The Queen…

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Now, only several days in, and I’m already playing blog catch-up.  After several enthralling days (Saturday and Sunday) at work during which I spent approximately twenty-four hours sat on my glutinous arse in a car, or wandering aimlessly round Sainbury’s with the desperate desire to get back some feeling in my legs and feet, and to avoid what is rapidly becoming my pet paranoia – the threat of a deep vein thrombosis. Surely sitting in a car for twelve hours a day is bad for you…

As the weekend was not only a waste of my time and the taxpayer’s hard-earned crust, but also a bike-free time, yesterday (for it is now Tuesday, such is the level of bloggety-slackness) should’ve been a day of bicycling joy. Sadly, since the cat had previously been sick on my laptop, with the juices (in)conveniently dribbling into the bits that make the keys work, yours truly had to make a trip to the Apple store in Milton Keynes. This resulted in my wandering aimlessly, then wandering lost, around the vast halls of consumer “delight”. It would be quite nice if it wasn’t for the other shoppers. Truly, the mental capacity possessed by the majority of the human race remains like the primordial slime from which it’s said to have it’s origins. Or perhaps that’s just MK?

Anyway, on to important matters, such as fat-bottomed girls and bicycle races, although, to be honest, you’re not going to read anything more about either here today. If that’s the sort of thing you’re after, you’d be better off with a Queen album. Enough of the waffling, and on to the embarrassing and somewhat disturbing weigh-in, made even more embarrassing and disturbing by having not just today’s weight, but also the weekend news, too:

Aug 30th: 86.8kg
Aug 31st: 88.3kg
Sept 1st: 87.1kg
Today: 86.4kg

I’m sure that, one day, these awful statistics will demonstrate some kind of improvement… Pah!

On to yesterdays ride. It was the dullest, least pleasurable ride I’ve had in the whole of the last month-and-a-bit. If anyone ever tells you that they want a turbo trainer for Christmas, I suggest you buy them one and then beat them to death with it. You don’t go anywhere, don’t see anything, and can’t even hear the television without cranking the volume up so high that the neighbours beat your front door down, then beat you to death your own turbo trainer. It’s death that’s utterly justifiable too, so it’s no good you moaning to the law. On top of that, you cook yourself quite quickly, as there’s no air to flow through your locks. All in all, a date with a turbo trainer is about as pleasurable as the prospect of a quickie with the Queen – not Freddie Mercury et al – I mean the Queen. This being the case, I lasted an hour before I (mentally) cracked, and abandoned.

Yesterdays bike: Paul Milnes 531c frame with a 6-speed Shimano hotchpotch and Wolber Profil TX

"Fancy a bunk-up, Your Majesty...?"

“Fancy a bunk-up, Your Majesty…?”

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