The Ministry of Embarrassing Exercises

IT'S been one of those odd days. For ages I've been mentally beating myself up over my lack of activity; looking back on a day and shaking my head in disbelief that another 24-hours have passed and still no effort has been made to raise my heart beat above resting level.

 Today that changed, albeit accidentally. Which is probably the best way to do it. Sneak up on yourself with some form of exercise before your inner monologue has a chance to make excuses and leave the room.

 At work I was invited to the Centre for Alternative Technology near Machynlleth. Knowing that a, it was built in the site of an old slate quarry and b, it was winter, I travelled to the centre, rather smug in the knowledge that I had packed my wellies in an act that suggests I'm prepared, I'm organised, I don't have to totter about in my four-inch heels feeling out of place.

 The fact that I was wearing a bright red coat with a huge purple corsage, and the wellies, which themselves were black with white polka dots didn't seem to matter until I arrived there and realised I looked slightly crazy.

 But my rather bizarre Mary Poppins meets Minnie Mouse outfit was the least of my problems. 

 CAT is built into the side of a hill, and in the past when I've visited, I've sat in the little train which carries you up there. But as it is winter, the train isn't working - a fact I did know but evidently my brain locks away all the useful information I might need and replaces it with songs and nonsense.  

 Which meant I was walking. Up hill, with lots of steps. My attempts to make conversation with the lovely people at CAT quickly fizzled out as my heart rate went into emergency spasms, unfamiliar with the physical activity I was subjecting it to. 

 I even found myself doing that shamefully obvious diversion tactic of stopping halfway up to "admire the view" as I waited for the stitch to subside. 

 But I made it up to the centre, and conducted virtually the entire interview glowing a vibrant shade of red. If it wasn't for the heavy eye make-up I'm pretty sure you would have had a problem distinguishing the outline of my face as it blended in beautifully with the postbox red of my coat. Classy.

WITH my legs sufficiently hating me for the surprise exertion I couldn't let my arms rest so upon my arrival back home I played my new Wii game, Samba De Amigo.

 I'm not sure it will ever gain a reputation as one of those cool games but it made me laugh.

 The idea is very simple; shake your Wii-motes in time to the music like maracas. With a brow furrowed in concentration I shook my funky stuff along to three or four songs before the other half made me switch it off. I think me trying to co-ordinate myself along to Mambo Number 5 was too much oddness for him to cope with. 

 The fact that I had also attracted a small crowd of neighbours outside the living room window, who had all slowed down to witness the car crash sight of me trying to samba with a couple of remote controls in my hands may have played a big part in his decision too I suppose.

Little hats hit the shelves

INDEED they have. As mentioned in a previous post I decided to knit as many little woolen hats as I could, which would be added to the tops of Innocent Smoothies and the sales would benefit Age Concern.

 Ignoring the question of why don't I just knit bigger hats to keep old people warm directly, I made as many as I could and proudly sent off 35 hats in assorted colours and yarns. 

 Feeling saintly following a trip to the post office to send off the little hats, I opened the local paper and read a story about a local group who had also knitted for the same cause. 

 My smugness at taking time out of my hectic schedule for charity was shortlived and dismay took over as I read about one member of the group, a 70-year-old, who had knitted over 300 hats. 

 Three hundred. I couldn't even fill a shoebox with my contribution, this woman probably couldn't carry all of her hats to the post office without dropping a trail of them behind her like a geriatric Hansel and Gretel.  

 Oh the shame, beaten by a little old lady. 

 Anyway should you find yourself at a Sainsburys, feel free to give a hat a home and help to keep the elderly warm, even if they do kick my arse at knitting. 

 

 

Driven to madness and back again

LIVING out of town has its benefits, but it also has its low points - like the impending village light switch-off by the local authority in a shoddy attempt to save money (Perhaps if they hadn't lost millions in Icelandic banks for starters...). Yet another issue the humble villagers lose out on to those living in towns - add it to the list along with the lack of decent recycling facilities - I could go on.

 But my absolute bugbear has to be the traveling to work.  I hate it.  It's less than 10 miles away but some mornings it will take forever.

 

 Tuesday morning was a perfect example.  The journey started like it does most days, trying to find my place in the rush of traffic, usually situated behind the slowing-moving obstacle, such as an oil tanker, lorry carrying a static caravan or a marching band. It was a steady journey until we were two miles away from town then traffic stopped dead. In these situations I initially remain the optimist, confident that cars will begin to more along soon.

 

 Fifteen minutes later I've only covered 100 metres and I begin to get twitchy. Still convincing myself I can make it to work in time if traffic starts moving again, I sit there tapping the dashboard as my irritation grows. Half eight comes and goes and I start trying to hone my psychic abilities in the hopes I can send messages telepathically to my boss to explain I'm late for reasons beyond my control. By now the little needle on my car radiator dial is rising - moving quicker than the traffic is and looking ahead you can see lorries pulling in to stop their engines overheating. Despite my panic, my rational side is still reasoning that if it's an accident ahead, my being a bit late is a much better situation than lying in a crumpled wreck of a car.

 

 And so, nearly 20 minutes after the time I should've been in work, I finally reach the source of the congestion; road traffic monkeys looking resplendent in reflective jackets and tea-cosy beanies blocking one lane of traffic at the roundabout into town, and pulling cars over in order to conduct a census. No warning was given about this. The reasoning from local authorities? They wanted to monitor the normal amount of traffic in order to gather accurate information about the road usage. Normal? Really? Creating a bottleneck and two-mile delays is normal? Well in that case, based on the information they must have gathered and the scenes of chaos they witnessed , I expect this time next year will see that A-road in a rural setting being transformed into a three-lane motorway complete with flyovers and Welcome Breaks.

 If I wasn't running so late already I would have cheerfully stuffed their clipboards where their little hats won't keep them warm.