Nothing unpleasant here, chaps. I am very happy to say that I have many true friends and no false ones.
What I'm talking about is those words in two different languages which SEEM to mean the same thing, but don't.
*Time-travel note* That was what I STARTED intending to talk about, but I've gone down several alleys already - some of them blind and some of them intriguing, so, frankly, this could end up being about more or less anything. You carry on reading, and I'll scroll back down to the bit I've got to so far, which is about Cardinal Richelieu, just so you know, when you get there.
We all know that Britain and America are famously separated by a common language - a phrase attributed to George Bernard Shaw - but then pretty much everything which wasn't attributed to Oscar Wilde around that time was attributed to GBS. For all we know, it could have been my ol' great grandma who said that, but someone thought it sounded Shavian. Anyway. Meanwhile, Oscar Wilde was cleverly actually WRITING DOWN a similar sentiment - "We have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language."
I'm actually, possibly surprisingly, quite a supporter of the way the Americans speak English. A lot of it is a more perfectly preserved version of the English we spoke back in the day. Sidewalk is of course a far more logical (and original) word for a pavement - certainly before the advent of tar-penetration macadam - or tarmac, as we call it. On a side note, I briefly dated a chap in my late teens whose surname was MacAdam, and who swore blind that his grandfather invented Tarmac. As I did know that it's more proper name is tar-macadam, I accepted this blindly until just now, when I checked, and it was invented by a chap named Edgar Purnell Hooley. Bloody swizz! Cheeky bastard.
Meanwhile cookie, once you know that the Dutch for biscuit is koekje, is far less irritating. Lots of the words which are different between English and American are actually Dutch derivations. Cupcakes still piss me off, though. Whatever happened to fairy cakes?
Anyway, this is not meant to be about English and American, although I've got interested in it, now, so in a couple of years, next time I get around to sitting and having a bit of a blog, it might be.
But while I'm on English and American, I'll just give you two examples of false friends. Bum. And Fag. Thanks. Glad I got those off my chest.
What I WAS going to talk about was the English and French false friends.
The first time I came across these was when we all got in a fit of giggles when accompanying my mother to the dentist. I should perhaps clarify at this point that I was about 9 at the time, although I'd still sooner my mum came to the dentist with me than go on my own. Wimp. Anyway. The dentist had rather excellent English, and was therefore merrily chatting away to Mum about her teeth, while poking sharp things in her mouth. She winced, and he informed her that oh dear oh dear, she has very sensible teeth. The poor man had no idea why my brother and I were stuffing our hankies in our mouths and snorting inelegantly in the corner, because, in French, les dents sensibles are sensitive teeth.
I've been on the lookout ever since and I'm delighted to report that there are many examples.
The thing is, you see, that the French just don't have the VOCABULARY that we do. I have mentioned this so frequently that my children now spout this particular piece of wisdom with a world-weary air - "Sigh - they just don't have the WORDS, do they, Mummy?"
The words for like and love are the same. For kiss and - pardon my French - fuck. While in English someone can trick you or play a trick on you, or, heaven forfend cheat you, in French they can only tricher - a verb. Il m'a tricher. He cheated on me, he tricked me, he played a trick on me - you decide. It's all in the context because they don't have the WORDS, do they, Mummy? As we know, only something like 20% of communication is in the words, the rest is body language, intonation, facial expression etc - which is how you can get in so much damned trouble writing to people. Hence the meteoric rise of the 'emoticon'.
It is, of course, ridiculous to try to count the number of words in a language, and it always makes me think of the Samuel Johnson episode of Blackadder II. However, it is a generally accepted almost-fact that the English language has approximately 250,000 words. It is equally generally accepted that French has approximately 45,000. Even those of us who had to spend maths lessons sitting in the corner in pointy hats can work out that this is less than a fifth of the number of words. Extraordinary, no?
But then, you see, while we spot words and phrases in other languages and joyfully adopt, adapt and make them our own, showing savoir-faire, joie de vivre and a certain je ne sais quoi, the French have the Académie Française, devoted to retaining the purity of the French language.
This idea has always made me laugh a lot, and finding out that it was started out by that bastard, Cardinal Richelieu (of course, I have only Dumas's word for him being a bastard, but I like Dumas, so I'm sticking with his version of events), suppressed during the revolution (VIVE LA REVOLUTION!) and revived by that dispeptic genius, Napoleon, has only made me laugh harder. Honestly - who'd have thought that Richelieu would STILL be making the French do as he says!
Anyway, if you're not familiar with the Académie, briefly, it has 40 members, known as les Immortels (the Immortals - I mean REALLY! The NERVE!) who are granted their posts for life. Unless they do something really naughty. The mind boggles. Maybe using the subjunctive incorrectly, or referring to "le weekend".
Actually, I just got interested in that, and rather pleasingly the most recent expulsions were for Academy members cohorting with the Nazis during WWII. I actually feel a tiny degree of warmth towards them for the first time, ever.
Anyway (again - if you don't have to start at least 14 paragraphs in a chat with the word 'anyway', you've probably stuck to the point toooooo much), basically, it's their job to stick the French language down and approve or disprove any cheeky little words that try to sneak into the language from other places. I can only imagine that this job has become more and more difficult as technology accelerates. They had a great success with 'ordinateur' when computers first came in and people started off by saying 'le computer', but it's all moving so fast now, and I (possibly unfairly) assume that they are not the most technologically literate of croups of people, so it must be hellish hard to keep up with, m'loves.
Of course, there are two sides to every argument, and while the Academy's pinning down of the French language, which I always envisage as all the words being literally pinned down like butterflies in one of those Victorian cabinets, is the diametric opposite of our liberal "What's that you said? Ooooh, good word! We'll have that!" approach to language, it does give French writers a certain amount of fluff space which we don't have.
Hm. I know what I'm trying to say here, but I'm not sure that fluff space is hacking it.
Well, actually, let's take aimer and baiser, as they were the examples I gave above. There's room for a lot of double entendres (there's another adoption) with those two alone. When you try to translate from French to English, if it's not a technical document, it can sometimes be quite tricky for exactly this reason. The writer may well have deliberately left a wodge of ambiguity for the reader to play with, but the translator has to go in and PIN DOWN the author's meaning! Aha! That's strange, don't you think? That the limiting of words in a language can actually allow for more interpretations?
So while I think it's fabulous that we have five times as many words for funny as the French do, I RAIL at the English subtitles to French films because I almost always entirely disagree with them.
Cyrano de Bergerac is a CLASSIC example of this, and when I am an old, old lady, confined to bed and with nothing else to do, I am going to sit up and re-translate that film because that idiot Anthony Burgess made a proper bloody fist of it. The film is in verse and for some reason best known to himself, Burgess decided the put all the bloody subtitles in verse, too, thus, more often than not, absolutely KILLING the language. Why he wanted to do this is beyond me. Why someone actually let him do this is further beyond me. And how he managed to sleep at night after he'd put his name to this travesty of a translation is beyond me. While, in French, Gerard Depardieu is buckling his swash, swaggering, declaiming and roaring with wit and poetry, Burgess, down in the subtitles, is mincing around like a complete tit strangling - no, too strong - holding a pillow over the face of the film and slowly killing it. I have to put masking tape over the bottom half of the screen to even watch the film these days. TIT.
Well, I told you I'd gone down a blind alley, and I've given you almost no examples of false friends at all. The Nice Man From Asda has just delivered my groceries, and there's a bag of raw frozen prawns thawing out somewhere amongst it, so I must whoosh back to real life and get on with My Chores. I've got loads more to say about this, but if I don't post it, it will never happen. So publish and be damned, woman.
Please feel free to post your false friends in the comments section below. I would be most grateful if someone would haul this blog back towards something resembling its original title...
Cheers.
Monday 13 April 2015
Thursday 9 April 2015
Temporary Luddite
From January 2014 - never finished, until now!
_________________
My computer died!
This. Was a tragedy.
To be fair, it had warned me that it was on its way out. It had shown me glossy estate agent details of farms it was considering buying, put up warning signs regarding buckets it was at risk of kicking, and indicated to me that if I could pass it its slippers in order to aid it in its shuffling off of this mortal coil, it would be most grateful.
As a result of all of this, I had actually made preparations. I know. Extraordinaire. I had taken it to the McHospital (iHospital?) where the Nice Doctor (McGenius?) had a look and said it was basically terminal. We needed a brain transplant. Where, I asked in shock, would one get such a thing? Was it frite-fly expensive? And complex? The Nice Doctor, whose bedside manner was entirely charming in a very trendily geeky way, explained to the Poor Old Lady that one would get such a thing online, it wasn't very expensive, and the surgery itself was sufficiently simple that even the Poor Old Lady would be able to perform it by the simple means of waving a screwfer at the back of the MacBook until its bum fell off.
Or something.
But, further, that if this was beyond the capabilities of the POL, the Nice Doctor and his friends would probably help, if the POL came in and wept a bit, although they're not really supposed to do that kind of thing. Helping, not weeping. And that once the brain was in, the Nice Doctor would be able to rehabilitate it, and that it would be such a special and wonderful brain that it would "see you out". That's a quote. I wondered at that point whether the Nice Doctor was quite as nice as I originally thought.
Anyway. No matter how many things I tell the computer to remember in the future, it will apparently still be alive and able to pass me my slippers when it's my turn to shuffle off this mortal coil. Hurrah!
All this happened JUST before Christmas (*2013). So I ordered the replacement brain. It was easy! It arrived ten days earlier than advertised, while we were away for Christmas. It arrived the next day, too, and the next, and kept arriving daily until eventually I switched my phone on and found that The Yodel Man (in an appropriately echoey way, considering his company name) had been bouncing to and fro daily, trying to deliver. Sigh. So I rearranged delivery for when it was meant to arrive in the first place.
__________
So all of that was now so long ago that I barely remember it (although my feelings on The Yodel Man have, if anything, deteriorated), and the McDoctor put the new brain in the Poor Old Lady's computer, and the POL's MacBook Pro was once more ready to ROCK!
Until the POL invited her dear friends over, and Penningtons, Milligans and Parkins did imbibe of the gin. In generous quantities. And not just the gin of the Gordon's and the nice Bombay Sapphire people, but the actual home-made Hedge Gin (see elsewhere on blog if you wish to *spoiler alert* hurt yourself and kill your computer) which is largely based on Asda's own brand gin. And Hedge. There then ensued some playing of tunes in the kitchen, just like in the olden days, all gathered around the keyboard. Although not THAT like the olden days, given that the keyboard was operating iTunes and not a piano. At this point, tall glasses of prosecco, with generous measures of various home-made (but not home-distilled, as That Is Against The Law) spirits such as blackberry vodka and raspberry gin, very much à la Kir Royale, but a bit more Kir Pleb, seemed an inordinately good idea. Well, it turns out that the combination of the playing of the music with the waving of the arms, the drinking of the spirits, the quaffing of the bubbles and most especially the placing of the very tall glass next to the laptop was actually an inordinately POOR idea.
Emergency action was immediately implemented, and the drinking and waving of arms resumed (although without the music - shame). On rising, bleary-eyed the next morning, it transpired that the emergency action, with which we had been quite pleased, on the whole, at the time) had pretty much stopped at making the laptop into a little tent shape, tipping it up and placing a whole roll of Plenty, still on the roll, in its little cavity, as if for a nice night under the stars.
Needless to say, this cost a fucking FORTUNE to sort out, and took bloody weeks on end. Initially, it was thought that it could probably be done for a couple of 'undred, and hence no need to bother the household insurance wallahs. But once they'd got the bonnet off, there was much sucking of teeth and "werlllll, you've got liquid innit, 'aventcher?"ing from the McChaps. Which was an extraordinarily astute diagnosis, given that I'd taken it in and said "I tried to make it drink spirits but it didn't like it". And RAM was discussed. And top - er - top hampers? No, top - er - something boards. Not washboards. Something though. And something expensive, natürlich, mein lieblings. And some other bits which also didn't take kindly to having booze forced upon them.
At this point, I told them to just go ahead and fix the bloody thing, as I live my LIFE on the computer. I write recipes on it, blog on it (occasionally, hem hem), sell jewellery on it, do all my Zumba paperwork on it, talk to friends far and wide on it - you get the idea.
Once I'd finished weeping and breaking the news to the kids that there would be no Christmas, I realised that - tadaaaaa! It actually wasn't going to cost a bean more than the original £200 because this is (probably) what household insurance is for! The nice man at Direct Line was very sympathetic, and once he'd finished tutting about the fact that I'd already sorted it out when he would have liked to have had a go himself (or get some of his friends to have a look or something - presumably for further sucking of teeth and "I couldn't possibly fit it in before a week Tuesday, guv, and that's pushing it"), the cash for the repair was in the account before you'd have had time to say "hang on, where's me cheque book, has the cat eaten it?". Mental.
It's never been quite the same, though. It keeps telling me it wants coffee. Specifically Java. But then, I suppose we all fancy a coffee after a night on the prosecco and spirits, don't we?
I know I do.
_________________
My computer died!
This. Was a tragedy.
To be fair, it had warned me that it was on its way out. It had shown me glossy estate agent details of farms it was considering buying, put up warning signs regarding buckets it was at risk of kicking, and indicated to me that if I could pass it its slippers in order to aid it in its shuffling off of this mortal coil, it would be most grateful.
As a result of all of this, I had actually made preparations. I know. Extraordinaire. I had taken it to the McHospital (iHospital?) where the Nice Doctor (McGenius?) had a look and said it was basically terminal. We needed a brain transplant. Where, I asked in shock, would one get such a thing? Was it frite-fly expensive? And complex? The Nice Doctor, whose bedside manner was entirely charming in a very trendily geeky way, explained to the Poor Old Lady that one would get such a thing online, it wasn't very expensive, and the surgery itself was sufficiently simple that even the Poor Old Lady would be able to perform it by the simple means of waving a screwfer at the back of the MacBook until its bum fell off.
Or something.
But, further, that if this was beyond the capabilities of the POL, the Nice Doctor and his friends would probably help, if the POL came in and wept a bit, although they're not really supposed to do that kind of thing. Helping, not weeping. And that once the brain was in, the Nice Doctor would be able to rehabilitate it, and that it would be such a special and wonderful brain that it would "see you out". That's a quote. I wondered at that point whether the Nice Doctor was quite as nice as I originally thought.
Anyway. No matter how many things I tell the computer to remember in the future, it will apparently still be alive and able to pass me my slippers when it's my turn to shuffle off this mortal coil. Hurrah!
All this happened JUST before Christmas (*2013). So I ordered the replacement brain. It was easy! It arrived ten days earlier than advertised, while we were away for Christmas. It arrived the next day, too, and the next, and kept arriving daily until eventually I switched my phone on and found that The Yodel Man (in an appropriately echoey way, considering his company name) had been bouncing to and fro daily, trying to deliver. Sigh. So I rearranged delivery for when it was meant to arrive in the first place.
__________
So all of that was now so long ago that I barely remember it (although my feelings on The Yodel Man have, if anything, deteriorated), and the McDoctor put the new brain in the Poor Old Lady's computer, and the POL's MacBook Pro was once more ready to ROCK!
Until the POL invited her dear friends over, and Penningtons, Milligans and Parkins did imbibe of the gin. In generous quantities. And not just the gin of the Gordon's and the nice Bombay Sapphire people, but the actual home-made Hedge Gin (see elsewhere on blog if you wish to *spoiler alert* hurt yourself and kill your computer) which is largely based on Asda's own brand gin. And Hedge. There then ensued some playing of tunes in the kitchen, just like in the olden days, all gathered around the keyboard. Although not THAT like the olden days, given that the keyboard was operating iTunes and not a piano. At this point, tall glasses of prosecco, with generous measures of various home-made (but not home-distilled, as That Is Against The Law) spirits such as blackberry vodka and raspberry gin, very much à la Kir Royale, but a bit more Kir Pleb, seemed an inordinately good idea. Well, it turns out that the combination of the playing of the music with the waving of the arms, the drinking of the spirits, the quaffing of the bubbles and most especially the placing of the very tall glass next to the laptop was actually an inordinately POOR idea.
Emergency action was immediately implemented, and the drinking and waving of arms resumed (although without the music - shame). On rising, bleary-eyed the next morning, it transpired that the emergency action, with which we had been quite pleased, on the whole, at the time) had pretty much stopped at making the laptop into a little tent shape, tipping it up and placing a whole roll of Plenty, still on the roll, in its little cavity, as if for a nice night under the stars.
Needless to say, this cost a fucking FORTUNE to sort out, and took bloody weeks on end. Initially, it was thought that it could probably be done for a couple of 'undred, and hence no need to bother the household insurance wallahs. But once they'd got the bonnet off, there was much sucking of teeth and "werlllll, you've got liquid innit, 'aventcher?"ing from the McChaps. Which was an extraordinarily astute diagnosis, given that I'd taken it in and said "I tried to make it drink spirits but it didn't like it". And RAM was discussed. And top - er - top hampers? No, top - er - something boards. Not washboards. Something though. And something expensive, natürlich, mein lieblings. And some other bits which also didn't take kindly to having booze forced upon them.
At this point, I told them to just go ahead and fix the bloody thing, as I live my LIFE on the computer. I write recipes on it, blog on it (occasionally, hem hem), sell jewellery on it, do all my Zumba paperwork on it, talk to friends far and wide on it - you get the idea.
Once I'd finished weeping and breaking the news to the kids that there would be no Christmas, I realised that - tadaaaaa! It actually wasn't going to cost a bean more than the original £200 because this is (probably) what household insurance is for! The nice man at Direct Line was very sympathetic, and once he'd finished tutting about the fact that I'd already sorted it out when he would have liked to have had a go himself (or get some of his friends to have a look or something - presumably for further sucking of teeth and "I couldn't possibly fit it in before a week Tuesday, guv, and that's pushing it"), the cash for the repair was in the account before you'd have had time to say "hang on, where's me cheque book, has the cat eaten it?". Mental.
It's never been quite the same, though. It keeps telling me it wants coffee. Specifically Java. But then, I suppose we all fancy a coffee after a night on the prosecco and spirits, don't we?
I know I do.
The Twattiness of the Short Distance Runner (me)
It seems that spring is when I'm moved to blog. I'm not even going to insult you by pretending that I'll blog more frequently this year, or big myself up by pretending you've been desperate for another one in the last year and six days, so no apology either.
I did do a big thing, yesterday, though.
I Did Jogging!
I know. Not a jogger, I.
However, whenever I have a week or so off from teaching Zumba, even if I don't go bonkers on Easter eggs (I can take 'em or leave 'em - thank god there isn't a worldwide cheese festival where people give each other whole Stiltons and Bries. I'd fucking DIE), I seem to put on a good half a stone, which on my smaller-than-you'd-think-cos-I-usually-wear-heels frame is a whole chunk of lard.
Plus, if people are coming to you and paying you to help them get fit, you ought to make an effort to look the part. Not drinking Belgium's stock of rosé over the Easter break may have helped with this extra tonnage. Also not filling my Dad's fridge with more filet Américain (it's raw beef - I don't know why it's called filet Américain. I don't think you can get it in America. It's similar to steak tartare, though) than a woman should be allowed to eat in a month, and then accidentally having a forkful every time I filled the bottomless glass of rosé from the box in the fridge may have made some contribution, too.
However, whatever the reason, I got back from my long weekend feeling like a proper little Bunter, and resolved to Do Something About It. Usually, it's a quick gain/quick loss, and I'm happy to let the extra half stone trickle off over the ensuing two weeks. I don't know why this wasn't the case this time. I'm getting old. It's harder to shift extra pounds and I just wanted it off quickly, so I thought I'd give this running malarkey a bash.
Anyone who has ever discussed running with me will know my views on it.
In brief, most people who start running do so with no idea what they're doing. They just grab a pair of trainers and hit the tarmac. The trainers are probably also well past their run-by date.
Everyone thinks they can run. Our bodies are designed to do it, right? I mean, it's just running, right? Wrong. More people injure themselves running than almost any other sport, because they just go and do it. They also stretch before they've warmed up, causing little tiny tears in cold, stiff muscles, and don't stretch afterwards. And they whack all their impact through their heels, because their trainers allow them to do that, whereas our bodies are not actually designed to run like this.
Look, if you're hating me right now, don't. If you know what you're doing and you enjoy it, keep at it. I raise my hat at you. If you're following a sensible programme, wearing good trainers and non-chaffing trousers, like a bit of barefoot running technique and have a sports bra which stops you from taking your own eye out crossing roads - go for it. Plus, you know, swings and roundabouts, horses for courses, freedom of etceteras.
Yeah, I don't know what possessed me to give it a go, either. But yesterday morning, off I set, with Sev in tow, for a gentle jog. I figured I'd manage about three minutes and collapse in a heap, like I always did at school but I had forgotten that a) I smoked about 40 a day at school and b) my cardio-vascular fitness is a lot better than when I was a teenager, thanks to four years of teaching Zumba. Although you'd think five-times-a-week ballet as a teenager would have helped, but it seems that was more endurance than... anyway - I digress.
To my somewhat smug pleasure, I managed four miles without pause, and, while sweaty at the end of it, wasn't unduly out of breath. I wasn't very fast, but then that wasn't my aim. And to my surprise, I quite enjoyed it - I certainly got a massive sense of achievement out of it. I could have gone further, but I'd done a 'there and back' type walk, and run out of route.
This morning, I set out to jog again. I managed half the distance of yesterday and pulled up with a small nagging ache in my sacroiliac area, which I suspect may be called something like Jogger's Arse.
I'd probably run though this if I didn't fear that I'd make it worse and put myself out of teaching altogether, for the foreseeable future, and we'd all die in penury on the streets. I don't know if running through it would make it worse or better, and I will never know because that's IT! I'm not running any more. I was right. It's not for me.
And it turns out I'm exactly the kind of git I always swore I wouldn't be. TOTALLY inexperienced, hitting the tarmac, injured within 24 hours.
Twat.
I did do a big thing, yesterday, though.
I Did Jogging!
I know. Not a jogger, I.
However, whenever I have a week or so off from teaching Zumba, even if I don't go bonkers on Easter eggs (I can take 'em or leave 'em - thank god there isn't a worldwide cheese festival where people give each other whole Stiltons and Bries. I'd fucking DIE), I seem to put on a good half a stone, which on my smaller-than-you'd-think-cos-I-usually-wear-heels frame is a whole chunk of lard.
Plus, if people are coming to you and paying you to help them get fit, you ought to make an effort to look the part. Not drinking Belgium's stock of rosé over the Easter break may have helped with this extra tonnage. Also not filling my Dad's fridge with more filet Américain (it's raw beef - I don't know why it's called filet Américain. I don't think you can get it in America. It's similar to steak tartare, though) than a woman should be allowed to eat in a month, and then accidentally having a forkful every time I filled the bottomless glass of rosé from the box in the fridge may have made some contribution, too.
However, whatever the reason, I got back from my long weekend feeling like a proper little Bunter, and resolved to Do Something About It. Usually, it's a quick gain/quick loss, and I'm happy to let the extra half stone trickle off over the ensuing two weeks. I don't know why this wasn't the case this time. I'm getting old. It's harder to shift extra pounds and I just wanted it off quickly, so I thought I'd give this running malarkey a bash.
Anyone who has ever discussed running with me will know my views on it.
In brief, most people who start running do so with no idea what they're doing. They just grab a pair of trainers and hit the tarmac. The trainers are probably also well past their run-by date.
Everyone thinks they can run. Our bodies are designed to do it, right? I mean, it's just running, right? Wrong. More people injure themselves running than almost any other sport, because they just go and do it. They also stretch before they've warmed up, causing little tiny tears in cold, stiff muscles, and don't stretch afterwards. And they whack all their impact through their heels, because their trainers allow them to do that, whereas our bodies are not actually designed to run like this.
Look, if you're hating me right now, don't. If you know what you're doing and you enjoy it, keep at it. I raise my hat at you. If you're following a sensible programme, wearing good trainers and non-chaffing trousers, like a bit of barefoot running technique and have a sports bra which stops you from taking your own eye out crossing roads - go for it. Plus, you know, swings and roundabouts, horses for courses, freedom of etceteras.
Yeah, I don't know what possessed me to give it a go, either. But yesterday morning, off I set, with Sev in tow, for a gentle jog. I figured I'd manage about three minutes and collapse in a heap, like I always did at school but I had forgotten that a) I smoked about 40 a day at school and b) my cardio-vascular fitness is a lot better than when I was a teenager, thanks to four years of teaching Zumba. Although you'd think five-times-a-week ballet as a teenager would have helped, but it seems that was more endurance than... anyway - I digress.
To my somewhat smug pleasure, I managed four miles without pause, and, while sweaty at the end of it, wasn't unduly out of breath. I wasn't very fast, but then that wasn't my aim. And to my surprise, I quite enjoyed it - I certainly got a massive sense of achievement out of it. I could have gone further, but I'd done a 'there and back' type walk, and run out of route.
This morning, I set out to jog again. I managed half the distance of yesterday and pulled up with a small nagging ache in my sacroiliac area, which I suspect may be called something like Jogger's Arse.
I'd probably run though this if I didn't fear that I'd make it worse and put myself out of teaching altogether, for the foreseeable future, and we'd all die in penury on the streets. I don't know if running through it would make it worse or better, and I will never know because that's IT! I'm not running any more. I was right. It's not for me.
And it turns out I'm exactly the kind of git I always swore I wouldn't be. TOTALLY inexperienced, hitting the tarmac, injured within 24 hours.
Twat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)