Here’s the daily reminder for Best Reader Body competition, send your pics to email@example.com, closing date Friday 8th August.
I will keep beating this dead horse, until more than two people enter or someone explains the lack of interest. Last time I had half as many readers and I got about 20 entries.
On Sunday evening Dad calls and he says, how was your weekend and I say, oh it was great Dad I only had to go in the office and work on Sunday you know. And Dad is not amused by that, in fact he’s probably more pissed off than I am, so I suppose at least one good thing about that guy is that he’s on my side in terms of work commitment. Or being taken advantage of anyway.
Then he passes me on to Mum and I ask Mum, how was your weekend and she says, oh it was So-And-So’s son’s wedding, but I didn’t go (So-And-So being an old friend of hers). And I say, you didn’t go because you find it painful to see other people’s children getting married because of me? And she says, yes, how did you know. And that’s when I don’t reply that I don’t know much, but I know when I’m given another slap in the face, even as discreetly as that.
On Monday morning I decide to go to work (trying out something new I guess), so I find myself on the tube listening to my iPod, and when That’s When I Reach For My Revolver by Moby, which I’ve been playing repeatedly over the weekend, turns into Suicide Is Painless by the Manic Street Preachers on shuffle (I am not making this up), I pretend this did not just happen, it is not just another sign driving me to fling myself under the eastbound Central Line train.
Work is good as ever / walking around at lunchtime is even better because it’s humid and uncomfortable / I finish nice and early today / I’m out the door at 1820.
In the gym I meet up with Scott, he does arms and I do legm the gym is insanely busy and hot and I even break into a sweat. I don’t like breaking into a sweat when I work out, it looks like I’ve made an effort or that I’ve pushed myself hard, neither of which are admirable qualities or anything I want to associate myself with.
Then I go to get changed and when Scott comes down as well he tells me that Pale Personal Trainer just gave him a quick training session, showing him how to do some tricep exercise. And Scott even touched PPT’s arm. This is as exciting as my week is going to get really, so I latch on to it and ask the following questions:
- Are his eye nice / can you get lost in them
- Doesn’t he sound stupid with his Northern accent
- Why did you grab his arm you stupid queen / oh my God you’re so gay, please step away from me
- What did it feel like please
- Is it bigger than mine (I know the answer to this but I thought I’d ask anyway, I need another hit, I haven't had enough today)
And Scott’s answers, in order, are:
- Yes, I suppose / no
- No, I like Northern accents
- I didn’t just grab it, he was just showing me something and I had to touch it
- Nice (insert stupid grin)
- Yes, much and it’s also harder, not squeeshy like your stupid arms (this is true, all my muscles are quite soft – just for show really)
Then I go home.
Meanwhile, I asked the other day if anyone would like to give me any money for my Sydney ticket (if you don’t ask, you don’t get) and one reader suggested that I offer something back. Which I suppose is fair enough even though I offer and offer and offer by writing thid blog relentlessly day after day, until no one will be left to read.
Anyway, the ideas that I’ve had so far of what to give back are:
a) I could give some worn / used Speedos again like I used to sell on ebay (for the more lunatic blog-reading fringe)
b) I could collect and print out some of my favourite posts from this blog (say 50 pages), bind them together, throw some pictures in the mix and some handwritten messages and send that (for others)
Would anyone be interested in any of these things?