Drowning In A Bath Of Red Wine

I have tired legs this morning and it's bloody windy, all in all it took me nearly ten minutes longer to get to work than usual. It didn’t help my momentum that a woman in a Ka pulled out in front of me at Station Road in Borrowash, it's nearly always the women, and I'm sure she saw me. Having forced me to brake hard once, she then immediately indicates to turn right down Victoria Avenue, making me brake hard again. I can see now why some cyclists bang on the roof's of cars in such circumstances. I didn't see my runner today but the lycra-ed blonde gave me wave.

It's been pointed out to me that the other day I called the Shepshed 7 the Shepherd 7. So I apologise but I'm not going to correct it because I think that’s a better name for it.

L is still feeling morose and says she's tempted to put her head in the gas oven. I'm not sure she's got time with all she's got planned today. She'll end up doing it last thing at night and I can see her dozing off with her head in the oven before she's had chance to turn the gas on. This is perhaps why she seems to be leaning towards drowning herself in a bath of red wine instead. This sounds altogether much more fun and possibly quite kinky too, hopefully they'll be for both of us. Bit of a dilemma though because we won't have enough of any particular wine to fill the bath and I'm not sure it's the done thing to mix different grapes in the same bath.

I leave work and cycle to the pool, I'm hoping the wind that opposed me all the way here will now blow me home, but it's suddenly conspicuous by its absence.

The pool is quiet again, which is disappointing because L has been telling me how lively it's been at lunchtimes. Today she had some smart arse swimming entire lengths underwater, on his back and yesterday she shared a lane with Buster Crabbe and his flippers. I think at first that she means that chap from Bad Manners which makes me wonder how there was room for her in the same lane but then I realise she means the Olympic swimmer guy who also played Tarzan.

I try and imagine that the pool is full of Rioja but I still find it dull and I've got bad calf cramps today. That's cycling into the wind for you. Then Duncan Bloody Goodhew gets in. He refuses to acknowledge my presence and just spends the whole time staring straight ahead down the lane but doesn't swim, until I do. Then as soon as I start a length, he comes hurtling past me like Flipper The Bloody Dolphin. Once at the other end he stops and waits for me and we start the whole charade over again. I give up and get out. I'm too old for all this.

Take Doggo to class, where he has a good bark and does a bit of agility. Then home to get uber-cranky with my as yet un-gassed girl. Cranky as in Artichokes. They're ok but not really my thing.

We watch a bit more of Volver and then retire to bed. Tonight's pillow talk concerns why do chickens have more chromosomes then humans but it's not of sufficient concern to keep me awake.