling sick. I don't know why breaststroke made me feel any better. Perhaps I was coming down with something, and the crawl was actually moving too fast for me, I don't know. But the swim, while I completed 62 lengths, was not as satisfying by any stretch as the Sunday swim. I was relieved to get out and leave, and grateful that, thought I wouldn't particularly boast about the cleanliness of Peterborough's regional pool, and I know where all the cracked and missing tiles are, and where the funny brown marks are, it has never made me feel like that.
After lunch, I just had time to stop off at the Udderbelly/Cowpasture, and drop off apricot jam (my second delivery after Mwara) with Emma, along with the cute ladybird leggings I'd got for Dory, and have a quick cup of tea with her and Mike, before heading off for The Seagull Effect. This was another up and coming theatre company, who did some impressive feats with projection during their play, which was largely about the 1987 hurricane, and climate change, and the impacts on people's lives. It was a well-put-together piece.
I had some time before my next show, and we'd realised the problem with finding Simon's friend the day before - his show, So Much Potential, was in the venue where we'd been watching comedy the day before... but in a different room. So we went to check it out. Annoyingly, they weren't doing it on Tuesdays, but kind of weirdly, they'd chosen to spend their "day off" sitting in the room, having a banter with anyone who came in, having an open mic, and drawing people. They were relaxed and friendly, and drew Summer, and didn't object to people walking in and out, which was lucky, because that's exactly what I had to do to get to my next show. We wished them well for the rest of their run, and bid them farewell.
He was in town with his wife and three kids, but it was amazing, the people you run into. What a find!
Anyway, I'd rather accidentally got a ticket for Andi Osho, because Tom's mum Diane had bought one, but because it was a 2 for 1 day, she'd thought she'd get the spare one incase anyone wanted it, so my luck was in there. I found her in the queue, which was good, because it's fun to have someone to see comedy with. We sat kind of near the front (obviously avoiding the front row), and as we sat down, noticed that she was right there! Perched at the edge of the stage! She spoke with one or two of the brave folk in the front row. I looked at her in awed admiration, unable to think of a single thing to say. She started off the show saying she liked sitting out front for two reasons - one was that it's really boring back stage, and second because it's really funny seeing people's reactions to her sitting there, doing a sort of bunny at car headlights impression. So I guess I behaved pretty typically.
She asked who was in couples, and who wasn't, and I guess I may have been a little exuberant in my whoop when she asked for single ladies, because she was able to identify my position in the audience. She asked how long I'd been single, so I told her, since Christmas, and then she asked me if he was a dick, and I agreed, and she said "yeah, they all are". She asked me if I was ready to date again yet, and I stood up and said "Hell, yeah", which made everyone laugh, and Andi said I could go on a double date with her! That is easily the most exciting offer I have ever had! The gist of her show is that she finds single men in the audience, and then, really, picks one and goes on a date with him. There is some other audience participation in which person she picks. Tragically, there was no one in the audience who would admit to being single that night, so I lost my chance. She did address a lot of the rest of the show to me, though, as she ran through internet dating disasters - I shared her pain! It was an awesome show. I wish I could have gone on a double date with her. I did hold onto my last shreds of dignity and not shout out "Me and you, Andy, sod the men!", so that was lucky. I also didn't offer to read out my poem about internet dating (although I think it's one of my better ones, and I had it with me) because, well, you know, it wasn't actually my show.
At the end, I spoke to a couple who were in the front row, and Andi had picked up that they hadn't said they were in a couple. She asked the girl, who said, No, they were just friends; then she pointed out to the guy that his friend was very attractive, and asked if he'd thought about it, to which he nonchalantly said "Yep", which also got applause. It turned out they were both in shows themselves, one called Mad about the Boy, and the other called Dream Pill, about kids from Nigeria being trafficked. They both sounded really powerful pieces, and I'd have loved to see them.
I set off to catch up with the others for Outland, and for a change, I arrived first. It was quite a hard piece to follow, being very dreamlike, and dipping in and out of childhood and adulthood, and dreamland and reality. I think it drew on the life of Charles Dodgeson, or Lewis Carroll, although confusingly there was the odd Narnia reference thrown in as well. But largely the play was dealing with a younger man trying to break it to his older, and respected friend, that he had a disease and needed to face up to it; needless to say, he dealt with it by running away to Outland and hunting the Snark. I'm not sure if it was supposed to be semi-biographical or not, but it was a stunning piece. After Charles collapsed, and the young couple hugged each other, weeping, the play was clearly over, but as a mark of how moved the audience was, they were going to creep out respectfully without even applause, which seemed to me to be a massive accolade that the audience preferred to believe it was real, and not disturb their final grief, than clap. Needless to say, I lead the applause, which was still quiet and respectful, because I really enjoyed it, and if I hadn't have clapped, I'd have had to wait and explain to the actors why not at the end.
At the end of the evening, Summer set off to nurse her cold, and also ice a cake which she was madly proposing to carry back on the train, in time for Pint and Poetry's Fifth Birthday Extravaganza at Charters the following day. (I had already pandered to her madness by bringing a mixing bowl up with me). Ashley and I wanted to max out on our last day at the Fringe, by staying out late and seeing more stuff. We shouldn't have done. We should have quit while we were ahead, and gone back and had a glass of wine with Summer. We instead, went to see "Stand up, Fall down", and boy, he did. Not literally, although he did have cerebral palsy, but he really didn't have a funny line, nor enough stage presence to carry off his show such as it was. Mind you, it's quite reassuring to have it confirmed to you that stand-up is actually really hard. The cabaret show after that was entertaining, but only in a "this is free" way. I suspect we'd both have preferred some sleep.
What a city! What a Festival! I love it.
Taking a ride
Let me say something about the weather. I wasn't going to, but I've held out for long enough, and it wouldn't be very British to leave out such a fundamental part of the story. First off, Unusually, the weather has been great while I've actually been training. The run around Arthur's Seat had sunny intervals and a perfect freshness in the air, the sort of day where, if running was your thing, you'd say, What a perfect day for a run. Or if it weren't, you might chose a beer garden, for example. Without exception, pretty much the rest of the time, it has been sheeting with rain. Rivers pour down overloaded gutters, torrents run down umbrellas, people dash into cafes and bars just for some respite. You know, Edinburgh in August. Anyway, it was a nice surprise to find that, as on Saturday morning, it was sunny with a little cloud cover. We hadn't been living it up extraordinarily, in our girlie-flat, but a good bit of late-night chatting had been going on, so the girls were a mixture of put-out and grudgingly impressed by my zealousness at training. By now they were bored with remarking on it, and let me out of the flat for my cycle ride. I arranged to meet them at the venue for our first show at 1pm, and set off on the bike.
I cycled along Princes Street, and dropped down to Frederick Street, and then headed downwards in the general direction of the Botanic Gardens. I passed them, and hung a right down towards Leith and the docks. I was rather impressed. I think I recall going down that direction, but I'd never actually been to the docks, so I stopped to take some photoage. I also saw the Moscow State Circus setting up - I'd love to see that! Still can't understand why it was at the Docks, rather than being a teeny tiny bit closer to say, where everything else was (The Meadows, surely space enough there?) but the people I asked all just said that's where it always is.
I headed back around Arthur's Seat, a journey I now felt familiar with, and as I hadn't covered anything like the mileage I was hoping for, I had no recourse but to take a trip down memory lane and cycle up to the Kings Buildings. As I turned right in front of the old zoology building where I had so many lectures, I saw a kid waiting to cross at the lights who I swear was there 17 years ago... how is it that science student all look the same?
I headed back towards Marchmont and the Meadows, and called in to see Emma, Jasper, Michael and Dorrie. Michael and Fraser were just on their way out to record something for the Telegraph, which annoyed Jasper, who regards the Magnets as "his friends" (who he wanted to play with). Fortuitously, Emma gave me breakfast, and I'd thought ahead, and had packed the wherewithal to have a shower and change my clothes. It was nice to spend some time with them, although as with most parents, conversation among adults becomes broken or nigh-on impossible, and even moments when respite happens through small people rushing off to play elsewhere, these are usually short-lived as you remember the possible play things they may have found. We eventually headed out towards the park, and I had to depart for my show.
And what a show! We went to see Stephen Berkoff's adaptation of Oedipus. Excitingly, it had Stephen Berkoff in it, as well as being directed by him. (I knew it was possible...). It was an amazing production. The chorus were men all seated around a long table, with Oedipus in the middle, not unlike the last supper. Periodically a drum would strike, and they all froze in a white light, taking on a different pose each time. I won't pretend that I followed or understood all of it, but as the story picked out the parts I remembered, it all came together. Anyway, at the end he picked up his dead wife/mother's broach and thrust it in his eyes. Huh. Weirdo. Anyway, we had to race out of that show and up the road for another, and once again, my training paid off, as I left Ashlea and Summer with heaving lungs as I trotted up the hill. We made it, for "4.3 miles from nowhere". It was a much more amateur production (well, you've gotta hand something to Stephen), telling of 4 kids who've broken down and are spending the night in a wood together. It seemed rather cliched at the beginning, but we warmed to each other as the show went on, and the Puck-like scallywag who taunted them, told them stories and sang to them somehow bound us in his magic too.
After that we met up with Tom, inbetween his militant timetable of relentless shows - he told us about a rather scary sounding hostage-type show he'd seen, where he was kidnapped at the beginning, and the audience were literally set against one another, deciding what to do. It sounded very dramatic. I'd have probably got put with a lot of indecisive middle-class ladies who'd look at each other uncomfortably until I sacrificed myself just to get out. Tom would be a great person to have as an audience member in that sort of show. We grabbed a quick snack, and Summer, Ashlea and I went to catch some free-fringe, which we hoped was a friend of Simon's called Jonathan (I think). We sat through a few acts, which weren't bad, but he didn't appear, so we headed off at the end of the show to get ready for Milton Jones. He was FUNNY. Really funny. Also, he was at the Assembley Rooms on the Mound, and I love that venue.
After his show, I had to dash (on my bike) down to Niddry Street because I decided to perform in a Poetry Slam. For the uninitiated (like me), a Poetry Slam is where you have several poets, and they participate in several rounds of poetry. I believe that generally one (or more) poet(s) is/(are) knocked out at each round, but in this instance, there were only 3 poets participating, so although we had two rounds, we just got scores for each round. Anyway, long story, but yours truly kind-of came third. Possibly second if you take into consideration that one of the contestants left before the end, but mathematically, third. I think the judges were swayed by the beautiful, Australian, blond, political poet doing meaningful poems about freedom of speech, and didn't care about my amazing Fringe poem, or creepy relationship poem. What can I say, I am a truly misunderstood poet, which makes me better than them. A winner.
I cycled along Princes Street, and dropped down to Frederick Street, and then headed downwards in the general direction of the Botanic Gardens. I passed them, and hung a right down towards Leith and the docks. I was rather impressed. I think I recall going down that direction, but I'd never actually been to the docks, so I stopped to take some photoage. I also saw the Moscow State Circus setting up - I'd love to see that! Still can't understand why it was at the Docks, rather than being a teeny tiny bit closer to say, where everything else was (The Meadows, surely space enough there?) but the people I asked all just said that's where it always is.I headed back around Arthur's Seat, a journey I now felt familiar with, and as I hadn't covered anything like the mileage I was hoping for, I had no recourse but to take a trip down memory lane and cycle up to the Kings Buildings. As I turned right in front of the old zoology building where I had so many lectures, I saw a kid waiting to cross at the lights who I swear was there 17 years ago... how is it that science student all look the same?
And what a show! We went to see Stephen Berkoff's adaptation of Oedipus. Excitingly, it had Stephen Berkoff in it, as well as being directed by him. (I knew it was possible...). It was an amazing production. The chorus were men all seated around a long table, with Oedipus in the middle, not unlike the last supper. Periodically a drum would strike, and they all froze in a white light, taking on a different pose each time. I won't pretend that I followed or understood all of it, but as the story picked out the parts I remembered, it all came together. Anyway, at the end he picked up his dead wife/mother's broach and thrust it in his eyes. Huh. Weirdo. Anyway, we had to race out of that show and up the road for another, and once again, my training paid off, as I left Ashlea and Summer with heaving lungs as I trotted up the hill. We made it, for "4.3 miles from nowhere". It was a much more amateur production (well, you've gotta hand something to Stephen), telling of 4 kids who've broken down and are spending the night in a wood together. It seemed rather cliched at the beginning, but we warmed to each other as the show went on, and the Puck-like scallywag who taunted them, told them stories and sang to them somehow bound us in his magic too.
After that we met up with Tom, inbetween his militant timetable of relentless shows - he told us about a rather scary sounding hostage-type show he'd seen, where he was kidnapped at the beginning, and the audience were literally set against one another, deciding what to do. It sounded very dramatic. I'd have probably got put with a lot of indecisive middle-class ladies who'd look at each other uncomfortably until I sacrificed myself just to get out. Tom would be a great person to have as an audience member in that sort of show. We grabbed a quick snack, and Summer, Ashlea and I went to catch some free-fringe, which we hoped was a friend of Simon's called Jonathan (I think). We sat through a few acts, which weren't bad, but he didn't appear, so we headed off at the end of the show to get ready for Milton Jones. He was FUNNY. Really funny. Also, he was at the Assembley Rooms on the Mound, and I love that venue.
After his show, I had to dash (on my bike) down to Niddry Street because I decided to perform in a Poetry Slam. For the uninitiated (like me), a Poetry Slam is where you have several poets, and they participate in several rounds of poetry. I believe that generally one (or more) poet(s) is/(are) knocked out at each round, but in this instance, there were only 3 poets participating, so although we had two rounds, we just got scores for each round. Anyway, long story, but yours truly kind-of came third. Possibly second if you take into consideration that one of the contestants left before the end, but mathematically, third. I think the judges were swayed by the beautiful, Australian, blond, political poet doing meaningful poems about freedom of speech, and didn't care about my amazing Fringe poem, or creepy relationship poem. What can I say, I am a truly misunderstood poet, which makes me better than them. A winner.
Crawl
Sunday's instructions were quite clear. It was either have a rest, or go for a swim. Now I know what you're thinking. You think I plumbed for the rest, don't you? You know nothing about the grit and determination that makes me tick. I did a search on my iPhone, and despite it giving me some duff gen the day before, it came up trumps with the swimming pool - there was one right around the corner from our flat, the Dalry swimming pool. Summer assured me that she had especially chosen the flat with me in mind. I set off, hoping it was a reasonable size - some of the old swimming pools are 20 yards, which irritates me - I always feel that you kick off at one side, and hit your head on the other side, and don't really get any proper exercise done. I was in luck, though, it was a 25 yard pool, which I estimated to be somewhere around 22.5 metres, not too bad. It was a glass-roofed building, which I also rather like, there's something nice about seeing the sunshine and the clouds. (Mainly clouds). One thing that surprised me was a dispenser that appeared to be full of blue plastic bags. I wondered if they were for wet costumes, but ignored them, as I've got through swimming for long enough without taking plastic bags. When I got to the changing area, there was an old lady with a full length duvet-coat, white trainers and blue bags over her shoes. I initially assumed she was out on day-release from a local asylum, before clocking that everyone had plastic bags over their shoes. It seemed rather wasteful to me, and I'm glad I didn't deign to put any on. I'm also not ruling out that the lady WAS on day release, she was still hanging round the lockers looking lost when I finished my swim an hour later.
I'm not very good at maths, or counting, as I think we've established, and I'm also not very good at swimming crawl, which was mainly today's task. But I liked the idea of swimming sets of five, because counting each set means that the odds are at one end and the evens at the other; and furthermore found that if I do a length of breaststroke halfway through, it really kept me on target with the counting. I was fine right up till my 11th set, where I was swimming breaststroke and was so tired, I didn't realise it wasn't crawl (honestly). So I thought I'd finished the set, but I hadn't. Anyway, I kind of made up for it, by getting to set 14 and doing two extra lengths for "cool down". I'm never entirely sure whether this does cool me down, because frankly, by the time I've swam 70 lengths, I'm going pretty slowly anyway, but I do my cooldown breaststroke, which is always a bit slower. I have to say, I was kind of impressed with myself. That's more front crawl than I have ever swam in my life.
Needless to say, the rest of the day got rapidly better. We saw a performance of Macbeth, starring Ashlea's friend Costa as Macduff. It was a brilliant performance all round, with an amazingly small cast, and parts shared out among them, although it was rather speeded up, to get the entire play into one hour and twenty minutes. There was a simple but effective set of weird bronze-like blocks of different heights, and a full moon projected onto a mirror, which had a range of different things appearing on it, including a dead raven in various states of bloodiness. By the end of the play, the blocks had cracks of red lit up as Macbeth became entrenched in his bloody battle for power. Macduff's speech when he found out that Macbeth had killed his wife and children brought a tear to my eye. Magnificent stuff, and I can't wait for it to come to Peterborough Key Theatre this autumn, when it will be full-length.
Later, our paths separated as Summer left us to see Monsters in the Hall, which she greatly enjoyed, and Ashlea and I went to the Bang Bang Circus, who had an amazing selection of wonders for us, including jugglers, bendy ladies, and hula hoop artists, and rather impressively, a man who balanced a full-size shopping trolly, and a bicycle (although not at the same time), on his chin. The whole show was seamlessly held together by Charlie Chaplin, whose silent-mime compering was amazing. It was rather let down by the venue, which made it hard to see some of the acts, but all in all, most enjoyable.
Next up, the main reason I was there - was to see Emma's new baby Dorrie! Well, also, The Magnets, who performed their usual astounding performance of a slick show with amazing singing and a fair bit of eye-candy to boot. I had a new victim, in the form of Ashlea, who enjoyed the show enormously, and excitingly, not one, but two repeat offenders, Summer and Daniel (he of the bicycle), who both seemed to enjoy their Magnets fix as well. I remain, as an adoring fan, utterly in awe of all six of them. I had a chance to catch up with the boys after the show, as they were buying their flyer-ers a drink, as a gesture of good will. A very smart move on their part, I thought, and also one well-deserved, speaking personally as someone who has tried the task.
As a last ditch attempt to stay out after 10 pm, we went over to Niddry Street and watched some Free Fringe comedy that was called Dave Hoy's Stag Night. Apparently the Stag had been told by his fiancee that he could either do a show at Edinburgh, OR have a stag night, but not both. So his choice was to do a show about having a Stag night. It was quite entertaining, although truthfully, more so once we realised the acts were literally acting being drunk. They did it a bit too well... watching people who are behaving like tits isn't actually that funny, unless you are too. So we had to heckle. The Stag himself was heckled by someone who told him he was a "Poor Man's Milton Jones". He wasn't. He did rely heavily on some rather tired puns, but he had nothing like the comic timing and genius that is Milton Jones, and nor, sorry to say, the character and charm. But it was fun all the same.
I'm not very good at maths, or counting, as I think we've established, and I'm also not very good at swimming crawl, which was mainly today's task. But I liked the idea of swimming sets of five, because counting each set means that the odds are at one end and the evens at the other; and furthermore found that if I do a length of breaststroke halfway through, it really kept me on target with the counting. I was fine right up till my 11th set, where I was swimming breaststroke and was so tired, I didn't realise it wasn't crawl (honestly). So I thought I'd finished the set, but I hadn't. Anyway, I kind of made up for it, by getting to set 14 and doing two extra lengths for "cool down". I'm never entirely sure whether this does cool me down, because frankly, by the time I've swam 70 lengths, I'm going pretty slowly anyway, but I do my cooldown breaststroke, which is always a bit slower. I have to say, I was kind of impressed with myself. That's more front crawl than I have ever swam in my life.
Needless to say, the rest of the day got rapidly better. We saw a performance of Macbeth, starring Ashlea's friend Costa as Macduff. It was a brilliant performance all round, with an amazingly small cast, and parts shared out among them, although it was rather speeded up, to get the entire play into one hour and twenty minutes. There was a simple but effective set of weird bronze-like blocks of different heights, and a full moon projected onto a mirror, which had a range of different things appearing on it, including a dead raven in various states of bloodiness. By the end of the play, the blocks had cracks of red lit up as Macbeth became entrenched in his bloody battle for power. Macduff's speech when he found out that Macbeth had killed his wife and children brought a tear to my eye. Magnificent stuff, and I can't wait for it to come to Peterborough Key Theatre this autumn, when it will be full-length.
Later, our paths separated as Summer left us to see Monsters in the Hall, which she greatly enjoyed, and Ashlea and I went to the Bang Bang Circus, who had an amazing selection of wonders for us, including jugglers, bendy ladies, and hula hoop artists, and rather impressively, a man who balanced a full-size shopping trolly, and a bicycle (although not at the same time), on his chin. The whole show was seamlessly held together by Charlie Chaplin, whose silent-mime compering was amazing. It was rather let down by the venue, which made it hard to see some of the acts, but all in all, most enjoyable.
Next up, the main reason I was there - was to see Emma's new baby Dorrie! Well, also, The Magnets, who performed their usual astounding performance of a slick show with amazing singing and a fair bit of eye-candy to boot. I had a new victim, in the form of Ashlea, who enjoyed the show enormously, and excitingly, not one, but two repeat offenders, Summer and Daniel (he of the bicycle), who both seemed to enjoy their Magnets fix as well. I remain, as an adoring fan, utterly in awe of all six of them. I had a chance to catch up with the boys after the show, as they were buying their flyer-ers a drink, as a gesture of good will. A very smart move on their part, I thought, and also one well-deserved, speaking personally as someone who has tried the task.
As a last ditch attempt to stay out after 10 pm, we went over to Niddry Street and watched some Free Fringe comedy that was called Dave Hoy's Stag Night. Apparently the Stag had been told by his fiancee that he could either do a show at Edinburgh, OR have a stag night, but not both. So his choice was to do a show about having a Stag night. It was quite entertaining, although truthfully, more so once we realised the acts were literally acting being drunk. They did it a bit too well... watching people who are behaving like tits isn't actually that funny, unless you are too. So we had to heckle. The Stag himself was heckled by someone who told him he was a "Poor Man's Milton Jones". He wasn't. He did rely heavily on some rather tired puns, but he had nothing like the comic timing and genius that is Milton Jones, and nor, sorry to say, the character and charm. But it was fun all the same.
Saturday 13 August 2011
Jlog on.
Needless to say, I didn’t finish the poem till well after midnight, and got to bed at some time around 2. So it was up at 8 to go for the run! The Run! Arthur’s Seat! I’ve wondered for some time what sort of nutters run around Arthur’s Seat. I love Holyrood Park, of course, it’s beautiful, and you get all sorts of good views. But I don’t go up nearly as often as I feel I ought. It’s one of those things that it’s nice to know is there. I have to say it made Summer most concerned that I’d chosen to go running on our holiday. Her fears were two-fold. Primarily, she was worried that I would injure myself (perhaps an ankle) and not make it to our show at Midday, or flyering our show before hand. However, her underlying fear is that she has promised to run the Half Marathon with me, but most recently ran 4 miles. She’d briefly also said she would train with me in Edinburgh, but had second thoughts after packing. She had no regrets about not coming with me when morning came around though. She’s rapidly coming to the conclusion that although we will both run the race, we might be running at different times…
I had used Runkeeper to establish that the run from Dalry Road and around Holyrood Park was 9.5 miles, which was good, as my spreadsheet said 10, and I figured that was a good approximation. I set out, and trotted up a blissfully empty Princes Street, thinking first that all the tourists would still be in bed, but briefly wondering where the real residents were, and diverted down into the gardens. I ran past Carlton Hill, and down under a dodgy tunnel under the rail tracks, and emerged out into Holyrood Park, somewhere behind the Palace. I did as wide a circumference, anticlockwise, as I could, and eventually came to the road ascending the hill around the back of Salisbury Crags.
I decided it hadn’t been my aim to get to the top, and I got quite a good view from the height I attained at the almost top, so I decided to run back down again. Ha ha! Running down something that steep is even more stupid (which isn’t to say that the hardcore Edinburgh runners found it remotely difficult). I debated rolling down it, a la Susie and Evelyn, but it was quite a way, and I didn’t like to think what it would do to the Garmin. Well, I got down somehow, and carried on. The walkers that I’d successfully overtaken had got one over on me, and I had to pass them again. Still, I felt smug about it. 
I had time to shower, and then get onto the bike and power off up Grassmarket, and Candlemaker’s Row, past Greyfriar’s fraudulent Bobby, along Chambers Street and arrive at The Royal Oak by 11. We were missing two of our flyerers, but I set out with my instructions, and went around George Square, where the number of other flyerers easily exceeded the number of normal pedestrians. I went back to George Bridge and Chambers Street where there seemed to be more punters, and gave away a few extra flyers, including chasing after one of those bicycle taxis, where I successfully deposited a flyer in an outstretched hand. She didn't come to the show.
I have to say, modestly, that our show was brilliant. I can truthfully say that I enjoyed all of the performers, and think we did ourselves proud. There were some brilliant performances, including not one, but two poems about Peterborough! One of them started, I'll tell you once, and I'll tell you thorough - you don't want to go to Peterborough." The other was entitled "We've made it now (so screw you, Peterborough)" and was accompanied by the ukelele! But really, we had a whole stack of amazing poems and drama sketches, covering all range of different subjects. Tuna fish will never be the same again. At some point they will be available on Youtube, but they aren't yet, so I can't link them. My interweb fell over when I tried to put one of the poems on, turns out the clip was 60MB.
And later that day, we went to see Delete the Banjax, which is a hilarious sketch show, the kind of thing that Channel 4 used to put on when they were avant garde. And we rounded the night off with Richard Herring, who tried to persuade us that true love doesn't exist, and made us cry a little bit, partly with laughter, although in truth he's a very thought-provoking man, and it was both humorous and moving. I recommend them both. All. I recommend Pint of Poetry (and a dash of drama) very highly. Unfortunately you fringe-goers have missed it, and will have to come to Charters, second Wednesday of every month, and catch us there instead. You lucky, lucky people.
Oh, I thought I might treat you to the Jlogging poem. I'm not going to make a habit of this though.
Jlogging
I really hate running, I find it very dull.
Lots of folk in the office run together at lunch break
And I’ve always rather mocked them, which is very pitiful
As they set off for a five mile run around the rowing lake.
But I made a decision a little while ago
I said I’d help raise money for my friend’s charity
Her mum got lung cancer at Christmas, and so
I agreed. But I really really hate to run, you see.
I’ve got this thing about sponsoring folk
For stuff that they’ve probably always wanted to do
It’s taking the piss, I just think it’s a joke
“Can you sponsor me, I’m walking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu?”
But I still want to raise money for my mate
Not an abseiling off a building or a bungee jump for fun
Not something I’d enjoy but something that I’d hate
The difficulty here - I hate it! – I really hate to run.
So the mad folk at work are helping me train
With swimming and pace training and jogging
And I still hate to run, and it usually rains
So I keep up my interest by blogging.
I infinitely prefer the blogging to the jogging
It makes me watch for a funny slant among the different folk
And I love it, but I still really hate jogging.
But I like my blog, “Emma’s Running Joke”
Stop me if you've heard this before...
So a bear walks into a bar, and says "Could I have....
...a beer please?" The barman says "Certainly sir, but why the big paws?"
Sorry. That was by was of an apology that I last posted OVER a week ago. The good news is, you've all sorts of excitement in store, mainly my trip up to the Edinburgh Festival, and how I combined that with training.
Anyway, our last episode left you with the startling news that Sal had relented (and we're getting the idea that as reasonable people go, she's actually quite high on the list. Wait, did anyone else hear an echoey; "Mwah ha-ha-ha, they're falling for it..." Hmmm just me? Right.) and in an effort to ensure that my leg actually gets better, so I can do some proper pace training, she has me resting for two weeks. Well, I say, "resting", what I mean is "not running". That's not necessarily the same thing.
So I made a vain attempt to book my bike onto the train to Edinburgh, but they claimed that that the bike slots were all full. As a last ditch attempt to keep up with my instructions, I posted a message on Facebook to ask if anyone had a bike in Edinburgh that they were willing to lend me. I came up trumps! Daniel agreed to lend me his bike. Of course, this could be because Jeanette suggested that he should. You know how I said there was something about Sally? Well, Jeanette makes Sal look like a fluffy little kitten. I like to think that Terry Pratchett based Susan Death on Jeanette. To give Pratchett fans an idea of how scary Jeanette is, so does she. The best example of Jeanette-ness that I can give you is to quote from one of those “Friends” emails that come round every so often, where you are supposed to answer a dozen or so questions, and then send them onto your friends. One of the questions was “Glasses or contacts?” and Jeanette had replied “Glasses. Contacts stop my death stare from working”.
So I made a vain attempt to book my bike onto the train to Edinburgh, but they claimed that that the bike slots were all full. As a last ditch attempt to keep up with my instructions, I posted a message on Facebook to ask if anyone had a bike in Edinburgh that they were willing to lend me. I came up trumps! Daniel agreed to lend me his bike. Of course, this could be because Jeanette suggested that he should. You know how I said there was something about Sally? Well, Jeanette makes Sal look like a fluffy little kitten. I like to think that Terry Pratchett based Susan Death on Jeanette. To give Pratchett fans an idea of how scary Jeanette is, so does she. The best example of Jeanette-ness that I can give you is to quote from one of those “Friends” emails that come round every so often, where you are supposed to answer a dozen or so questions, and then send them onto your friends. One of the questions was “Glasses or contacts?” and Jeanette had replied “Glasses. Contacts stop my death stare from working”.
Anyway, I’d hate for anyone (especially Jeanette) to think I was complaining, because Daniel lent me a very fine bicycle indeed. It’s a Marin, which is exceptional, and probably means Daniel has never seen the way I ride bicycles. (Let’s just say it’s not dissimilar to the way I was driving in New York). Well, I’m never one to ignore a rest day, and that’s what Friday was, which was extremely fortuitous, because that was also the day Summer and I took the train up to Edinburgh. Once we arrived, and checked out the venue for our show, it was time for me to pick up the bicycle. I trotted over to the top end of Princes Street, where I found Daniel and the bike. He’d been so thoughtful as to bring a tool for me to drop the seat, and some bike oil (which frankly I found alarming), he seemed to think I’d need it for when the chain fell off (what?). We made arrangements to see the Magnets together on Sunday, and he told me he’d offered them his flat to stay in, which was when I realised I’d massively missed a trick when I asked for a bicycle to borrow… I should have asked for a flat! Never mind, next year.
Well, Friday was all about the excitement, meeting up with Tom, Jonni and Ashley, and deciding what poems I was going to read out for my part in our show. Oh, and writing a poem – I called it Jlogging.
Thursday 4 August 2011
Emma-huggers
I had an early start this morning: I set off not too late, 7:20, and bombed up the A1. I arrived at Ollerton early, having taken a diversion that my iphone instructed me on. This was lucky, it meant I had time for a pee before the Forestry Commission arrived. Don't worry, that part of the blog does not have an embarrassing ending, they didn't show up. I also had time for a tramp through the undergrowth (keep it clean, no tramp jokes here). I was a bit alarmed that every single tree was marked up. Anyway, I managed to get quite lost, and thought I'd better head back to the car before I was late. When I emerged from the briars, my colleagues had arrived, and looked slightly surprised at my already slightly wild appearance. I didn't know any of them, including my own colleague, but I knew the FC staff's boss, and had a feeling he'd have put in a good word for me. Before I opened my mouth, the FC guy said "Before I forget, Andy sends his regards".
The day got better. None of the issues we had existed - the management plan for the wood had said that they were going to burn the lop and top, and I had an issue with that; but when I raised it, they said they'd never burned on the site, and it was a mistake; they weren't going to fell the entire coup we were standing in (and he was going to have words with the craftsman who'd marked it up with a spray gun). They'd just been doing some measuring of broadleaf woodland to see what the resource was, it was just auditing. They were taking deer control seriously. I was able to explain some of their practices to my colleague, especially about leaving older trees in other parts of the wood than the coppice coups. They were restoring some plantations back to semi-natural woodland. We had a great discussion about lime stools and whether to re-cut them or not. We made a plan. It was a great visit. I told them about Keith's imminent departure, and being alone in the woodland world. I said I felt like an endangered species, and Karyn suggested that we place a Tree Protection Order on me. It sounded like a good idea. I posted this on Facebook, and my friend Nicholas said "Quite right and those of us who form a group for your protection would be called a bunch of 'Emma-Huggers' by those on the political right."
I called in at the FC office on the spur of the moment to say hello to Andy, and have a cup of tea. I shouldn't have. I thought it was a half hour's drive across to my next meeting, but it was easily an hour - the traffic was heavy, and I had no idea where I was going. But my next colleague said he didn't mind, he'd had an icecream. So it was all good. This meeting was visiting a wood in the Derbyshire Dales for me to get an idea of what it was like, so I could support its notification. Being in the Dales, it was a lot more hilly than the morning visit. My leg started aching. It's hurting in additional new places now, and I'm wondering whether it's all to do with the weak knee, or just the steep hills. I mean, it's not really **hurting**, you know, it's manageable. But I'm worrying about it all the same. Thinking about the race I'm supposed to be doing a week on Sunday. And pace training tonight when I get home. I should be focusing on the lovely trees around me, and all I'm really thinking about is the slope they're growing on.
Well I drove home, still not knowing where I was going. I seemed to recall not going through Nottingham last time, and now I knew why. Note to self: don't trust the iphone. Print out sensible directions first. On the way back, I had a text from Heather saying Bourges Boulevard was closed because of flooding. That'll be the washing wet through again then. I arrived home somewhere before 8. I decided that while yesterday I was in a fit state to exercise, today I wasn't. I messaged Sal asking what she'd advise tomorrow, whether I should do the pace training (scheduled for today) or the 50 minute run as planned. I also shared my concerns about the leg. She was having them too. "How do yo feel about a 2 week rest? Don't worry, we've got time for it, you've got the miles. Only thing is, you'd have to pull out of that race".
There was relief, but I have to admit, it was tinged with disappointment. And, well, you know, failure. I felt like I was quitting. "I feel like I'm quitting" I emailed back. "No - you're being sensible" Sal said. "And we can still do cycling and swimming - you're just having a break from running." I still had one question: "What about Arthur's Seat? I wanted to run around Arthur's seat this weekend?". We came to an agreement that I could have one parting shot. I could run around Arthur's Seat, and then take a rest.
What the hell is going on? I'm bartering to DO running?
I called in at the FC office on the spur of the moment to say hello to Andy, and have a cup of tea. I shouldn't have. I thought it was a half hour's drive across to my next meeting, but it was easily an hour - the traffic was heavy, and I had no idea where I was going. But my next colleague said he didn't mind, he'd had an icecream. So it was all good. This meeting was visiting a wood in the Derbyshire Dales for me to get an idea of what it was like, so I could support its notification. Being in the Dales, it was a lot more hilly than the morning visit. My leg started aching. It's hurting in additional new places now, and I'm wondering whether it's all to do with the weak knee, or just the steep hills. I mean, it's not really **hurting**, you know, it's manageable. But I'm worrying about it all the same. Thinking about the race I'm supposed to be doing a week on Sunday. And pace training tonight when I get home. I should be focusing on the lovely trees around me, and all I'm really thinking about is the slope they're growing on.
Well I drove home, still not knowing where I was going. I seemed to recall not going through Nottingham last time, and now I knew why. Note to self: don't trust the iphone. Print out sensible directions first. On the way back, I had a text from Heather saying Bourges Boulevard was closed because of flooding. That'll be the washing wet through again then. I arrived home somewhere before 8. I decided that while yesterday I was in a fit state to exercise, today I wasn't. I messaged Sal asking what she'd advise tomorrow, whether I should do the pace training (scheduled for today) or the 50 minute run as planned. I also shared my concerns about the leg. She was having them too. "How do yo feel about a 2 week rest? Don't worry, we've got time for it, you've got the miles. Only thing is, you'd have to pull out of that race".
There was relief, but I have to admit, it was tinged with disappointment. And, well, you know, failure. I felt like I was quitting. "I feel like I'm quitting" I emailed back. "No - you're being sensible" Sal said. "And we can still do cycling and swimming - you're just having a break from running." I still had one question: "What about Arthur's Seat? I wanted to run around Arthur's seat this weekend?". We came to an agreement that I could have one parting shot. I could run around Arthur's Seat, and then take a rest.
What the hell is going on? I'm bartering to DO running?
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