Well, around the garden, truth be told. Yes, this is another non-wargamery post, so goodbye to stilted formal language. Those denouncing my quotidian speech as egregiously peppered with purple patches may disagree. Anyway, what's going on here? Well, the blasted wound has finally scarred over, so I'm cutting back on the food and restarting the exercise. I was going to walk five miles today, but the hayfever I mentioned in the last post quite did me in. I've plastered my face with Vaseline to keep the pollen out, and this has had some slight impact. I had a test-run of press-ups earlier, to see if ten was a reasonable figure. It was. My stomach felt a bit woo-ahh, but one has to expect that after using abdominal muscles for as little as possible for two months! So provided I'm no fool and don't spend the next hour skipping and trampolining, I have a good base for recovery. Again, vast quantities of protein will be filling me. I mean to walk five miles a day every day, and have Sunday off. Walking is no problem: only the soles of my feet will lament it. Throw in fifty press-ups and twenty-plus crunches (I have yet to test feasibility in this instance), and I think we've got a nice, gentle first step on the Road to Wellsville, as that Cornflakes man might say. Come Sunday I shall review the situation and come up with a plan for next week.
Of course, despite being in corpore sano once more my mens is not quite sana yet, since I still need to sort out a job and can't pending the Christian Aid collection week. That said, the situation works completely to my advantage. With a job I should have less time to exercise, so these next few weeks will serve a great purpose! Per ardua ad astra and all that.
In other news, my friends and I have added reading to our mini-film-club, so I'm knee deep in Frankenstein, as it were. On the film front, Spinal Tap this week, so do remember to rock on, chaps and chappesses! Tuesday night will be very great, too, as I'm seeing a couple of friends I haven't seen in ages: the one works in distant Scotland-land, and the other is an ever-hard-working doctor, so opportunities to see either are few and far-between. I have another friend who's a doctor and lives in the land of Picts beyond the Wall, so I haven't seen her since she moved up there. When I have money, though-!
I mentioned the lovely visit I made to Dolgellau the other week. While there I watched The Lone Gunmen, which I had never before seen as the show, which premiered in America in March of 2001, had an opening episode dealing with a plot to fly a 'plane into the World Trade Center in New York. Anyway, it spurred me on to go back and watch the residue of X-Files episodes I had previously given up on. There's some nonsense in the antepenultimate or penultimate (depending if you count The Truth as one episode or two) about Scully wanting proof at long last about one of their cases. Since I was just sticking on DVD after DVD while painting some model soldiers, I had seen mere hours before an episode from that very season called Scary Monsters which ended with a small boy's ability to project his fantasies into the minds of others being accepted by a load of child psychiatrists. They've had proof of weird stuff before (Tithonus, Squeeze, Firewalker are three such episodes), so I'm not sure the writers were paying attention to their own prior work. Anyway, the whole isn't too bad when one's mind is half on painting. I do like Robert Patrick, and have vague memories of certain scenes in some episodes: Cary Elwes shooting a mob guy, for instance. Although at that time I was years from watching The Princess Bride, so his face meant nothing to me.
In a little while I shall watch the concluding two-parter. I must have stopped watching the show regularly in the autumn of 1999, as I had no TV at uni. We all used to crowd into a friend's room to watch something. The Simpsons, perhaps? Anyway. It's called The Truth and this is doubtless one of the greatest examples of product misrepresentation known to man. ;-) Happily, the fact that The X-Files made such a hash of combining its two myth arcs has put me off shows such as Lost. I say happily as I haven't heard such gnashing in teeth and tearing of garments as on the occasion of the apparently uninspiring finale of said J.J. Abrams show.
Right, putting that aside, I'll go watch The Truth so I can more credibly whinge. :-D
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