A blog post where I get to post a pic of Noel Fielding
I wanted to try out the wireless pulse monitor today on a run, to see how it compared with my Garmin. This meant taking my iPhone out with me and so I had my Garmin on one wrist, my pulse monitor further up the same arm and my iPhone strap on my other arm. I decided not to wear my wrist wallet, but to put my keys in my back pocket (thankfully I was wearing tights with a pocket) because although the symmetry would have been pleasing, I looked stupid enough with three black straps on my arms, let alone four. God knows what the neighbours thought; they probably thought I was going to three funerals that day or something.
One strap I didn’t have on (blimey, that would have made five) was my Cram Alert Sport ID. I am aware that owning a Sport ID and not wearing it is like having a smoke alarm without batteries in it but then I thought aha! I’ll have my phone with me – If I’m found lying in a ditch (why is it always ditches? I want to be found somewhere much more rock ‘n’ roll than a ditch; like Noel Fielding’s bed or something),
the paramedics can look at my phone and find out who I am from there. Although, they wouldn’t get much information from the list of my recent phone calls; I rarely make a phone call and the only ones I receive are from cold-callers. The best way to find out who I am and who I’ve communicated with the most recently would be to have a look at the Words With Friends or Draw Something apps but then they might start finishing my games for me and forget about me lying there dying in a ditch/Noel Fielding’s bed and they’ll only remember me when the battery runs down.
Still, I stopped worrying about paramedics running my battery down by playing MY games of Words with Friends and Draw Something and went on my run. I shuffled along until I got to the slope where I usually stop and walk and decided to give my pulse monitor a little spike by running up it
and then I ran through the housing development and on the fence just outside it was a sign. No, not a sign from God, just a sign drawing-pinned to the fence.
The housing development has got its own chip van. Bastards. I want one. Or a pizza van, at least. Although, if the wait for chips from the chip van is anything like the wait in the fish and chip shop down the road or in the Chinese takeaway, I’d be better off waiting for the potatoes that Shaun has planted (or about to plant, I don’t know about these gardening things) to grow and make my own. Bit of a cheek though, calling it The Village Chippy. The development isn’t even finished yet. Can a not-yet-finished development be a village?
Anyway, that’s my exercise for the week done. I’m having a rest day tomorrow as on Friday I’ve got a fitness assessment at BUPA. I was going to go before but Warriorwoman’s report (and subsequent conversations on Facebook/email) scared me off with tales of topless exercising so I cancelled it. Instead of emailing the man who arranged it for me ‘IF YOU THINK I’M EXERCISING WITH MY TITS OUT, YOU‘VE GOT ANOTHER THINK COMING, MATEY’, I tactfully said I couldn’t make it to London that day. Unfortunately, he saw me moaning about it on Twitter and emailed me to say that I could keep my t-shirt on and a sports bra with no underwire is fine too and would I be willing to reschedule it? I waited for Rachel’s report and Rachel’s report (and subsequent conversations on Facebook/email) reassured me that there was no topless cycling and so I emailed the man back and said ok then, book me in. So, hopefully, as I’ve had a week of exercising and a week of NO ALCOHOL AT ALL, they won’t find me too much of an unfit bloater.
A report of my un-topless exploits in King’s Cross will follow next week.