Sunday, 23 March 2014

The disbelief

Things have changed pretty radically for OH and I in the last two years. As we approach our 18 year anniversary (18!! Sweet Baby Jesus where has that time gone?) I tend to view our relationship as a line on a graph. Get me OH and my mathematical aptitude - I am referring to something maths-based in my blog! Don't tell me ever again that my maths GCSE was ill-awarded. Imagine if you will: time across the x axis, life events up the y. There's a small spike on 12 April 1996 (our get together date); then pretty much no change until 2003 when we move in together; another spike in 2008 when we buy our first house; and then nada significant as we trundle along living our life together, peppered with holidays and triathlons and lovely food and nights out and city breaks. And then bam! Two kids in the space of two years. The line on the graph has gone mentally upwards - we've gone from just normal people to "responsible" adults in a very small stretch of time. We're off the scale on the y. If my mathematical brilliance is too much for you, then please look at it this way. Our relationship is like the evolution of the universe, the big bang being our 12 April 1996. The arrival of our children is just the teeny little bit of the cosmological timeline that is inhabited by humans. It's a very strange thing to get used to.

But why should I find it a thing so strange to get used to, given that many zillions of people have children and that doing so is a completely normal thing to do? Why do I still freak out in the middle of the night when I wake up and remember that I have progeny? I think it's basically because I am essentially still a child myself, in mind at least. (Not in body of course, that would be outright weird). How could it possibly be that I am responsible for two other actual humanoids when I still struggle to look after myself? When left to my own devices, I eat cheese for tea. Just cheese. I might add in a bag of crisps if I wanted to shake things up, culinarily speaking. Only tonight did I have to ask OH where China was on the world map (he was somewhat disappointed/distressed/dismayed by that and no doubt wondered why he had chosen to link genetic material with someone so intellectually challenged). I only learned how to make scrambled egg this year (when I rang OH at work to find out - nothing if not resourceful, me). I still think it's a freaking miracle that metal planes make it off the ground and yet metal ships don't sink on water. I am not able to comprehend the size of the cosmos. As I type this, we are listening to a Ministry of Sound album from the actual nineties. I am a parent! I should not need to hark back to my days of old skool house. Why am I not listening to Wagner or Radio 4? I still sob uncontrollably at The Railway Children and Goodnight Mister Tom. Generally speaking my bedroom is a tip. I moan at having to do the washing up. I could go on - the list is endless.

And yet, here I am, kiddlie-winkles attached to my apron strings looking to me to provide them with everything they need to stay alive. My god. That is scary. I am not qualified. I don't have a permit or license. It's bonkers to me that I'm not able to drive on the roads of this country without a license (not that I have ever actually read the Highway Code - see! I'm not an adult!) but can spring forth little beings from my loins and be expected to provide for and guide them through life. What have I done to the poor poppets?

The other thing that makes me laugh about this, is the fact that other people treat me like a parent. I get letters addressed to "the parent or guardian of...." and I open them. Other people assume that I am qualified to look after these kids. Hehehe. Well the joke is on them because little do they know that I still swig from the orange juice carton and have a secret crush on Harry Styles. I felt like a massive fraudster a few weeks ago when the Headmistress of MD's new school greeted us at said school's open day like we were the adults in the family. Can you imagine it? Me and OH as the adults! He, dressed in his triathlon hoodie which I'm almost certain had tomato sauce spilled down the sleeve, and me, feeling naughty by the fact that I was wearing jeans to go around the school. In my day, jeans and denim of all kinds were forbidden on school premises. In fact, I suspect my inner child made me wear jeans just to flout the now non-existent rules. How puerile is that? Answer: very. Anyway, I was mindful of my p's and q's. I walked down the left hand side of the corridors and laughed politely at the small talk I made with the teachers. Shockingly, all of the evidence pointed to the fact that I was acting like a parent. The disbelief.

But hang on, maybe I am giving myself a hard time here. I mean, I had the foresight to actively contact a school before I had to and get us on the open day invite list. My children are always in nice, clean (but definitely not ironed), clothes. They get three proper meals a day. I make them brush their teeth and read them bedtime stories. So maybe I'm not all that bad - maybe I am getting there as a parent. But wait. Nah. Who am I kidding? I just had to check where China was. They are doomed.

Friday, 14 March 2014

The TT

No, not Time Trial. And for once in my life I might be sad to be saying that. Because if the subject of this post was time trial, then it would mean that I would have no cause to write about the Terrible Twos. But I do. As over the last few weeks we have somehow wandered, seemingly under the radar and overnight, into this Bermuda triangle of nightmares. My Dear God. My little MD has gone from being the most well behaved, sweet-natured child to a mini-diva of epic proportions.

I may have been a little sceptical before becoming a parent about those mothers who talked of the TTs. I just didn't really believe that the phenomenon really existed and that obviously any poor behaviour in the children was obviously a result of poor parenting and why didn't those said parents just make their children be quiet with a swift clip round the ear? Of course, now I'm here, it's easier said than done and I'm the one desperately shushing my child as she screams like a nut-job for no apparent reason other than to make the whole world stare at me and ask why I'm such a useless parent.

The thing that has shocked me the most though is that it really has just switched on. Last month she was mostly quiet and unassuming; with a bit of a cry and moan if she didn't get her own way. This month she has started to perform fully-loaded, teenager-style hissy fits, accompanied with either the most high-pitched screech known to man, or the whiniest, droniest whinge similarly known. If one teeny tiny teeny tiny thing doesn't go her way, then she is off. It's bonkers. One minute we're playing nicely with the ball thing that the washing powder liquid goes into (I know, we are such a fun household), and the next, bam! Absolutely terrifying piercing scream fills the house, accompanied by stamping feet, bright red cheeks and pummeling fists. And for what, I hear you ask? What can be the terrible, treasonous act I have committed to result in this meltdown? I turned on the washing machine. That was all. Imagine if I did actually do something truly awful. It would be like the apocalypse.

Yesterday's major fit was similarly crazy. MD had been eating her lunch for hours. One piece of pasta every ten minutes and it was getting to the point where she would still have been eating lunch at the same time I was preparing her tea. So I asked her if I should put her pasta in the fridge, so that she could finish it at tea time? Yes, she said, smiled sweetly and started to chatter about eating her pasta at tea time. So I took away the bowl. Cue first installment. Screaming, huge red tears and leg kicks so pendulous I thought the high chair was going to rock off its stand. OK. OK MD, you can have it back, I say, if you think you want to eat it. Yes yes, eat it, comes the reply. So another twenty minutes later, nothing more eaten. I go through the above again, with the warning that this will be the last time. Yes, yes, she agrees, she wants out of the high chair anyway. So I take it away again. And like a mentalist, she goes ballistic. Proper nuclear missile ballistic. In fact, she goes so mad for so long (without me being able to calm her down at all, despite intervention of Lindsay Lohan proportions) that I end up filming her doing it. Full on hysterical tears, with hyperventilation in between each breath - you know the type. Maybe ten minutes later again, she finally calms down with the advent of Cbeebies on the tele and an eventual cuddle from momma. And then she's fine. It's like an explosion in a firework factory but without the Health and Safety Inspectorate coming in afterwards to identify the cause of the bang. There's no one making recommendations on how to avoid similar gaffes in the future. She just gets back to normal and can't tell me why she was so stressed.

The twist in the tail with this saga is that this morning she found the video of herself, during her "iPad time". She honestly must have watched herself screaming and wailing maybe 15 times. Each time it ended, she looked at me in disbelief, as if to say 'who is this freak you have recorded here Mother? I know it looks like me, but it's certainly not me. You need to control her better.' Man. My own baby is now looking at me wondering why I'm such a useless parent.

Friday, 7 March 2014


First, some background. This blog used to be called 'Triathlon Widow': basically because that's what I was and I was in desperate need to share my burden with the world via social networky means. Since the last post in December 2011 (the shame), there have been a number of fairly significant changes in my life so thought I'd better update the title and what-not to reflect that.

So, the deal is this:

February 2012 - produced our first child - a wonderful, blonde haired, blue eyed beauty who is essentially a miniature version of her father. I'm going to refer to her as MD (mini-daddy).

January 2013 - returned to work after first maternity leave and promptly got pregnant again - the people at work *love* me. Curently on second maternity leave.

October 2013 - produced our second child - another amazing little girl (although not so little given her 10lb 4.5oz birth weight), brown haired, brown eyed and a miniature version of me. I am therefore going to refer to her as MM (yep, you guessed it, mini-mummy).

March 2014 - realised that my brain had officially turned to mush when I put Topsy & Tim on series link and began to skip forward excitedly to see what was going to happen in the next episode (Topsy gets chicken pox, incidentally. Sounds like it's going to be a 'not-to-be-missed' installment). So I decided I had to do something to get the old grey matter flexing again. Stand aside Woolf and Mrs Gaskell! This blog is back in business and I'm sure will be as inane and ground breaking as it always was. Not. Given that I have pretty much forgotten how to type and spell and form a sentence I'm thinking that the great women of literature will be safe. Probably turning in their graves, more like.

Of course our trusty old friend Triathlon has been a steady constant in my life throughout these changes; except now the bikes don't have their own bedroom but are parked up somewhat annoyingly in my dining room and guest room. OH still refuses to put them in the garage. Fatherhood has brought OH much joy but he still has a very warm and fuzzy place in his heart for swimming, cycling and running. And lycra. And inner tubes and pedals and that weigh 0.0001 of a gram, and stretchy laces and Strava, and protein shakes and the rest of it. So I guess what I'm saying is, that despite my best efforts of giving OH sleepless nights with our nocturnal babies, and putting all sorts of triathlon-shaped obstacles in the way, he's still sticking with it and so therefore, am I.

Lastly, given that it's nearly 10pm and that is my official/total/desperately-need-my-bed, bedtime, I just wanted to explain the new blog title. For the time being at least, my role is mum and housewife (of course the irony that I'm not actually a 'wife' is not lost on me) - and so I thought I might write about that for a bit. The 'not quite' refers to the fact that I'm pretty hopeless at it. And knowing OH's OCD about such things as tidiness and cleanliness and orderliness - and my non-aptitude for tidiness, cleanliness and orderliness, I suspect that the 'revenge' bit of the new title is fairly self explanatory.

Friday, 16 December 2011

The demon bottle

Being pregnant is basically like being a triathlete.

Mine and OH's worlds have collided and we are now living one mirrored co-existence. Let me hit you with the evidence:
  • I have to watch what I eat (brie, I love you and miss you every single day). OH watches everything he eats to make sure no one steals it (think Joey and his food sharing issues).
  • I can't drink (chilled champagne is on my rider for the delivery room). OH has self imposed sobriety.
  • My body has changed shape beyond all recognition (oh, toes, to see you again). OH bulks up at the gym in the winter ("guess how much I can bench press?")
  • I have acquired a whole load of pricey equipment (yes, a glow in the dark colour change room thermometer is an absolute essential). OH's eyes light up when we talk about the P5.
  • My life seems to now be a single one-way track to a specified date in the future (I'll give you a clue, it's not my birthday). OH - when is that qualification race again?
See? See how similar they are? To be honest, I don't know how OH has dealt with this kind of life all along. The worst, of course, is the no drinking. Don't get me wrong, I'm not an alchy, just your regular binge drinker - but by God I miss the bubbles. Especially at events. Like weddings. Without the honey-coloured reception-drink-induced haze, weddings are a whole different ball game. Clearly the ceremony is pretty much the same for the Sobers and the Non-Sobers (I've never turned up fully drunk to a wedding ceremony so far), and the bit for photos, just the same. The minute you rock up to the reception however, it's like a new world of weddings opens up. As soon as those lovely silver trays laden with drinkies appear, floating along and mingling invitingly with the guests as if by magic, the wedding becomes something else altogether for the Sober.

Firstly, that slightly awkward bit before the food where you're not yet drunk but you have to talk to people you don't know for the sake of being sociable. This becomes like a team building event you might get forced to do at work. Comments are no longer throw away, disappearing on the breeze like they do when everyone is a teensy bit tiddly and giddy on the fumes of the afternoon Pimms. You can't fill the void of the empty rumbling stomach (empty because OH has hoovered up all the canapes before you could even get a look in) with beer - you are just plain starving. As everyone else starts to get that tell-tale tingly feeling behind the eyes indicating that they are on the super highway to Wrecksville, you have to take joy from the beauty of the flower arrangements and the artisanal hand crafted place settings.

I'm aware that I sound like a raving drunk. I'm also aware that people will think I'm one of those who can't "have a good time" without being drunk. But for a Cripplingly Shy like myself, a little of the good stuff does help to lube up proceedings. When are you ever so hilarious and such great company than after a few glasses of vino? Never before has the dancefloor witnessed such spectacular moves! Never again will you moan about your life because it is AMAZING! You know the drill.

Anyway, the upshot is that weddings are actually quite hard when you are pretty much the only Sober. You become aware of how stupid people are when they are drunk; how much conversational drivel gets spoken; how terrible the dancing is. Of course I am bitter! I want to be under the illusion that I am a charismatic comedy genius with all the moves. I am not. And with the Sober God as my witness, it turns out that none of us are.

Also, please don't go away with the impression that I am at all miserable about not drinking - I am utterly delighted and excited about the impending birth of our child and would do nothing to risk it. I'm merely pointing out that I've had the realisation that all of those nights where OH has resisted the bottle for the sake of a race can't have been that great. He must be really committed...

So, rant over and onto other matters. To keep the record up to date (ah, the irony), triathlon is in its underground phase at the moment - all of those miles in the cold dark garage on the turbo will hopefully bear fruit later in the new year. Flights and villa booked for a "cycling training camp holiday" in Majorca at Easter with some dear (and possibly slightly deranged) friends - all being well The Baby will be about 7 weeks old - and I wonder what on earth we are getting ourselves into. But I suppose It (and by It, I mean The Baby - I can't say he or she, we don't know the flavour) will need to get used to the other members of our family (and by that, I mean triathlon). We have yet to see how the battle for supremacy between The Baby and triathlon will go. But let's just say that it cost us more to book a space on the plane for the bike than it did for the baby.

Right, enough for today. I have to log off to go and see which of my party dresses I can squeeze myself into without bosting the zip. It's the work Christmas party later on tonight. It's on a boat. Great. All I need is to be the only Sober with no escape route. I've already selected a book to take with me so at least I can keep busy until we dock.

But anyway. Happy Christmas everyone! Have a drink for me...

Monday, 15 August 2011

The race - number 2

OK. For my loyal lycra-clad follower I am pulling my finger out and finally posting another post. Actually, news on the tri front is pretty limited – after Spain, OH has given himself a break and the only training he has been doing is with his drinking hand (that’s not intended to be as filthy as it sounds). I could regale you with stories of late night drunken lunacy and all day Pimms benders but they all end pretty much the same way (slurred “I love you” and regretful “I’m getting to old for all this” – yeah, whatever) so with that in mind I will leave you to imagine these things and I’m sure you won‘t be far wrong.

For posterity, I’m going to briefly recap about the race in Spain despite the fact that it feels like it was a 100 years ago now. España: land of tapas and sunshine and cerveza and most importantly the ETU Triathlon European Championships in Pontevedra. Boring stuff first, OH did well, both very pleased with his result as it looks like he might finally be making some progress on the swimming front (let’s just say in his wave of 45 I was expecting to count 43 green caps before I saw him get out of the water – I was pleasantly surprised to spot him at number 21). I did try to film the momentous occasion to share with you all and thought I was doing so ever so diligently only to realise that I had forgotten to press the record button. Whoops.

I think one of the highlights of the trip for me however was when OH got asked for his autograph. Cue large belly laughs. Actually, I was in the loo, and so missed the event itself, but when I wandered out I noticed OH in a mutually-unable-to-speak-the-other-person’s-language tangle with a Spaniard who kept holding out a pen and gesturing for OH to scribble on his programme. OH (being cripplingly shy) of course refused. On closer inspection of the programme however, it became apparent that said Spaniard thought OH was Alistair Brownlee. Bless him. So a quandary for OH. Does he leave this guy feeling absolutely distraught because his favourite triathlete isn’t as nice as he seems by refusing to sign? Or does he leave an unintelligible moniker on the book and make the guy’s day but know in his heart forever that he is a cheat, a player, a wannabe, if you will? Options considered OH couldn’t sign and as we wandered off to the café to get our Fanta Limón the Spaniard’s wounded-puppy-dog-eyes-stare bored into the back of our heads. The image will stay with me forever.

Actually I can’t really remember much else of the race now – I suspect this is down to my new addled Baby Brain state. Yep, OH and I are thrilled and excited (and a little worried, if I’m honest, in case the kid wants to be an actor and not an athlete) to announce that we are having a little mini-me-mini-OH in February next year. Don’t panic! Plans for any triathlon events next year are unchanged. Of course the arrival of a screeching little bundle of joy couldn’t possibly ever affect the Master Triathlon Plan (cue dastardly but quite possibly naïve laughter)! OH even thinks 2 weeks paternity leave will work very well as an intensive training camp. We’ll see. But really, it’s nice that finally “new arrival” in our house means what it traditionally means (rather than me announcing that OH has bought yet another bike).

I do have concerns though. Serious concerns. OH is already lining up our friends' kids to race against our kid. There's talk of a show down at Windsor in 2029. Apparently interval training in the pool begins in March ("babies can swim before they can walk, right?"). I keep trying to gently suggest to OH that our little darling might inherit my absolute hopelessness at any activity vaguely categorised as sporting. He won't hear of it. He's convinced that I'm perfect Mother DNA material because I have such huge feet - (@drfothers : "the missing link") - whatever happens the kid will have stable platforms so is bound to be good at something sporty, right? Hooray. Can't wait. Actually, my feelings are pretty much summed up by the comment of a good friend: "might be a good thing if your offspring is not such a mentalist on the sports front - OH’ll be outnumbered then..." Couldn't have said it any better myself.

Tuesday, 24 May 2011

The podium

So! You may be able to guess from the title of this post that we (I love that Royal We) have made it to the heady heights of the podium! OH cooked up a storm, quite literally as it happens, and powered on to a fabulous 3rd place finish at this weekend's three quarter distance warm up race. Not too shabby if you ask me. So I thought I ought to blog about the event, for posterity, you understand.

First point of note was the crazy crazy wind. The place where this event is held is pretty open to the elements as it is (it's going to make for an interesting 2012 rowing event) but this weekend the wind was brutal. So brutal they ended up taking down all the bannering for the event as it was smashing about all over the place. Taking it down seemed quite sensible to me - I thought as soon as I arrived that they looked like they had the potential to do someone an injury (get me and my Health & Safety thoughts) and I really could not be doing with taking OH to the hospital because he'd been knocked out by rogue signage. All the bike racks in transition kept being blown over; OH would have me believe that his dreadful time in T2 was a consequence of this. During his bike ride, the officials had taken away one of the racks near OH's station as it wouldn't stay upright (there were no bikes on it, don't worry). Upon entering T2, for some reason, this removal got OH into a right dither - he knew he was 3rd rack from the left and suddenly there was no '3rd'. What to do? You'd think a man of OH's intelligence would be able to work out where his rack space was, non? But no. He couldn't. For approximately one whole minute. And then when he did finally locate his space, he tried to convince me that the dastardly wind really was well and truly against him seeing as it had blown his running shoes away and he couldn't find them either.

But, anyway. Onto the swim. You know how he hates the swim. And to be honest, looking out at the white crests of the waves (really, actual waves) crashing over the surface of the water, I wouldn't have fancied it either. Down by the shore line (where I positioned myself later for filming and photography purposes), I kept thinking about that dreadful movie with the boat and George Clooney and the fishermen and my hands started to sweat. Urgh. But actually, even in these conditions, I think the boy did good. I think he was out of the water in about 12th place, which is a marked improvement on last year's efforts. Of course OH thought the whole thing was terribly distressing and will probably require some kind of post-traumatic swim therapy now. This will be the triathlon-related story he will dine out on for the next year: the tales of breathing in the gaps between the peak and the trough of the wave, the point at which he nearly gave it all up, the smashing of the water against his face. Chuck 'Fedex' Noland's final escape was nothing in comparison to this! Hmm, ok, yes darling, whatever.

So, for completeness, he did a blisteringly good job on the run (maybe those 3 pairs of super pricy running shoes were worth it?) bringing him over the line in a most well deserved and pride-inducing 3rd place. The prize, I hear you shout? £20. Really. He's actually out for a few drinkies tonight to celebrate. Let's hope he doesn't spend it all at once.

Monday, 9 May 2011

The race day

Hooray! I am overjoyed and overcome! Thank you Dr Fothers for becoming my first official follower! This is getting a bit Paltrow Oscar-esque but I am quite thrilled :-)

But now, on with business. With OH stuck on the train just outside Taplow and the promise from him of a massive swim session, I have a cheeky little window to update my blog in peace and quiet without the constant questions of where his next meal is coming from. Today we received notification of the start time of the first race of this season. It's only the warm up race, a cutesy sprint to flex the legs and stretch the muscles, but it got me thinking about the races themselves and what they mean for me. So I decided to delight you all with an inside scoop - an expose if you will (please imagine an accent over that second e) - of what it's like to be the tri widow on race day. Or maybe it's just a job description and person specification which I should perhaps put into a Word document for evidential purposes next time anyone doubts how amazing a girlfriend I am. (By 'anyone' I mean OH).

It's actually pretty busy for me. After all of the getting ready shenanigans at home ("read me out the list and I'll shout 'check'") you might think that once he's set off I get to sit around contemplate my navel. Not true. It's like a full time job. On the weekend. Humph. Anyway, job number one is getting there. I'll always the official chaffeur, to allow him plenty of time to zonerise (the verb meaning to get in the zone, in case it wasn't immediately obvious). If there are other spectators coming to see him, they have to meet us there. OH doesn't really interact with anyone before the race and I can't be doing with apologising to people who think he is being rude when actually he is just zonerising.

Once we've scouted out the place, got the bike racked, numbers drawn on arms and legs, exits and entrances mapped out in our minds, we're ready for the race to begin. Second job is assisting with dressing. It's like being a ladies maid (I've just watched the 6 back-to-back episodes of Downtown so am familiar with the role). He gets the wetsuit most of the way on. I have developed an excellent technique for getting it zipped up efficiently and making sure that it's just tight enough and that the taggle at his neck doesn't get in the way. With the throng of rubber men in his wave starting to make their way to the water the third job is to tell him how much I love him, tell him to just do his best and give him a little peck. Not sure if my assurances actually sink in, he's so zonerised by then it's hard to tell.

This is the most nervous part for me. As you know he's a bit of a loner and so whilst the others are chatting amoungst themselves on the pontoon I always spy him silently and wistfully staring out over the water, no doubt wondering what the hell he is doing it all for. Once in the water, the hooter goes off and the washing machine starts its cycle. Despite normally not being able to see anything of OH during the swim I like to watch the whole thing where physically possible. This is because swimming is his weakest element and the amount of times he's had a hissy fit in the water at the practice lake, I like to reassure myself that he's still afloat. Not that I can identify him in the aquaruck - imagine 200 terrapins flapping their paws (paws? paddles? who knows) and you'll kind of get the idea.

Job four is the stand as close as possible to the exit from the water. This is for 2 reasons: 1) to count the number of same coloured caps as OH so I can tell him how far down the pack he came and I can judge if it's going to be a good result or not; and 2) because I need to yell his name as loud as I can so that he can work out where he needs to go. Often he gets out of the water a bit dizzy and disorientated but apparently when I shout at him he can pick me out a mile off (I knew all those years of whining and nagging would come in useful) - so as soon as he hears me he can place which direction he needs to run in. So off he toddles, into transition, hat thrown to the floor whilst unzipping with the other hand. I never quite make it to see him transition (if I was that quick I suppose I should be doing the race myself) but I get to see him head out on the bike. I can relax. He's pretty good at cycling.

The bike section lasts forever so I take this opportunity to go and buy tea or icecream (weather permitting). Tea addiction fed, I head to a vantage point on the bike course to see if I can see him and get some pictures. I'm glad we no longer have cameras with actual film - we would just have reels and reels of photos of someone else's butt or half of OH's wheel or whatever (I'm not great as the photographer). Digital camera I love you. I shout words of encouragement when I see him, which to be honest is most unlike the shy me but I like him to know that I'm there. Job five is to make sure he knows where he needs to go when he gets off the bike - again shouting instructions if there's something that he needs to know that I know he doesn't know (jeez - how many 'knows'). I'm his personal steward.

Job six is to again photograph and shout at him on the run and after the compulsory 2 sightings I head off to the finish line. I make notes of who's crossed over the line in what times and in what outfits - all of this data gets fed back into the dastardly master spreadsheet which is at the nerve centre of the operation. Job seven is to whoop when he crosses the line, and try to take a picture which doesn't involve him looking hideous. I secretly take a deep breath and thank someone somewhere that he's home in one piece. Job eight is not so pleasant, wiping his mush which has accumulated god knows what bodily fluids and dead flies: but the proudness (proudity? pride?) makes me not care and for a moment I'm doing my best Florence impression.

I'm pretty much done then. We joyfully spend the rest of the day eating and drinking and checking out who has been DQ'd for nudity until the results come out and I queue up diligently to find out how it's all gone. It's like waiting for an exam result. I didn't even take the exam! But I feel a bit like OH's time is a reflection on our team skills too and so always want it to be fabulous. He never disappoints me.


As a last note, felt that I couldn't blog without expressing sadness at the death of Wouter Weylandt on the Giro today. Despite all my moans to the contrary I feel very lucky to have OH this day and every day.