A mate from work invited some of us round to his girlfriend's parents house on Friday night to celebrate his birthday.
All very grown up with nibbles, drinks, meal and even tea and coffee at the end. Anywhere that serves tea and coffee at the end of a meal is quite fancy for me. I don't get out much.
Anyhow, his girlfriend's parents are vets. My thoughts on vets extend as far as 'Animal Hospital' with Rolf Harris. I think of a vet and I see Rolf's face cheerily nattering away as a budgie's put down or something. Rolf's happy ways neglected to mention that vets are rich. Very. No wonder he was so happy to hang around them for so long. I'd do the same thing.
The house was stunning, leaving all the guests in awe, making us think long and hard about our own pathetic shoeboxes that we live in. Indoor swimming pool? Check. Floor level lighting? Check. Beds with metal leaves overhanging? Obviously.
I'm now incredibly jealous. If only I'd thought longer about sticking my hand up a cow's jacksy during the careers advice sessions at school...
Went to the new Wembley Stadium yesterday. Obviously, it isn't properly opened yet. I 'won' the chance after the local council offered tickets to local residents (ie me) to come and be the first to see and experience the new stadium.
We were to "help the organisers test facilities such as the turnstiles, escalators and toilets". In other words, we were to be human lemmings. If anything went wrong, we would be sacrificed to the Gods of Multiplex who would sprinkle our ashes over the newly laid turf.
Well, all things considered, the place is magnificent. Climbing the stairs and catching the first glimpse of the all red-seated bowl is breath taking. Once inside the bowl shaped stadium, it's hard not to be taken away by the sheer size and feeling of awe at what is before you. Even though the atmosphere from the crowd consisted of one man and his dog, there were a few moments when the sounds quietly reverberated around the cauldron we were seated in. When it's full, the noise will be deafening.
I was sat high up at the back but the view was still very, very impressive. There isn't a spot where view is impeded (unless you're sat behind a very big headed person). However, the climb up to my seat was quite tiring. At one point, I'd got so high that I was worried the oxygen was actually getting very thin in the air. Old biddies and those afraid of heights should take note - the climb up to the back is VERY steep and VERY high.
'Entertainment' was provided by the usual Z-list celebrities wanting to be footballers. Again. Yawn. Please, give up the ghost Ralph Little. We've seen you. Over. And. Over. Again. Yes, you can kick a ball. Hoo-rah. Weighing it up, in the grand scheme of things, your ability to do so ranks about as highly as me buttoning my shirt up. The only solace that we, as a crowd had, was that Robbie Williams' fecking shadow, Jonathan "Just What Is It I Do Exactly?" Wilkes wasn't there.
As for the facilities that we were testing:
1) Turnstiles - Opened 15 minutes late. Made a clackety sound as we went through.
2) Escalators - 3 sets up to the main concourse. One of them broke.
3) Toilets - Very dark in colour. You can see the girls washing their hands from outside. The hand-dryer is strong enough to power a jet engine.
Along with flat beer and soft drinks, and extortionately priced snacks, it feels as though Wembley's never been away...
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Sunday morning = my newly found gym class. I'm not one for the gym in general. I first started going at university about seven years ago. A nice butch lady gave me a program to help me 'bulk up' (whatever that means) and I went for a few months. Then, I stopped going. I got bored.
I joined another gym a few months later. I thought this place might be more interesting. Another nice lady did another program for me. But this lady made me feel a bit ill as she insisted on standing over me whilst I did bits of her program. I think she thought I'd cheat. I'd had a cheese sandwich and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps before going to see her which probably didn't help.
Since then, I've stayed with the gym but have made practically no progress. Why? I get bored. Very easily. Where's the fun in lifting up a bar of metal attached to a couple of circley bits of metal at the end over and over again? I don't see the fascination with it. There are people in there who are always there. Whenever I go in, they're there grunting away. Now, there could be one of three possible reasons for this:
Reason Number One As To Why The Same People Might Always Be In The Gym - They have adjusted their body clocks in time with mine and we all decide to go and work out on the same days. I've heard that this often happens with girls who live together and their menstrual cycles. I don't have a menstrual cycle though.
Reason Number Two As To Why The Same People Might Always Be In The Gym - The gym has provided them with a little cupboard that they sneak in and out of. They live their lives in the gym. In the cupboard, they have all the necessities of life - bed, cooker, Sainsburys. However, they can only stay there with the agreement that any time not sleeping, cooking or in Sainsburys must be spent in the gym. This entire reason isn't very likely.
Reason Number Three As To Why The Same People Might Always Be In The Gym - They're more dedicated than me. This entire reason is most likely.
I've been trying to make more of an effort recently but - thankfully - work's been busy so I can pretend that I don't really have a lot of time to go. However, everytime I see my bank statement, I realise that the £42 I send into the coffers of Fitness First plc every month needs to be justified in some way.
So, behold the Body Power class. Basically, I go along and a man in a red T-shirt shouts things and we follow his instructions. Kind of like big bipedal dogs. It's better than working out on my own because we all do the same things together. However, most of the girls lift heavier weights than I do. I don't let that put me off.
Strangely, when 'Shouty-Shouty Man' tells us what to do and how quickly to do it, I'm always the one who's out of time with the others. So, when everybody else squats, I'm standing. When they stand, I squat. I try to correct myself but end up out of sync again. I try not to let others see that this bothers me though. I just put on a pretend 'Typical!' smirk on my face and shrug my shoulders, in case anyone's looking. Inside, I'm crying.
'Shouty-Shouty Man' called me 'Young Man' today. I call my kids at school that. I think he might have been patronising me because I was being very slow at picking up my weights. I didn't mean to be slow. Actually, I did. I was tired. But there was no need for his comment. I don't call him 'Shouty-Shouty Man' to his face, so he doesn't need to call me 'Young Man' to mine. I can't really say anything to his face though as he's taller than me so it's physically impossible.
People often do strange things when they reach certain ages. I say 'people', I actually mean 'middle aged men'. And I say 'strange things', I actually mean buy flash cars and chase much younger girls than their wives.
I turned 28 on Wednesday. Not middle-aged by a long shot. But I got there and over the last few days it's dawned on me that I have very little to show of my years between the ages of about 16 and now.
When I was really young, mum and dad took lots of photos of me as I was growing up. That's evidence of my existence on this planet. However, since then, I've got lots of bits of paper that say I did things - GCSE certificates, A-Levels, Degree, P45's - but the photos have stopped. Largely my own fault as I can't be arsed with putting cameras in my jeans. Even worse, now that I do a proper grown up job, I have no reason to even write anything for any real purpose other than work.
That's wrong. Very wrong.
Years have clearly passed by me when, okay, not a lot happened but I still had a lot to say about it. But those words are now lost. Uttered once and blown away by the breeze. I read that in a poem once. Quite liked it so suitably changed it so as to avoid any accusations of plagiarism. Things have to change or else I'll end up at 65 without a flippin' thing to my name.
So, armed with my phone - as that fits in my jeans, takes photos and doesn't annoy me - I aim to jot down as much rubbish here as I can be bothered to put down. I'll even decorate it with my photos. If I can figure it out, I'll go so far as linking to my photos on Flickr too. But, to be honest, that's given me a headache just thinking about it...
