Timing Malfunction

As plans go, this is one of the stupider ones.

Not that I object to working from home for the first two days of this week, and being able to lounge around in my underwear all day...but it all comes back to that weekend vibe, and how you stop yourself from flipping over into "Woohoo, no-one's watching, slob out and eat evvvvvverything" mode. Especially the day before a weigh-in.

What are you looking at me like that for? All hungry and hanging-on-my-every-word? It's not like I have much of an answer - tomorrow, despite still genuinely working from home, I have to head out first thing, so will assuage a chunk of work-from-home guilt by at least adding an ordinary amount of walking into the mix. Today? Nnnnotsomuch. Today I followed a weekend of...well, pretty much sitting on my arse, proof-reading, with a Monday of...erm...well, pretty much sitting on my arse, proof-reading. I did my ten miles of pain early in the day, if that counts for anything.

Nah, I didn't think so either.

I'm pretty much pinning my hopes for a good result on gardening. You remember about forever ago, I mentioned there was going to be gardening in my weekend future? Well, this weekend, we actually did some.

Ach, Hell, who am I kidding - I was busy sitting on my arse, and I heard a noise that sounded like a frog in a  blender, coming, I guessed, from the kitchen. You never can tell, when d gets an idea in her head, what amazing creation might come oozing and sashaying its seductive way out of the kitchen and the wonder-bakery that is her brain. So I popped along to see what she was pulverising.

Twigs, as it turned out.
She was out in the garden, not the kitchen, and she was taking what could only really be described as a junior chainsaw to the Triffids that are choking the foliage to death. I paused at the back door, watching her swing the mini-devastator hither and thither, sawing through evil branches and watching them fall.

Little tip for dealing with blokes. We're basically eight-year-olds in gruff hairy flab-suits. I've been pretty much trying to avoid doing this garden work for weeks now. But the second d started doing it, two simultaneous instincts kicked in - firstly the "I wan' a go, gimme, gimme, gimme!" instinct of the eight-year-old tantrum-haver, and secondly, the faux-macho white-knight syndrome that said "Forsooth, my lady, thou shouldst not sully thy fair hands with such menial work, pray allow me..."

So, for at least a little while, I took control of the power tool (In case you're wondering, yes, I still have all my limbs, thankyouverymuch!) and swung it above my head, feeling the fundamental power of human beings destroying something natural. Fairly quickly, I got drunk on that power and started practicing my mad, Bond-villain laugh, scaring the bejeesus out of local birds. It was time to come in, obviously - apart from anything else, my tokenistic enthusiasm for the job had rather dribbled away. d carried on, and this time, if I'm honest, my inner eight-year-old said "Bored now, want a glass of milk, knock yourself out..." and my inner white knight said "Ach, a pox on such a garden, bring me ale and half a pig, woman!"

Nevertheless, we shared a satisfying inability to move our arms or grip anything for a handful of hours, feeling like we had Done Something About The Weeds, finally.

Enough to overcome three and a bit days of arse-sitting? Guess we'll find out in the morning.

Oh yeah - More Trish Deseine tonight. Home-made Tarte Tatin and a visit to the Maison Du Chocolat chocolate company.

She must die. There's no other way...