Last week, Pim gave me a delightful knitting Wol, called Wol, which reminded me that I need to pay it forward... and I'm just getting myself organised with letters, parcel tape, small thingies and general post-officeness.  It wasn't that the handmades weren't ready, they were.  Just not me.

Also, I am apparently using this as displacement activity to avoid watching the 3rd series of Torchwood, which I had decided was a good use of a Wednesday off work.  I've run out of time to watch it all before morris practice now.  On the other hand, it might be a better idea to split it out over two days.  I'm full of trepidation.  I know half the spoilers.  I also know I'm going to cry.  When it was on the TV, it was the week Em died.  And, really?  Not so keen on revisiting that week.  On the other hand, she'd argue that I was being wet now, and that I should not avoid opportunities to watch Captain Jack being heroic.  He does it so nicely, after all.

Will photograph Wol when I remember. In the meantime, have a spot of Bohus Knitting.

We went to Danville, West Virginia, to the Duke MBA Rugby Tournament.  Me and 60-odd chaps.  Who are all lovely, but had blisters, sub-ungual suppurations to be drained, and the odd broken finger.

It went a little like this:

Wednesday night: get there.  Deal with various blisters on the bottom of feet: give opinion about playing rugby barefoot on the sand, not washing, and then wandering around barefoot with seeping wounds. Pick sand out of blisters. Deal with sub-ungual suppuration for the first time. Sleep appallingly until finally figuring out optimal pillow combination.  Sleep. Get up. Breakfast (why does fruit have to involve watermelon?  And what is it with the weak oatmeal which is only edible by pouring on sugar?).  Go to rugby practice. Send injured fingers to hospital.
Thursday night: have best sleep of last fortnight apart from the fact that someone tried to make a booty call at 3am. And then knocked on the room door at 3.10am. I asked if he was actively dying (as First Aider for the rugby team, I am there). No. Not dying. He was told to go forth and multiply. He apparently has no recollection of this, and no apology is forthcoming for two days.  Get up on Friday, repeat much of Thursday, but without the broken fingers (now in a splint) and with a trip to Danville from Chapel Hill. Finally get to go to Hillsborough Yarn Store, having driven past it for 3 years running.  Buy too much yarn in excitement. Have a lovely time sitting in the car bitching with the Daddy of the team (43 years old, and gay as they come).
Friday and Saturday night: nervous sleep owing to lots of rugby in the offing. Spend two days marching up and down next to rugby pitches, sticking people back together, getting up at 6am in order to be ready to stick people together and so forth.  Stop paying attention to first aid matters just as one of the women breaks her wrist. Hate broken wrists. Can't do much. The guys make a funeral pyre of their boots, and then take all their clothes off and leap over the top of it.  All 50 of them. Two policemen drive past in a golf cart and decide it really isn't worth the hassle of trying to arrest them all.
Nearly get arrested on Sunday evening owing to unfortunately being in same van as an Argentinian who doesn’t understand public urination laws. Fortunately he got off with a warning.  Why he needed to pee against the wheel of the minibus having already filled a Gatorade bottle (well, most of it went in the bottle...) I know not.  Go and have well deserved shower, shuck all the blood/sweat/spit/etc stained clothing and go out on the razzle.  Sing "You've lost that lovin' feelin'" at karaoke, get congratulated by total strangers, and have the experience of the entire club taking a knee before me.  Awwww. Make emotional speech.
Sunday night: 4 hours sleep, owing to raucous partying.  Get up. Acquire stuff for Brownies, then go to mall and have mani-pedi.  Admire feet.  Share a chocolate milkshake and head for the plane.
Monday night: fail to sleep on plane for more than about an hour. It’s a plane. There are wailing babies and a lavatory door which will only shut with a slam and, for some reason, dodgy electrics that keep turning the overhead lights on at random moments.
Tuesday: sleep all day. 7 hours blissful sleep, interrupted by the plumber FINALLY refunding the money from January’s heating/shower debacle, and delivering it by hand since the Royal Mail seem to be incapable of employing people who don’t steal....
Tuesday night: fail to sleep owing to spending all Tuesday asleep....

Since then, I've been playing with FIM at work, and having the most complicated emotional life.  Frankly, I need a holiday. The Welshman (newly single and rather sore about it) and I are considering climbing Ben Nevis in a week or so's time.  I pointed out that we seem to be vastly more successful climbing mountains if we're not actually dating each other at the time. Besides. He's growing a beard.

xxx

But, but, but... I feel utterly miserable.  I went to a wedding on 1st September. She's now 3 months pregnant.

The sciatica, improving since I went to the chiropractor, is achy again after I went for a run (but I was feeling fat. I needed a run).  I nearly burst into tears during the run: the chiropractor did something peculiar and revoltingly painful at the time to my gluteus maximus and minimus (and it's a little bruised), and oh, 3/4 of the way into 5 miles it was agonising.  Yes.  I know.  My fault for going running.

Pain never helps the mood.

Then there's the generalised knackeredness, the ridiculous quantity of things To Do today that I have not Done.

Moan. Whinge. Moan.

Move along. At some point, there will be completed knitting photos, as I polished off a hat and a dress last night - I'd been putting off the sewing up.  I'm wearing the dress now, to see how badly it bags at the butt.

Where's the gin?

xxx

And then, I failed to eat lunch (not to self, a skinny frappucino does not make lunch. Even if you do have whipped cream on it). I've sort of had supper (spelt pasta, gluten free cupcake), but forgot the salad. The white wine is definitely off. I need to do the following:

• Make K's birthday present
• Wrap H's birthday present
• Brownies accounts
• Iron stuff
• Tidy the sitting room and my bedroom.

At 9.45pm, with the list below achieved (look, I'm competitive, OK?), and knowing I need to go to my parents' tomorrow morning, what's the betting I just give up at the end of the computer based stuff, and go and whimper in bed?

• 5 mile run
• Hand deliver Brownie letter, post other letters
• Write cheques for letters
• Return the library books
• Have first lie-in for an age
• Merge letters for Brownies
• Print off addresses for Duke, locate passport, work out what time to leave.

Oh. No whimpering. Jo's boyfriend is coming round. At least I am dressed, have dry hair, makeup, no trashy magazines on the table and enough warning to find something non-trashy to listen to on the radio or watch on the TV. May put Grey's Anatomy on. Having watched it solidly recently, I'm pleased to report that I only had a ghastly nightmare about having my very own brain tumour on Thursday night, and did not repeat the performance last night.

xxx