The Meaning Of Happiness

I must be knackered because it's a fairly brief lie-in this morning, then I get up to take Doggo on the park. Daughter goes off to a sleepover.

Then it's off to the football. Today we have the only premiership game at 3pm on the 'traditional' Saturday. What a bizarre time to play a football match in this 'modern' age.

Oh dear, 5-0, I fear our bubble has burst. Ok so it might have been a very small bubble. Worst thing was West Ham weren't even any good, at least for the first half and were there for the beating. Again we played with only one striker and he wasn't even fit. Our run of six easy games of which we needed to win probably three of them and preferably remain unbeaten has yielded a grand total of two points.

Therefore the lynch mob is out for Billy Davies. I've never been a great Billy Davies fan but it would be unfair to sack him, he did incredibly well to get a mid-table championship team promoted and now they've been found out for what they are - a mid-table championship team.

After the match, and before, the traffic is horrendous; almost like a workday on Pride Park. I assume it's the combination of bigger crowds this season, a new 'shopping' centre and XXXXXmas on its way. Don't suppose anyone will do anything about it.

So it's a bit of a rush to get to Broadway, we have to take the car and dump it at L's work. At Broadway they tell us we can't have a 'bite' this week, the kitchen is just too busy. I comfort myself with two pints of Newby Wyke.

We see 'Into the Wild', which is a road movie of sorts. It is written and directed by Sean Penn, based on a real-life novel. The main character, Christopher McCandless, has just graduated from college. Despite getting good grades, he is unhappy with his life. He resents his parents and their marriage, though perhaps for good reason and he dislikes our hollow, materialist world (who doesn't?) and decides to do 'something' about it. So without a word, he donates his $24,000 savings to Oxfam and goes off in his old Datsun.

Calling himself 'Alexander Supertramp', he hits the road, possibly to find a meaning for his life or perhaps simply to hide from it. His goal is to get to Alaska, but on his way there, he hits many other states and at one point ends up in Mexico, which is totally the wrong direction. We know he gets to Alaska because the film cuts between his days there living in the abandoned 'Magic' bus, where he keeps a diary of sorts, and his two-year road trip that preceded it. On the way he makes several foolish decisions but gets away with most of them, such as illegally running the Colorado rapids in a kayak, other times he is not so lucky, like when he is caught riding the railways and is beaten for his troubles.

For someone who appears to want to leave the bad old world behind and live a life of solitude, he meets and befriends an awful lot of people, people who are slightly oddball like himself. They are almost all very good to him but he avoids getting too close to anyone. He believes that this is not necessary for happiness. It is this rejection of human contact that strikes you the most, without these people he could not have survived. He bonds with the kind old Mr. Franz, a lonely widower and also a very genuine ageing hippie couple. He touches these people but then just walks away. He develops a 'friendship' with a 16-year-old female singer, who fancies him so much that in the end she offers herself to him on a plate and again he simply walks away.

He is also very inconsiderate of his family; he appears to love his sister, who voice-overs the film, but even keeps her in the dark about his whereabouts and safety, as if a single phone call would spoil his rebellion. He is certainly cocky and self-assured but often he just comes across as a pretentious and arrogant young man.

The ending is dramatic although you can see it coming because the build up to it is slow. Alone in Alaska, he realises that he is out of his depth, cut off by the river so he can no longer leave, he struggles to kill the animals he needs for food and falls victim to poisonous plants. You still kind of hope for the cavalry to arrive and rescue him but somehow you know this isn't going to happen.

The movie itself is gorgeously shot; there are fantastic scenes of Alaska and other parts of America. Great tracking shots of mountains, plains, rivers, and the wild animals. The film, though, is too long at around two and a half hours.

In the end, the power of the film is in its final scenes, when he realises that he has made a dreadful mistake. Not just in his misguided adventure into Alaska alone but in his misconception of what constitutes happiness. You could say that in the end he reaps the consequences of his naivety and stupidity. What he learns in the end, and scribbles in his diary, is that 'Happiness is only real if shared'. If only he had realised it sooner.



We are both starving and we go to the Mogul for a curry, where for some reason all the staff are in a huge hurry. We are asked five times within as many minutes for our order and then when we finally give into their nagging and order, it all arrives within minutes. Not at all a relaxing place to have a meal. I have a bottle of Tiger with it but only one because we didn't have time to order any more. So quite a low alcohol night really.

Pints Of Stilton

A fairly lonely bike in today; no runner, no blonde, I don't even see the old timer with the Santa beard on his bike. Even lonelier at work because L is not in work today and our wonderful email system is blocking all her emails from home, thanks Microsoft.

The latest crap research reveals why moody teenagers specialise in nonchalant sideways glances and shoe gazing. It has been revealed that looking a potential mate straight in the eye makes you up to eight times more attractive to them, that is if she doesn't dismiss you as a creep. So while they think it makes them look cool, it is in fact, just nature’s way of keeping the under-age pregnancy statistics under control.

Also in the news, in the national press no less, is Arnold Hill School in Nottingham. This is the school where on Tuesday a woman turned up at the school dressed as a WPC to wish one of the pupils a very happy birthday. It is believed the boy's mother had intended to book a gorillagram for her son and had even gained a teacher's permission but a stripper turned up instead. The WPC apparently asked the birthday boy to stand up before dancing to Britney Spears in front of his classmates. At which point the teacher stopped the show, presumably because of the woman's poor taste in music.

The account reported by the over-excited national media was far more exciting. In their reports the woman stripped to her underwear, had the teenager put a collar on her, spanked the boy sixteen times (once of each year of his age) and asked him to rub cream onto her body. Then she ordered him to get on all fours and led him around the classroom. Unfortunately and presumably to the disappointment of the rest of the class, it appears that none of this actually happened.

For some reason it's a fast ride home, a new fastest time for my new route through Bramcote. L is on hand for some celebratory lycra stripping.

We walk Doggo down to Beeston for a few beers. We nearly don't get there as the fireworks are still carrying on and one particular bang is a little too close to home for him. I manage to talk him into continuing, although he insists on a very brisk pace. It's worth the trip, Stilton porter (two pints) and Otter Ale (two pints) both excellent. Even L's on the pints of Stilton. Home for chilli and Jools.

To Return... Or Not

I'm not playing squash tonight but I still take the bus. I feel my legs need a rest and I'm also planning a long run with the dog tonight, although I've not told Doggo yet.

L reads up on Volver on Wikipedia. She just can’t resist ‘reading the book’ but I can't have her knowing the plot, if I don't, so I have to have a read too.

We do the pub at lunch and I try some of the Flowerpot's new own brew, King Street Ale, it's not bad but a bit too sharp for me. Have Steak and Kidney pie too.

L gets an email trying to recruit me into a cross-country team. I'm not sure I'm available, I'm still considering an offer from a rival team that I got after the Notts 5 although I think that might have been retracted after I trounced the chap who offered at both the Jagermeister and Shepshed. He's since stopped speaking to me.

Another reason I'm not playing squash is because L wants to go shopping and that would mean dumping Doggo. It also gives my opponent more time to get a new (stronger) racquet, after what he did to his last week. So instead of squash I take Doggo for a loop around Wollaton, the University and then down the canal to meet L at Sainsbury's. I think he would have preferred that I had played squash. He seemed to have a look of resignation on his face for most of the run.

We hit a problem on the canal tow path, where we catch a bike up. This girl is riding with no lights. Ok so she won't get hit by a car on the tow path but she could end up in the water because she clearly can't see where she's going. It can't help having a dog breathing down you back wheel either. In the end we overtake which means we now have to concentrate on staying ahead. Finally we make it to Sainbury's and Doggo flops in the car while I go and find L.

After we get back with the shopping we feast romantically on pate and cheese washed down with red wine, a glass of, not a bath full. Then afterwards we finished off Volver or does it finish us off.

Penelope Cruz plays Raimunda, who, finds herself husbandless, thanks to her own daughter. He came on to her and she stabbed him. Little is made of the attempted rape or the subsequent murder, by mother or Daughter; they just shrug their shoulders 'oh well' and get on with life. This sets the tone for the film as other things happen, everyone's dirty washing falls out of the cupboard and the plot gets weirder and more convoluted. Raimunda's sister, Sole thinks she's seeing the ghost of their dead mother, and... well there's just too much to go into.



I suppose it's a kind of film noir but it’s also like a soap opera, I can't really see why it got all the plaudits. It’s well shot, well made, Penelope Cruz is passable but hardly sensational. I suppose compared with her previous efforts she's a revelation but she still has to mime when she's asked to perform a flamenco number.

It all left me cold. It's a story about women sticking together with an almost all female cast. It's a film for girls but then I don't think L was that fussed by it either. Volver means 'to return'. Hmmm, not in this case.

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.

Where's Me Shoes

It's a mere 4 degrees this morning. At least I have better luck with my flask; I pre-warm it and get a hot drink this time rather than a lukewarm one and no spillages. I'm not convinced that coffee is the best thing to have in it, though not sure what is. Hot sports drink?

Just a note to my loving partner, who thinks I don't take things steady; it's such a nice morning; I free-wheel through the countryside outside Borrowash, coasting down the hill looking at the morning sun glinting on the fields. Despite the cold it's a beautiful morning for cycling. I'm so not concentrating that I nearly collide with the runner again; despite our joint near death experience we're now on nodding terms.

Our lucky neighbours have L delivering their papers and gossip mags (aren't they the same thing) this morning, ably assisted by plonker the collie.

The new toaster we have ordered has been delivered to work, however I won’t be carrying it home on my bike this evening.

I'm at a gig tonight and I've been stood up by my mate (again) who's decided to drive over to Birmingham to see the Foo Fighters for 2414th time rather than join me at the Pigeon Detectives. Since we got tickets they've suddenly become popular, which is a shame and the gig is now sold out, whereas a few months ago they couldn't give the tickets away. Daughter is keen to go and because my mate isn't now going I've manage to buy his ticket off him for her. So it's Daughter and me tonight, no L. She says she's not keen on them Pigeon Fanciers; she liked what she heard of them in the Ropewalk one night but not when she'd sobered up afterwards.

I ride home and then run to meet L from pilates. I persuade Doggo into doing a loop around Wollaton before heaving up to the Tennis Centre. Unfortunately we lose one of his flashing lights off his running jacket; well he loses it, too much pushing through bushes. We retrace our steps to look for it. This upsets Doggo who doesn't like it when we repeat a route, lazy creature.

L whips up some excellent sausage, mash, and onions and then we're off to the gig at Rock City. Daughter seems to have her pulling gear on or perhaps she just wants to look good in the mosh pit; although she's not shown any inclination to crowd surf before but she probably just didn’t want to in front of her mother. Hope she behaves herself or else I could be in trouble with L.

We miss the first support band, the much hyped One Night Only, who I'd like to have seen but we catch most of the set by The Wallbirds. The place is packed and we're in the Maximo Park position, stage right, so the view isn't brilliant. The Wallbirds are kind of country-rock that reminds me of Fratellis but with potential. One of their songs seemed to consist of just a guitar, a hi-hat cymbal and a pair of sticks, assisted by a lot of clapping from the crowd. They're certainly energetic and it rubs off on the crowd. Possibly one to watch out for.

In between bands we move to a better position on the steps, where Daughter has to battle the drunks and some over enthusiastic fans but we have a good view. The beer throwing isn't too bad tonight which is a good job as Daughter has opted to keep her white sweat-top on rather than wow a pigeon fancier with her décolletage.

"Hello Nottinum"

Winning no prizes for pronunciation here come tonight headliners. All dressed in leather jackets the Pigeons energetically take flight into their breakthrough single 'I Found Out' which grazed the lower reaches of the charts earlier this year and is now set for a re-release.

The band, lead by their lunatic of a front man, Matt Bowman, then proceed to work their way through their debut album 'Wait For Me' and assorted b-sides. Hammering out their high octane, pop songs as the crowd jump, surge and crowd surf in front of them. I had expected it to be an almost exclusively under 18's crowd but it isn't, it's mainly students and twenty something's with a few oldies like me thrown in. Because the band have only recently become popular the youngsters must have been out manoeuvred on the tickets.



Music aside all the entertainment comes from Mental Matt. He swings his microphone above his head on its cable; I hope they've got plenty of spares. For some reason his performance reminds me of Alvin Stardust. Two songs in he takes off his leather jacket, to reveal a black t-shirt and launches himself into the crowd. He emerges with the t-shirt in shreds, pre-arranged me thinks, pre-ripped. Some ego. Already I've discarded the Alvin comparisons and now I'm wondering whether he's taken lessons on stage presence from Justin of the Darkness but then suddenly he goes a bit bashful on us. He resists the temptation to go bare-chested, as Justin would have done, and puts his jacket back on. Thank God for that. Then for the next song he swaps it for another t-shirt. We're four songs in and there have already been more costumes changes than at a Madonna gig.

Matt The Mouth continues to leap around the stage and the crowd sing-along-a-Matt. His and the band's energy is reflected and magnified by the crowd, which in turn spurs him on even more. He has the crowd eating out of his hand and he loves it; oh how much does he love it. Then he surfs into the crowd and is tossed around by a sea of hands. When he returns to the stage he has lost his microphone. Some feat when it's on a bloody long cable.

For his next trick, he catches a beer can that is thrown from the back of hall, he looks stunned he's caught it but he remains cool and casually drinks from it, then spits it out over the crowd before hurling the can back from where it came. The man's a one-man cabaret act. He spends the rest of the gig trying to catch another one, plenty are thrown, but he cannot repeat the feat. He regularly encores the spitting though, he's frequently drinking beer, or water and regurgitating it straight back out, either up in the air or over the audience. Not very endearing. If this is how he drinks I'd hate to see him eat.



A shoe makes it one stage and as Bowman makes a joke about it, it becomes the cue for lots of other shoes and article of clothing are thrown on stage. This isn't a f****** jumble sale he protests but he likes the belt and says he'll keep it.

The band who hail from Rothwell, near Leeds, and have a certain edgy Northern charm about them, nearly cause a riot at one stage when they threatened to play 'Marching On Together', Leeds United's anthem, while the guitarist's effects pedal is fixed. Luckily for them not enough people are clued up or else they'd probably have got bottled off.

They close with 'I'm Always Right' followed by 'I'm Not Sorry', their first release, which only emerged in March this year. Which goes to show how far they've come in a mere eight months.

There's no encore, I think after an hour they simply ran out of material and energy. Their problem is that their simple formula can wear a little thin. You can get the feeling that you've heard some of the tracks before even when you haven't. Three chord riffs, a bass player who only plays one string and caveman lyrics about drink, girls, and rowdiness, there isn't anything particularly original about them but they do do it rather well. I heard someone describe them as McFly with balls, quite.

Three songs from the end they played a track called 'Emergency'. I thought this was a cover but it turns out to be a new track of theirs. It's one of the best tracks of the night and could be a sign of the diversity they'll need to develop in their repertoire if they are to kick on from here. We don't get anything profound or enduring from them tonight but you do get fun, plenty of fun. Pure trash. Excellent. The best place to be tonight was probably down the front with the pogoing students and had I not been restraining Daughter I might just have joined them. Now where's me shoes.

Show over, the appreciative crowd, and Daughter, go home happy and singing. How many lads will be smooth talking their girlfriends tonight with Matt's sweet nothings, 'You know I love you, take off your clothes, its alright'. Daughter is humming along too but she has mangled together a Killers/Pigeons remix in her head, for some reason.

I text L to say we're off to the Ropewalk for a few Leffe's. Oops sorry wrong girl, best get her home.

Home to L who has an orgasmic time bursting a huge spot on my back, it's the lycra you know but we won't go there. Getting romantic is probably an anticlimax after that.

Fast Spanish Women

L might be having second thoughts on having Doggo as her lap dog as he abandons her on the park again, this time for someone throwing sticks for their own collie. Well it's a tough choice for a dog, loyalty to its own or a stick... They walked with Daughter, who's started walking to school, which must be preferable to hanging around for a bus and probably quicker too.

L's also discovered why those 'one a day' drinking yoghurts are so called. She tried one and said it was vile, sweeter than sweet. Obviously they're called 'one a day' because that is all your stomach can take.

In the evening I still have dog class, with the yet to be replaced Doggo, despite the fact it’s bonfire night. The trainer does a manic Helter Skelter which keeps us all running, the dogs barking, and their minds off the fireworks.

As usual I collect L from yoga. She still a bit morose, so I hope she's been a good bunny and hasn't spat at anyone in the class. She says I can leave her on the street if I want but I couldn’t do that, morose is actually quite sexy and I don’t want anyone else to be attracted to her feisty magnetism.

L does a spam curry and we watch the first 30 minutes of Volver, which is our last DVD from Lovefilm before we cancel our contract with them. We’re too busy going out to see films to stay in and watch any. The first thing we notice with Volver is that the Spanish dialogue comes at you so fast that it’s difficult to keep up with the subtitles and watch the film. Often two sets of subtitles are on the screen at the same time and it’s often difficult to realise who said what.

Gutted

A few weeks ago L sowed the seed in my mind about the Shepherd Seven race. As she gleeful told me, it's over half a half marathon and the furthest distance I've race over. She says 'the only way is up'. Hmmm, or down. So I'm saving my energy again this morning.

We arrive in plenty of time and I see a few people I know but it doesn't appear to be full of the usual suspects from my brief 10K career, as I expected it might be. I have translated my Jagermeister 10k time into 7 mile speak which gives me a target time to beat of 46 mins 38 seconds. I line up about six rows back from the start line but hardly anyone lines up in front of me, so when the starter asks us all to move forward to the line, I’m practically on the front row.

My Dad is there supporting again, as is L, and Doggo would have been had he not been banished to the car for getting over excited. He nearly joined in the fun run which started earlier.

The start is downhill and very quick. The course is marked by four-foot high poles which are just at the right height to catch yourself somewhere nasty. I try not to go with the pace but as we hit the first mile marker and I take a lap time on L’s watch, which she has kindly lent me, it says 5.30. Oh dear. Suicidal pace. Although in my defence it got very narrow after the start so it was necessary to get a good start to avoid getting caught in a bottleneck. I force myself to slow down and although I can’t successfully do the maths in my head, the splits do look steadier. No one else seemed to have eased off though and I struggle to find someone to tail, no one seems to be running at my sort of pace. There’s not even a sight of 'that women'. Mind you I'm not sure I would have recognised her in shorts and a running top; I've not really seen her face, just her lyrca rear view and ponytail.

I complete the first lap bang on pace although I had hoped to have a minute or so in hand. L gives me a surreptitious wave but I think Doggo, who's been released from the car, has seen me anyway. I know I need to up the pace again or else it'll be a slower second lap and I'll miss my target. Also as I’ve just learnt the last mile is rather viciously up hill and on gravel, not good for my ankles. I think I'm going quicker but I also feel I’ve eaten too much, although it was only toast and a stodgy energy bar, I've eaten for a triathlon not for a run.

In the end I come in 13 seconds outside my target. Which on reflection isn't bad I suppose but I was gutted at the time. Oddly according to my watch at 10k I was well up on my Jagermeister time and I did exact a revenge of sorts on 'that woman' by beating her. L's advice is to not wear a watch. She's probably right but I do find the info useful.

At Ticknall L was a bit miffed that we went for a Sunday lunch when she wanted to head straight home to catch up on the lie-in we had missed. So not wanting to do myself out of a good time, this time we head straight home but this time she isn't in the mood, although she indulges me anyway. Women are so difficult to predict. I think she's miffed because I ran and she's still not quite fit enough to do so but apparently, no, it’s the odious beast that's reared its head again. Says she couldn't have afforded the event even if she was fit enough to do it.

So rather than hit the pub, we stay in to save money. Which in a way is a shame because it's now reckoned that a glass of beer is far better than water at rehydrating the body after exercise. Something to do with the sugars, salts, and bubbles in a pint helping fluids be absorbed more quickly. Beer is also full of carbohydrates, vitamins, and minerals. So now moderate consumption of beer is recommended as part of an athlete's diet. Dubious science me thinks but who cares.

They don't mention wine, which we hit in a big way but we know it's good for cholesterol, so what the hell. We couldn't really have taken Doggo out to the pub with us anyway, as its like world war three outside. Instead we have a great night in and debate his replacement; I hope he isn't listening. Replacement as in a new agility dog that is, so that Doggo can retire and get to become L's longed for lap dog.

27 units

Race Prep Isn't Much Fun

Saturdays mornings when we've got nothing on, you just can't beat them. A girl at your side, a dog at your feet. Well it would actually be nice if the dog got off his hairy rear-end, fetched the paper, and made the coffee but you can't have everything.

Eventually having exhausted L, I get up and fetch the paper myself and then take the not very useful canine on the park with his ball. The ball session has become a bit of a race against time because the ball has a slow puncture in it and is deflating all the time.

Get back and L is at Gym. Daughter and Son both out. So I listen to the latest slaughter dished out to Derby this time by Aston Villa. Derby play a defensive game and ride their luck, its 0-0 at half time. An injury forces a change of formation and we go on to lose 2-0.

We were supposed to be doing our usual cinema and meal tonight and L’s parents were supposed to be joining us but it’s cancelled at the last minute. Which is a shame, as even Son was up for joining us. He had rescheduled his Saturday night game with his friends so he could come. We were all feeling very honoured, although L admits she did pressurise him a bit.

Instead we go to the playhouse to see 'Beast on the Moon', because we had been emailed an offer of tickets for £5. It was just too good to turn down. As the play wasn’t costing us much we decide to go for a pre-theatre meal. It’s a cheap deal but the portions are very small. Most of the other diners have obviously done it before and know the form because they all order extra side portions, which we end up doing too. I’m on the orange juice, water, and coffee, as I again keep off the alcohol. This race prep isn't much fun.

The story is set in Milwaukee and concerns two survivors of the 1915 Armenian genocide. Aram Tomasian has just picked up his wife Seta from the bus station. Aram is a photographer, the same as his father, a victim of the genocide, was. He has imported his wife from his homeland and has chosen her from a series of photos (early internet dating) but even then they’ve sent him the wrong one (shouldn't have gone to Amazon). Sita is not the girl in his photograph (but he didn't get too bad a deal. No matter he takes a new picture. This picture, together with his own photograph, takes its place on a sinister portrait which is resting on an easel at the back of the stage. The portrait is of Aram's butchered family. That picture and a stamp album is all that survives of his family, the sale of the stamps financed his emigration. He has removed the heads of his family from the portrait and instead has placed his and Sita’s heads there. The remaining headless family members are to be replaced by his own children, in a pledge to rebuild the family. Sita has been chosen to bear his children but she isn’t keen, cowering under the table when it's time to consummate the marriage. Eventually they get to it and we get the vocals of a lively sex scene, which L points out is wrong because Aram would have been a lousy lover. He was that type and in any case, for him it was not an act of passion, just a necessity to replace his family. Seta was also too timid to get passionate and is also haunted by the image of her sister being raped. It's all to no avail anyway, as Seta turns out to be barren.

After introducing the characters and setting up the situation, Act I is a little dull. The entire play is narrated by a character who, at first, adds little beyond explaining a bit of history to the audience. My eyes close occasionally but I get away with it until just before the break when L spots me almost toppling off the back of my seat. Things improve after half time when the narrator turns out to be the grown up version of a young orphan boy who Sita befriends. The narrator ruffles up his own hair, pulls his shirt out and plays him himself. He steals most of best scenes, as he scruffs up brilliantly as a teenager of today, although probably not the 1920's. Sita also has an excellent scene where she nails her doll to the easel, signifying her mother's crucifixion at the hands of the Turks. It's not just Aram who has a family to grieve. This, together with the effect the orphan boy has on them is the catalyst for the couple to move on, instead of clinging to the past. In the end, after a slow start, it was an excellent play. Unfortunately, the historic events that inspired it are still happening in the world today.

The title ‘Beast Of the Moon’ refers to the 1893 eclipse of the moon, when the Turks shot their guns at the "wild beast" in the sky that was covering the moon. Then, two years later, the Sultan, worried about a few upstart Armenians, declared a Jihad, and the Turks again shot their guns but this time not at the beast in the moon but at their neighbours, the Armenians.

Half a tinny at home, an energy bar and chocolate but no sex. L says I'll thank her for it tomorrow. Hmmm, not convinced. This race prep isn't much fun.

Fireworks

As I cycle in today and have to swerve around several silly 4x4's poking their noses in at junctions, I ponder on the merits or otherwise of being clipped by one. I've always worked on the assumption that the bonnet of a normal car isn't too bad a place to land but being impaled on the bars on the front of one of those monstrosities. No thanks.

A colleague of mine at work is enthusiastically training for next years the Erewash Tri, which isn't until July, so he's got plenty of time to lose that enthusiasm. Also, so far, he’s refusing to train for the swim part. Which I can thoroughly relate to but he's going to have to face it at some stage, just like I had to.

Talking of Tri's, there's a chap from Derby who's been on local radio because he's qualified for the Ironman 70.3 World Championships in Florida. Despite that feat though his wife is still refusing to let him buy a £3,000 time trial bike and says if he's got that sort of money then he can take her on holiday instead. Well firstly a holiday would be over in a week and his bike will see him good for at least a year and also isn't she getting a nice holiday anyway, to the Ironman 70.3 World Championships in Florida? Some people are never satisfied.

L isn't in work today, so I'm not getting emails from her, well apparently she is sending them from home, but our hopeless email system is swallowing them somewhere.

On the way home a cyclist tucks in behind me and tails me, I hate it when they do that, I do it all the time, all I can see is his front light. Thankfully he soon turns off and leaves me in peace.

I get home safely, dodging the fireworks that have started already. It's not been too bad for the last few weeks but I imagine this weekend is going to be horrible for Doggo.

L and I settle in the bedroom, protecting Doggo from the fireworks. So far he's taking it fairly well, chilled on his back having his tummy stroked. I'm the same.

Daughter is keeping watch upstairs waiting for the display at the junior school to start, although elsewhere the blue touch paper has already been lit. In fact there's plenty going on that I can enjoy without even getting up off the bed. There's quite a show being put on, fireworks a plenty, rockets going up. Eventually the school kicks off too; L is torn over which display to devote her attention to. Eventually she runs upstairs to join Daughter and nearly misses one particularly large explosion that rocks the house but she catches it before she goes. Doggo is hiding in the corner but its impressive stuff.



After the fireworks are over we catch the bus over to Derby, leaving Smash Hits radio, or was it Kerrang, on for Doggo to drown out any more bangs.

We hit the Flowerpot. Oakham 5.7%. Sarah Hughes 6%. Black Hole 5.5% Deventio 4.5% Not bad. Nearly all dark. I misread the bus timetable and we are hanging on for the 11.50 bus until we realise there isn’t one and catch the 11.20 instead.

Match Abandoned

Turn down L, I have to take the car in for a service. As I'm leaving Doggo is just coming back from his walk. He's distraught at me deserting him; you’d have thought he’d have got used to me going to work by now. L reckons he refused his treats and sat sulking in the living room after I'd gone but I don't think that's anything unusual, he's a fickle dog.

Drop the car off at the garage and walk the rest of the way to work. I'm a little late getting to work but that's mainly because I was sitting in the car laughing at Derby City Council trying to defend ‘ghost town’ Derby since the new shopping centre opened. Not that it's really any laughing matter, retailers outside the centre are experiencing falls in trade of around 80%. Many won't see in 2008.

Seems that the council even let the shopping centre owners Westfield buy the huge building previously occupied by Debenhams, presumably to get them to move to the new centre. Of course now Westfield have just boarded it up, there's no incentive for them to re-let the place as it would just take business from their ‘baby’.

The council have even increased the rents of the shops left outside the centre, pure money grabbing but pointless because if all the shops shut, which now seems likely, they’ll get less money. You would have thought they would have cut their rents, at least short term, until the shops can build back up some trade. Madness. Totally clueless, a typical council.

Not going to the pub today, my colleague has forgot we’d agreed to start going weekly again and he’s not brought his car in. News from the garage, is that ours needs a new ‘pollen filter’. I didn’t even know I had one.

Squash and my opponent is complaining that he's stuck with his diet, reduced his alcohol and even done a bit of running but all that's happened is that his now weight now varies by about several lbs each day. He says that can't be normal. I understand that’s perfectly normal if you’re a woman.

Our match is abandoned part way through because he smashed his racquet against the wall when I won game five to bring the score back to 3-2. I was just getting warmed up as well. We retire the pub where the beer range is very dull this week, I settle on a Batemans XB.

Get home where L has already got the wine open, I join her for a glass or three. She's also cooked a fantastic spicy rice dish.

When we retire to bed, L is struggling to stay awake so I turn down her kind offer and spend half an hour reading instead. Then I change my mind which comes as a bit of a surprise to L.