Happy Hairdressers?

The peace in our household was disturbed in the middle of the night by Daughter trying to sleepwalk out of the front door. Apparently we texted her to come down the stairs. Which is a ridiculous notion because her mobile is always flat.

I bike in again and it's a very pleasant ride without the Chelsea Tractors on the road. Just goes to prove that the theory that they are all driven by women on the school run is correct. Presumably the men only use them to drive to the garden centre at the weekend.

I've advised L to draw up a weekly training plan for herself and then stick to it. Today she tells me she's broken it already. She'd planned to cycle to work today but couldn't bring herself to do it. Tut tut. She can't afford to be a wimp if she wants to get super fit.

Apparently 'Techies', that's us folks who work in IT, have lower levels of job satisfaction than hairdressers, librarians and truck drivers despite earnings a lot more money. IT workers came 66th out of 81 professions ranked for job satisfaction. I'm not surprised but hairdressers? I can't believe that hairdressers are one of the happiest. The only happy hairdresser I ever had died of a heart attack at 50, which was inconvenient because he was very good and very cheap.

An hour from the end of the day we have a power cut at work. All the people from the other offices all seem to converge on the builders, who are working across the road, blaming them but apparently it's not their fault. Just as we were all about to go home early the power comes back on. I power my computer up again, just in time to power it down again as it now is time to go home.

I cycle home and head for the pool. My plan is to attempt another swim, if I can raise the energy. I don’t want a repeat of last night when I was too tired to fight L off... or perhaps I do. It was after all a glorious victory over Harry but he'd been asking for it. It was good to put him in his place.

It's total madness at the pool. Six people in the fast lane. Five in lane two. The rest of the pool is packed as well. I opt to share the unofficial third lane with a mad Chinaman who is swimming lengths breaststroke underwater. Luckily as he’s practically glued to the bottom of the pool he doesn’t get in my way much but some of the huge women floating around do. Its worse than avoiding the Chelsea Tractors on the roads and it's probably the same people. Some of the waves they are causing are horrendous. The fully clothed woman is in there again or perhaps she’s still there from last time. Eventually enough is enough and it’s calmed down enough in lane two, it's down to three people, for me to move across. The pace is very slow in there and there’s a girl in one of those vest and shorts combo that figleaves.com sells as nightwear. Perhaps she’s just trying to be direct.

Then, a huge wave hits me side on. Oh no, what’s this, my old the friend the iceberg is back. She's adrift in the fast lane and doing her notorious backstroke. All the others in that lane have stopped and are watching from one end, keeping well out of the way, letting her get on with it.

Get home and I've got an email asking if I'll run Doggo in a Crufts team qualifier in October. Only problem is it's in Redcar. Looks like we'll be having another short holiday.

Daughter has departed for France with her father. I send her a text in French wishing her a nice holiday. The reply says 'Er... yeah... Fromage?'. Education is just so wasted on that child.

No need to try and fight L off tonight, she doesn’t make it past her own watershed. I'm not even sure Harry gets a session. In any case I’m on the computer desperately trying to keep this blog up to date.