The afternoon before Christmas...

I'm at work.  It's Christmas Eve, and, as you'd expect, the office is vee quiet.  I work for a newspaper, and Xmas Day is the one day of the year that our industry traditionally draws breath.  I'm alone in my department too.  It's an odd experience, working on days like this.  It's sort of fun, in that it's different and certainly less pressured than proper works days.  But there's also that strange feeling of missing out.  You can't help thinking that the rest of humanity is having a rare old time, necking sherry in front of a roaring open fire while Bing Crosby croons from the mantelpiece.  I'm sure the truth is catastrophically more prosaic than that.  They're all probably watching shit telly and eating Jaffa Cakes.

The plan is to leave very shortly.  I don't know what I'm planning to do with the rest of the afternoon though.  I can't go shopping without having to be restrained by by armed officers and a Taser.  And I hate watching television in the afternoons.  I find it disspiriting...and common.

I might clean the oven.  Merry Christmas.

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.

Because it's there...

I decided today that the life of the jobbing office-Johnnie-about-town needed spicing up, so at lunchtime instead of wandering aimlessly around the environs of Canary Wharf with my snout buried in a Graham Greene, comme d'habitude,  I thought I'd jump on the DLR, and take him to Greenwich for an hour.

Okay, it's not exactly white knuckle stuff in terms of distance and culture shock, but a cee is as good as an ar, as they say.  And so it proved to be.  

The weather, when I reached my destination, was shithouse (what rotten luck, 'eh?), but I was determined to make the best of it.  I ducked into the Waterstone's there, found a comfy chair and ploughed through a couple of chapters.  And very convivial it all was too.

My wife and I chunter down to Greenwich at the weekends now and then.  It's usually rammed to the gunwales at times like this, and can be a bit of a chore to be honest.  It's like being at a festival, but without bands and tempura - i.e. diabolical.  

The absence of my best girl by my side also added a tinge of sadness to proceedings, but that's the quintessential point of travel, isn't it, to challenge oneself?  Generally, we scoot straight home apres-G and dig out the sherry, and I did rather miss the ritual when the time came to head back to the office.  I had to make do with the half truckle of brie and bottle of port that I'd hidden in the stationary cupboard instead.