The Big Stick

Anyone got a big stick I could borrow?

The plan for last night was to get some dinner inside me, get on the bike and go collect d from work.

In the event I got some dinner inside me....and went to collect d from work. The flaw there, really, is that while my mind is as 21st century and progressive as you like, my body appears to still be a cack-handed 1970s unreconstructed dickhead, who stopped off in student digs along the way to blow up a few cookers.

Yes, really. At least two cookers exploded while I was using them. With a blithe self-regard that I like to think is charming, I succeed in not taking that personally, or indeed seeing it as any kind of message from the cookers of the world to stay the fuck away from them at all costs.

That means that while in the reality of the world, my none-too-ambitious dinner - chicken, brussell sprouts, rice - should have taken a maximum of 25 minutes to cook, and at most the same again to eat, leaving me plenty of time to jump on the bike and pedal, in reality, our kitchen looked like something out of a Buster Keaton movie during the more than forty minutes it took me to persuade the food to become...well, food, really. The kicker of which is that while I cooked two pieces of chicken, I ended up throwing one away, being both full and calorifically conscious.

So that's at least two nights, possibly longer, when I've done no biking. This could eeeeeeasily become a pattern - I have plenty of work to do that whispers seductively to me that sitting on my ass and getting it done is far more important than 'wasting' an hour on the bike, plus showering time, plus yadda yadda yadda.

Which is why I need a big stick. Made of, y'know, willpower and beatings.

Sigh. Tonight, goddammit, there will be biking.

Biking.

Right...