We should all wear fantastic red trousers and never be sad again.

This has been one of those downright fabulous week-and-a-bits. My pain levels have been high, I’ve been scraping a knee around the twisty corner of a serious anxiety problem, and I’ve been sleeping like a rat on a tilt-table, but it’s been a fantastic week.

 

I swam at my local baths, again, for the first time since November, and turned out two kilometres without really noticing it.

I went to the City bath, clocked in three 400m stretches at about five minutes each, in a 2.5-kilo total session, and spent so long in the sauna and steam rooms that I felt completely new when I came out.

I went to two sessions of the naturist swim, and was just completely relaxed and sociable.

I’ve been out for a  lazy run on the bike – Not going far, not getting far above 50mph, but doing it on the best of the twisties that my county has to offer, on a gorgeous spring-becoming-summer evening, with every hedgerow in blossom and bursting with fresh greenery. The hawthorn, particularly, is splendid this year, and after this morning’s rain (though the roads have dried nicely) its smell is hanging in the air as thick as steam. I absolutely love this kind of weather – Not too hot, not too dry, and the whole landscape feeling alive. I actually stopped to look at some extremely jolly sheep, and a lovely old piebald cob who was grazing in the wildflower-strewn field next to them. It’s been that kind of day.

My attempts at domesticating the local feral pigeons has resulted in a Flock – Chequer (A massive dark blue chequer who comes to the window five times a day), Blue Bar (A slightly smaller but not by far pale blue bar, who follows Chequer), Red (A small barless ash-red who avoids the other two), Big Red (A bigger, patchy, barred red who might be Red’s mate) and Big Blanc (A very dilute white-headed, crested red bar who only arrived this morning but Chequer keeps trying to chase away). I’ve also got an accidental twenty-kilo bag of racing pigeon feed for them, so that seems to be going down a treat.

And there’s been good news – my letter from Stanmore detailing Dr H’s assessment of me has arrived, and stuff to look forward to – My first ride on the Suzuki 650 is tomorrow.

My dissertation, which has basically been hanging over me like the sword of Damocles, is now just the toothpick of Damocles, since it’s nearly finished and just needs some gentle tidying-up in the form of a justification and some proofreading to be submitted.

Things are all looking up.

 

Find attached: Stanmore’s letter to me, and some cager’s attempt at “wit” that I found stuck under the pillion strap of my saddle today. Still not enough to make this week anything other than beautiful.

 

Stanmorereplyredacted1Stanmorereplyredacted2Stanmorereplyredacted3WIN_20160524_21_23_03_Pro

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3 thoughts on “We should all wear fantastic red trousers and never be sad again.

  1. Huzzah for something from Stanmore at last! (Sorry haven’t checked in for a while.)

    And what the actual fuck is that comment even supposed to mean? It still staggers me the antipathy so many have towards bikes of all kinds, especially having watched too many drivers deliberately drive at bikes (motor or pedal)…

    • It’s completely baffling isn’t it? You’d think that bikes were specifically reviled by their religion or that the sight of them gave people crippling migraines. As opposed to being a cheap and environmentally friendly way of getting from A to B with a big stupid grin on your face. I’ve already had drivers deliberately drive at me (Well, pull out to block the lane I was filtering down) more than a few times. Thankfully, never close enough to knock me off, yet.

      And hooray for Stanmore! I think that letter makes the whole trip worthwhile.

      Welcome back 😀

  2. One of the dodgy bits of driving I see a lot round here on the (single carriageway) A1 is to pull out towards the middle of the road to stop a biker over-taking. Bizarre: when I spot a bike coming up behind me I keep as far over to the left as I can to allow them to come past.

    Mind, some drivers just don’t like being over-taken at all: some twunt started flashing his lights at me the other day as I had the temerity to (perfectly safely and without speeding) over-take him on a very long, clear straight stretch; then there was the one in Scottishland last September who tried to force us off the road – The Bread Goddess, who was driving, would have ripped his throat out if she could have got at him (this was in cars both times).

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