Look at my diary and I'm busy, and have been since the bank holiday. The front garden is clear (hard work by my nephew, driving stuff to the tip by me). I had a day working from home because I had to have my old cooker replaced - this is what happens when the gas board replace the main on your street and the pipe to your house, they come in to switch everything back on and then tell you your cooker is a health and safety hazard and disconnect it. Oh the wonders of online ordering. Props to Comet who had what I wanted and delivered and installed it three working days later. I dealt with a speeding fine I got because I missed a camera that's up on a pole along the A316 just outside Richmond and didn't even get upset. I've got my two mile run to under eighteen minutes, which is actually another target ticked. I just knocked out forty sit-ups this evening before the spin class, and that's just inside another target. Don't ask about press-ups: twenty and I am suffering. Then there's the underlying housework-cooking-shopping I have to do because that's what you do when you're single. I just booked a couple of nights in a hotel in Wales at the end of the month as a short break. I'm hitting the gym four times a week at least. As this appears, I'll be in Sadlers Wells, and the next day I have an all-afternoon BUPA physical. All my killer workbook design and VBA programming skills are paying off at work - about which maybe later. I'm reading Bruno Latour's Laboratory Life: The Construction of Scientific Facts and keeping up nicely thank you.
And I feel like There's Something I Need To Do I Don't Know I Need To Do. My brain is in a slump, though I have not forgotten the algebraic geometry, and indeed the next post on that is going to be a doozy. It's trying to process something and get the message through to me, but either it's a tough task or I'm not listening very hard.
Either that or continually waking up at just before 06:00 every day (uh-huh, even at the weekend. I don't have late nights and hangovers, remember?) is taking its toll.
Somebody told me I looked happy the other week. I think that was when the trouble started. I've taken a close look at a photograph of me on the beach at Zandvoort, taken by my English Ex-Pat Friend. Look once, it looks like a smiling happy person. Look twice and you can see the strain. I can, anyway.
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