Ain't half been some clever bar stewards

I nipped out at lunchtime, and, in spite of myself, ended up in a bookshop.  I lied that I'd have a fruit-based browse only, and not succumb to the temptation to have a half.  Ten minutes later I found myself the proud owner of The Richard Burton diaries, which runs to about 1500 pages.  It's like a 'phone book, despite being in paperback.  I don't like toting hefty tomes like this - they provoke sciatica - but I read the first couple of entries and simply had to have it.  The writing is so very elegant.

Allied to his gifts as a writer, Burton live the single most glamorous life imaginable.  When not gadding about the fleshpots of Europe and American, drinking, smoking and rutting like a Viking grandee, he would retire to the beautiful, rangy library of his Swiss home and read and write.  He was a learned and thoughtful man, RB.  He didn't bury his working-class Welsh roots too deeply, but he was a philosopher-prince when left to his own devices.  This is evident even in his childhood diary entries.  He esteemed all learning, and literature in particular.

He must have been a wilful and courageous boy to have gone against the cultural grain like this.  I dare say his interest in letters and acting attracted plenty of violent derision.  It must have taken plenty of resolve to stick it out.  I wish I'd had such a clear vision of what I wanted to do with my life at that tender age.  It simplifies so much.

Actually, I still haven't worked what I'm doing with my life.

Mister Punyverse

I've got a taster session booked at the Olympic Velodrome next week.  Initially I was hoogely excited by this, but later, as surely as night follows day, the doubts started to creep in.  Riding to work on Wednesday morning I thought I felt one of my hamstrings complaining.  This is normally a sign that my sciatic nerve is unhappy with developments, so it's not a problem.  I just step-up the yoga a touch and get on with it.  But the looming public display of cycling prowess had added a extra dimension of worry.

You see, I am fiercely competitive once I've thrown my leg over a bike, so I cannot and will not race unless I'm in prime condition.  I think it's referred to as "doing oneself justice".  So will I be able to give it full gas at the velodrome?  If I can't, I need to pull out beforehand.  The reason for my uncertainty is that I'm prone to psychosomatic episodes, particularly when I know I need to be 100%.  Chances are this is one of those.

The competitive instinct on the bike is an odd sensation for me.  Other than in this one arena, I have no competitive spirit at all.  In fact I dislike and mistrust competitive people.  I think it betrays a weakness of character.  Why do you need to prove yourself to others?  I know what I'm good at; I don't need to demonstrate that ability.  Except, that is, on a bicycle.

In other news, Mrs O and I are off to a garden party tomorrow at her old college in Oxford.  Sadly, my meteorological advisors tell me it's going to shit down rain, so that's the croquet gone for a Richard Burton.  No matter.  The sherry and nibbles at these do's are of the finest order available, so if push comes to shove, I can always spend the time indoors, face down in the buffet.