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.

The turnaround

So. Re-reading my last post, it seems I have kept you all on a knife edge, on the tip of a triathlon- shaped crevice if you will, as I have not so far bothered to let you know that the world has righted itself and OH is back to exercising. Whilst in my heart I knew that our life was the triathlon Gomboc – I have to admit at being relieved when we finally left that strange Weeble Land for our old life. I was beginning to panic that it was going to go on indefinitely – that I would have a boyfriend constantly under my feet (“that’s not how you operate the various hoover attachments, let me show you”) and that never again would I be able to watch a full episode of SATC/Supernanny/BFGW without a running commentary which mainly involved tutting and “I can’t believe what a waste your University education has been”. Wiggle was back in business. It may have meant that we were back to 9 o’clock dinners and weekends filled with housework interspersed with desperate requests for more calories (“more fuel, I need more fuel”) – but I was, and still am, very happy to be back to it. Can’t really offer much of an explanation as to the reasons. I suppose during our annual ski trip he got out of the habit (in exchange he did seem to develop a very expensive red wine habit, mind you); and then maybe a little bit of pressure at work including interviewing underlings (the basis of which was a little mathsy-actuarial test he made them do whilst he sat and watched them. A bit sadistic I thought but turned out was actually quite effective for wheedling out the right candidate. Anyway). Oh hang on, I remember now the reason he didn’t have time to do any actual training: DIY. Urgh. (I appreciate this doesn’t offer reasons for his mental unwillingness – I will never be able to delve into the recesses of his mind to fully find that out), but it does give credence to his protestations that he simply didn’t have the time. Excuse or not? I’ll leave that up to you to decide. But DIY. I have alluded previously to OH’s slight OCD nature when it comes to Doing It Ourselves. And I must say at the outset that we now have a fabulous new landing and stairway and so I am very thankful for his obsessive-attention-to-detail nature. He tore down the existing banister (the reason being that he didn’t like a teeny tiny gap between 2 of the newel posts – he could see the dust but couldn’t remove it) and replaced it with a lovely new oak set up; he replaced the handrail and did all of the usual painting/sanding/filling/edging etc. I flounced around a bit and tried to convince him that it was a good style choice to have cushions stacked on the floor as a seating alternative. Needless to say I didn’t win that one. But with the DIY complete for the near future at least, and the training in full swing, we're back on track for Spain. I have booked the flights, car hire and the hotel - co-incidentally I ended up booking into the Sister hotel for the GB team. Not sure if this is a good outcome or not (it just had the best sea views and spa facilities in the area) but seeing as OH and I are both pretty shy and tend to avoid all non-essential conversations with strangers, it might be a bit awkward. Mind you, people might not even realise we're with the team; OH refuses to wear the GB kit when we're actually on these trips, it's only when we get home that he wears them all the time. Months later when the group photo gets published only then will the others realise he was one of them after all. So that's it for now - this post was mainly to stop you holding your breaths (although it's taken me so long I do apologise if you've gone a funny blue colour) and to generally update you with the news. I promise faithfully to post again soon with more hilarious triathlon anecdotes (or not, depends what he gets up to I suppose).

The unknown

I don't really know how to break this to you. It's not something that I have fully comprehended yet, in my own mind, so I'm struggling to understand how I'm going to tell you. I guess it's best to just come out and say it. I'm finding it difficult to make the sounds. My fingers have gone into spasm. But stop! I'm ready. Here goes.

My darling OH has stopped exercising.

Yes. That's right. He's lost his Triathlon Mojo. I'll give you a minute to catch your breath and gather your thoughts. I understand it's hard to take in - I've had some time to get used to it and I know I've and sprung it on you and that you'll need some time to adjust. I know how you're feeling. Like somehow something in the world we take for granted has just changed. Stopped. Kaput. Finis. It's how you'd feel if suddenly the sun didn't rise. Or if Take That started to produce rubbish songs. God forbid, it's like me deciding that I no longer wanted to be Carrie Bradshaw and that SATC was the spawn child of the devil. It's an occurence you never thought possible.

I know I'm being a drama queen. But seriously - the exercise and training and buying of equipment and filling in of the training log and the before-work swims and the 3 hour cycles have just stopped. It started maybe 3 weeks ago. Early January was fine, the normal exercise schedule. Then an easy week just before skiing, then skiing, then since we've been home: nothing. I don't even know why really. But literally he's done nothing. Well, no, one swim session last weekend. But that really is it. Newcomers to this blog might not think that too bad for a guy who commutes to the City everyday to do a full-on job and with a penchant for DIY (the notorious time sponge). But for OH - it's bonkers. In a 'normal' week there would be a mininum of 7 sessions on week days; and then the legendary 4 monster sessions at the weekends. It's honestly like an alien has come to Earth and taken my OH away for testing and left a similar looking model in his place.

Don't get me wrong - there are some obvious upsides to this new state of affairs. It means we are eating our dinner at a normal time. We're lying in at the weekends. We're having a cheeky drinkie in the evenings. When not in training, my OH is Mr Sociable - he's easily led when it comes to having a drink or two and he's funny and entertaining to be around. And with the leftover lightweight status he's a cheap date. This weekend we saw Cirque du Soleil. Not really a heavy drinking event one would imagine. But no, OH sniffs out the highest percentage beer stocked by the bar beforehand and he's silly drunk before we even get to the RAH. I give him the look that says "no more, Boy-o" but before I know it he's in the champagne bar at the place quaffing a quick glass of bubbles before the thing even starts.

Skiing - another case it point. It always amazes me that we're not allowed to drink and drive. Nor drink and operate heavy machinery. Nor drink before surgery. Nor drink and go to work (generally, anyway). But we can drink and then ski. Possibly the most dangerous mainstream sporting activity you can do, the one where you have to fully rely on yourself to get about (no one can get you down that Black if you're stuck at the top apart from yourself), and you're allowed to do it after a grand Juplier or three at lunch time. In fact, drinking and skiing are positively encouraged. Odd.

But back to the serious point. I don't know why he's stopped. He just has. He doesn't really have a reason - he just hasn't got 'back into it'. I'm worried - where have those aliens taken him? Crazily I think I miss him training. I need to do something to get him back into it (am I stupid?). He's even mooting the idea of not going to Spain for the European Champs in June. I need to seriously have a word about that - I've just bought myself a new swimsuit.

The disbelief

Happy New Year! Let's just gloss over the fact that I didn't post anything in December. A quick summary of the month for those keeping count - triathlon life continued as normal with double training sessions every day except for Christmas Day. With Wiggle vouchers aplenty in OH's neoprene stocking, the stream of random objects being delivered did not slow down ("Paddles. Not Flippers. Paddles"). Luckily, over the holidays, OH and I each return to our respective parental homesteads so it was his poor Mum who got the bulk of the burden of living with a triathlete. By Christmas Eve and our family-in-law dinner out (when we had been home for approximately 6 hours), OH's Mum was already telling my Mum that she aged 10 years every time OH went home for any length of time. She didn't know how I put up with him. Every time I see OH's Dad he says to me that he doesn't know how I put up with him.

But it was like water off a duck's back. It had never really occurred to me to not put up with him. This is how it is, no? When the Christmas tree fairy lights flashed their last twinkle about one hour before our guests were due to arrive at our Christmas Luncheon to Evening Soiree event this year (well, last year now), OH took the opportunity to get his running kit on to jog down to the local Homebase to get us a new set. I thought this perfectly normal (although a teensy bit annoying as potentially it meant he might arrive back, very sweaty, at the same time everyone was arriving. And he was meant to be preparing the mulled wine). As we ate our turkey, I recanted the story and drama of the kamikaze lights. One lovely guest quipped: "And I bet OH ran down to the shop to get a new set?", her eyes as twinkly and brimming with cheekiness as they could be. "Yes", I replied, deadpan. How else would we have gotten them?

But, back to this business of 'putting up with him/it'. I think I'm going to use those words interchangeably as I don't really think I can draw any distinction between enduring what OH is like personally and triathlon itself. The triathlon element only exists in its current form because OH makes it so. If he wanted to be a professional DIY-person it would be the same. I only need remember the saga of the bookshelves in our study to know that. (A caveat though, the shelves do look amarrzing). He toiled without food and water for 3 days and 3 nights getting those shelves up, overcoming every possible DIY obstacle in the process. A new Workmate (remember those from the eighties?), mitre block, several different sized G-clamps, brown rubbery sealant stuff, 5 different types of raw plugs and 2 laser levels later they were up, displaying my lovely alphabetically-arranged books to their very best advantage. But the point I'm making is that OH has the kind of personality which means that whatever pursuit he were to choose, it would be the same. He would stick with it and take it to its extreme lengths to try and be the best that he could be. In fact, I often think how lucky I am that his hobby is not drug-taking or adultery.

I'd not overly given this idea much thought to be honest. As I alluded to in a much earlier post, this triathlon life is so much better than the rowing widow life that I endured in our early years together that sometimes I feel like all my Christmasses have come at once. However, over the holidays we met up with a couple of great friends of ours. Currently based in Oz, we only get to see them every few years. This meant that they knew nothing of OH's triathlon exploits - the last time we saw them OH was still in his rowing phase. They knew it all too well: Husband was at college with OH, they rowed together on numerous occasions. Wife was in the winning boat crew which OH coached. I would group them in the same set as OH when it comes to personality and sport (when we skiied together once we nicknamed the Husband 'Duracell' as he never stopped).It was great to see them and share with them tales of Budapest and Pacman and Lady Bike and wetsuits and drafting and rah rah rah. They enquired as to the level of training that OH did. He told them. And the one thing that they really could not believe was that I put up with (or "allowed", as they said it) the training that OH did. Really? I said. It's fine, genuinely meaning it. But their disbelief got me thinking. Should I put up with it?

For me the big question is - what would happen if I decided I didn't want to put up with it? Ultimatums never work in my view. I think I decided long ago that the 80-20 rule should apply. If I am happy 80% of the time, and triathlon is annoying 20% of the time only, then I think we're onto a winner. And I am very happy, more than 80% of the time. And of course I love OH very much (wowser, too soppy, but has to be included), and as I said before, this triathlon phase is just an extension of him. By telling him triathlon has to go, I would be telling him to go. No way Jose.

So that's it. Decision made. Triathlon stays.

I also think there is a side of this triathlon widow life which people don't always see. I can't believe I am going to write out the following list, what with its secrets of female manipulation and all:

1. If I ever buy an extravagently expensive pair of shoes, OH can never comment owing to him spending such a fortune on triathlon tack. I am not one of these girls who has to hide new purchases in the back of the wardrobe until they are old enough to say: "oh, this old thing? I've had this for ages!"


2. If, and when, OH gets around to buying me an engagement ring, I have legitimate grounds to ask for a ring which is huge - "it's carbon like Lady Bike, just in a different form."


3. I can use it as a guilt trip (which for the record, I never ever ever ever do). "But I want to watch SATC the movie for the 40th time - even though I know that you hate it and there's a movie on the other side which I know you are desperate to watch...and you have been neglecting me a bit lately, what with all the training you've been doing."


4. I watch all the crap TV I like during those long bike rides when I'm home alone. Supernanny, DIY SOS, Friends, Location Location Location and so on - all in absolute peace.


5. His tenacity is often a blessing in disguise. If there's something that I want (like a specific style of new dress, par example) but I'm not able to find it, he will hunt it down like a dog and get it for me.


6. I get to sneak in extra holidays when there are events abroad. Next year's world champs are in New Zealand - will be encouraging OH to train like a demon for that then...

So, if any of you feel bad for me living this triathlon widow life, please don't. It's actually rather fabulous.

The stuff

Don't fall over in shock. I know it's very rare that I put pen to paper (or fingers to plastic, whatever your preference) twice in the same week. But lugging the new bike into my boot on Wednesday night made me think about all the other weird stuff that I have had to take delivery of because of OH's life's work. And that got me thinking about the amount of paraphernalia one actually needs to 'do' triathlon. However, now I'm typing I'm beginning to wonder how interesting this is actually going to be - potentially it could just turn into a list of items - which would quite honestly be a bit crap. So I will endeavour to make it a bit more than that, but as usual would appreciate your patience as I get my ramblings written down and out of my system.

Firstly, a bit of background. Due to my working in the 'burbs, and OH being a city boy, we always get stuff delivered to my office as it's easier for me to wrestle items into my boot than have OH man-handle them onto the train with him (the other commuters would not approve, you know how they are, if you even bring a slightly bigger bag than normal you get ostracised from the commuting fraternity).

The people in my office are used to me getting deliveries so no real worries there. 6ft mirror for our living room; the Mad Boy Boomer aka our new karaoke machine; 10ft rug and underlay; hosepipe; lawnmower (it was a challenge getting that in the boot I'll tell you, a nice man from the pizza place next door to the office had to leap over the wall and help me with that one); plus the countless CDs and DVDs and books and clothes and day-to-day what not. But these are all pretty normal items (if not a bit bulky). When the first boxes of organic beetroot juice started arriving on a regular basis, people's eyebrows were raised and without saying a word I could see them thinking 'that must really make your pee purple' - let alone ' that sounds absolutely vile'. And they would be right. OH drinks it every day and whilst it makes him look like Dracula, he swears by it.

Of course there is lots and lots of kit. Recent items would be those outersock things that go over his bike shoes to keep his little feet warm on winter cycle trips. And those things that are essentially leg warmers but for arms (to keep his little arms warm on winter cycle trips). And the GB onezee - much laughter as my boss tried to squeeze into it. And the 2nd onezee (in case he ruined the first one), and then the 3rd onezee (in case he got caught in a freak mud-based accident and ruined the second one). No one was really that bothered by the whole 'GB kit' by the time that arrived (along with the zip up top, polo shirt, splash top...you get the picture). Obviously cycling shorts themselves cause much hilarity, drawing comparisons with nappies and incontinence wear (although when they all saw the teeny tiny nature of the saddle on Wednesday, I think it became clear why OH stocks up on the aforementioned shorts). Thermal underwear, gloves, shoes, trainers, bike shoes, pedals, wheels, inner tubes, oil, Muck Off, that pink powdery stuff that goes in squash, Maxi Muscle (this makes me laugh every time), gel pouch things, elastic laces, GPS, heart rate monitor...you get the idea. But this really is just turning into a list so I am going to halt it there.

You think girls are addicted to internet shopping? Trying living with a triathlete.

The new arrival

The title of this blog might suggest that I was talking about the arrival of a new baby. I'm not, in the strictest sense, although I might as well be. At my office today I have officially taken delivery of the most recent addition to our family: OH's new bike. I know, I know, another bike? It's a bit of a shock to us all. It's not like OH to make rash decisions which involve money (or any rash decisions, really, it normally takes him two weeks to decide what socks to wear), but in the time between my last post and this, he has sourced it and bought it.

He is delighted. I parked it in the middle of the hallway tonight so he could see it as soon as he got home. In fact, he spied it sooner than that as he pressed his face to the glass in the front door to have a peek before I could even get there to answer the bell. Bobbing up and down on the front step like he needed the loo, he bounded past me as soon as there was a crack in the doorway: "she's here!" he shouted. The proud father indeed. Straight away he was making the weird YouTube bike hardcore trance music sounds - I'm sure these constantly play is his head when perving over his bikes but it's not often it gets vocalised (thank goodness). Still in his city-gent coat he pulls it gently out of the box, cooing and aarhing, stroking and caressing, with whispers of 'there she is', 'look at this beauty', 'feel the weight of that' etc etc etc. I'm sure you can imagine (or maybe not? I don't know if all boys are like this around new bikes.)

Maybe they are. Perhaps not quite to the extent that OH is - but certainly there was a frisson of excitement amoungst a few of the boys in the office today. I had lots of questions from them: actually now I think of it many were similar to the loving comments OH was making. What's the weight? Will he use it for training? What make is it? What's the cost? This was the most common question. Let's just say they were silenced when I told them the answer. I happen to agree that it's not right for that amount of money to be spent on a lump of carbon unless it happens to take the form of a whacking great diamond positioned on my engagement finger.

But back to this evening. The most important decision to be made? What to call her. The TT is a boy (he is called Pacman on the basis that he gobbles up the competition like - you guessed it - Pacman). New bike obviously needs a girly name, with her more subtle black with white finish and only the occasional flirtation with a red flourish. I hope I'm not holding you in suspense about the name. We haven't decided one yet so I can't put you out of your misery. All I can say is that I hope OH isn't expecting that she will have her own room. We are going to run out of spare bedrooms. I'm also worried about the fact that I am now referring to this item, which will inevitably move me down the rankings in OH's affections, as a 'her'. It's ridiculous. Although I would be quite happy if Pacman and Lady Bike mated and produced mini-bikes which took the form of the latest models. That would save us a fortune.

As we acquire more and more of the dual-wheeled mobiles, I am surprised to find that I am actually learning more about them than I thought. I'm not sure if I should be happy or sad about this realisation. Take the quiz OH sprung on me tonight as he was dancing around with Lady Bike in his arms in a way which would make Anton du Beke and Anne Widdy proud. It's called 'what is the make' quiz:

OH: Who is the frame by?
Me: This is easy, it's written all over it - Cervelo
OH: And who makes the groupset?
Me: (Yes, I do know what a groupset is). Sram?
OH: No - guess again
Me: I think there is only one other main one - so it has to be Shimano. And something to do with Ace? Dura Ace.
OH: Handlebars?
Me: 3T Brezza? (I know this is wrong because these are now illegal for racing, but it's a test)
OH: (Repeats what I am thinking in brackets above)
Me: Well they must be 3T - that's what they've got written on them
OH: I'm so proud of you!
Me: (Probably even more so than on my graduation day? The day I got my first job? The day I went on stage dressed as a whore? That's a whole other story and not as bad as it sounds: think University Am Dram)

But it's made OH very, very happy. And a happy OH means a happy me. Using the situation to my best advantage I have decided not to bother cooking proper tea (we're having pizza when the Sainsbury's man delivers it in about 3 minutes). Normally he would have been whining about how he's a growing man and needs a full on dinner. But tonight, in his deliriously heightened state of New Love, he doesn't give a frik. And so I'm free to watch rubbish tele and do some online shopping when typically I would have been slaving over a hot oven. Rock on.

The new term

Before we even begin, please can you adjust your expectation levels of this post to the 'low' setting? To be honest, I think it's going to be a bit crappy. I have spent the last 1.5 months scouring the depths of my brain for something new and interesting and triathlon related to write about. I have come up with nothing, really. But I need to get something down before I'm thrown out of the BMC (Bloggers Magic Cirle, not British Medical Council - in case you were wondering) and before I lose the momentum to ever again write another word.

Part of the trouble is that OH has been on his yearly "time off". My mother wonders why he can't plan this time off over Christmas so he doesn't need to train on Boxing Day. OH would rather reschedule Christmas. So my muse has done a runner, for once not literally, and I've been left pretty stumped by what to discuss. Maybe I should just use this forum to air my general views and concerns on art, literature, politics? Not a chance! I don't really have intellectual or newsworthy views on art ("do you think we should get some personalised baubles for our tree this Christmas?"); literature ("I wonder why Gary Barlow is not on Twitter?") and politics ("Florence Endellion sleeps in a cardboard box - how sweet"). If I used this space to discuss my deepest, darkest thoughts you might well have me wheeled off to the funny farm.

This is not so say OH has not been busy. Quite the contrary. He likes to try and squeeze all of his drunken and debaucherous (well, as debaucherous as coupled up thirty year olds get anyway) nights out into this time off. The self confessed ring leader, OH suddenly becomes the most persuasive port-drinking individual you have ever met. "Yes of course you want to frequent the local 80s club and dance like a loon until 2am", he can be heard saying. And imagine what the neighbours think? 3am arrivals home clad in sparkly wigs and massive heart shaped sunglasses - they've probably got (another) committee together with the main discussion point being how they can get rid of us. And what about the Walk of Shame we had to do on another occasion? Dinner and a few drinks with OSF and Fiancee turned into a late night Singstar session (the poor, poor people in the flat above) and impromptu sleepover as we realised there was no way for us to get home until the morning after. It's like he needs to squidge in a year's worth of drinking opportunities into these 6 weeks and to hell with the hangovers! Urgh, let's not think about that. Even alluding to the T word* is making me wretch a little.

We've been having a great time and I think that's why it's been so difficult to begin the transition back to Triathlon Life this last two weeks. It's like going back to school. You know you don't mind it once it gets going but that first week back is such a bummer. To make it worse the nights are dark and the mornings are dark and there seems to be so much less champagne hanging around than there used to be. However, this is where we are and I'm not complaining too much. Once we get back into it those hazy days of Spandau Ballet and involuntary drunken vomiting will be nothing but a fuzzy distant memory (for OH at least - I'm not planning on stopping).

And how to ease the 'new term' blues? OH has submersed himself in bike porn. He is convinced that he needs a new bike (I know, another one) and as he builds himself a fantasy machine on his favourite bike site I steal back control of Sky+ and watch back-to-back episodes of SATC for the fourth time. Every cloud and all that.



* Tequila (euuugghhhhhh)