As Unfit As An England Footballer

I seem to have picked up an injury to my calf which is from either my cycling or my swimming. So naturally I'll have to blame the swimming. Cycling is good for you. I get L to massage the misbehaving calf; it is really tight. Unfortunately that's all the massage I have time for.

I take the bus into work. Not much gossip. There were two chaps discussing their holidays. One had a fortnight somewhere in the UK in a cottage and put his dog in kennels for the first week but then had him in the cottage for the second week. An odd way of going about things.

The walk from the bus stop must have done my calf some good because it is ok by the time I get to work.

L says that Doggo seemed to smell me in the air when they walked around part of my route to the bus stop. She says it was quite bizarre standing there with a dog standing on his hind legs having a sniff. I knew I should have put on more deodorant this morning.

Daughter has got her first DT lesson of the new school year. So we'll find out whether she's been sent from Cooking to Graphics or vice versa. It says cookery on her timetable but we've been told for months that she didn't get a place on the cookery course. Obviously 6 weeks holiday isn't enough time for them to sort it out. Mind you they promised to get back to us two weeks before the end of last term. We're still waiting. They’ll still be telling her it’s a mistake when she’s sat in the GCSE cookery exam after two years of Graphics lesson.

Its squash tonight and I feel about as unfit as an England footballer. Gerrard has a broken toe but he intends to have an injection in it, so that he can play for England on Saturday. I take a more traditional approach and go for an injection of cottage pie and beer at lunchtime. Just to get me through the pain barrier you understand. Perhaps the England football team should try it. After all, all these modern methods don't seem to be working.

In the pub, it’s Amber Stout again, very nice. Worryingly they’re training new kitchen staff. We feel that the current Chef could soon be gone. So who know what the future of lunchtimes will bring.

L says that I shouldn’t be playing squash at all tonight, I should be resting instead. I shall, right after my game, I’ll stretch out on the bed and she can do her research. She been asked by the girls at work to undertake some interesting research work about ‘massage parlours’. I’m more than willing to offer myself up in the interest of research.

Squash is a bit of a humdinger. He wins one, I win one, he wins one, I win one, he wins one, I win one. So it ends up 3-3. Disappointingly I lose out in the five that count (when he’s counting) 3-2.

L and Daughter go to see Run Fat Boy Run. Quite a pair of culture vultures, aren’t they? After a pint in the pub, Doggo and I pick them up when it finishes. We take a glass of red to bed.