back to the grindstone

Woo, back to work! Or something. Boo, back to work – that sounds about right. Yup, the holidays are over, and having managed to achieve one spectacular success that matters not a jot (and not much more than a jot apart from that), it’s back to the grindstone.

However, it was also the return of my Cellmate. I’m glad she had a big long holiday she got some breathing space from me – rather a high percentage of the people I spend time in close proximity with appear to grow to despise me, do they not? I have yet to find the solution, and I devoutly hope it ain’t, Become A Bastard. Besides, before Christmas, our colleagues were starting to say… we were starting to look similar.

It is also Back to Fightclub today. Woo! I am really rather terrified, actually. After having been AWOL for over two months, I’ve started having Social Anxiety about it (not to mention, dreams in which I turn up and try to do press-ups and my arms fall off. I can still do twenty in a row at home, and I’m walking twenty miles a week further than I ever did when I first started fightclub, so in theory I should be fine. Ha.)

(And I have put on weight since then, too. Truly, I have actual boobs, now. They… bob. It is odd. I don’t like it, no sir I do not. I mean, there are worse places to gain weight (the feet, for instance), but I have become used to this not happening. I know, I know, the fashion these days is for everyone, male, female, straight or bi or gay or whatever to be damn-near obsessed with the damn things, but familiarity breeds contempt and frankly I find mine not much use for anything except getting in the way while grappling. Oh, and I once got a nipple trapped between roofing tiles while climbing a ladder with a pile of the damn things (through a t-shirt and bra, too), and had to wait till I got to the top before I could free myself and the roofing tiles were second-hand and had wires trailing which had become fankled together, through the bra fabric, and it’s really difficult to untie a heavy weight you can’t put down while standing on some roofing joists twice your height off the ground and, oops, too much information again, huh?)

But before any of that – as ever, these days – Sums. I had a nice, even-cheaper-than-normal glass of red to go with them. So that’s this week’s budget buggered already then. Plus, it turns out someone I know is now working in that pub – he wants us to meet up for drinks. Oh wail, really, I have no time and money! But today’s expense of two whole quid was somewhat justified because the Sums go quite well in the pub, go figure – better than at home, or when I’m trying to squeeze in fifteen minutes of a lunch-break, with a sarnie in one hand and the phone ringing, yeah right. But I am still crawling along at a snail’s pace and I am most concerned.

At the fighting, I suffered mighty stomach pains; had been all day, in fact. I put it down to stress and Nerves, even though there is sod-all in my life to merit stress and Nerves, really! It is not the cyborg implant, which is giving me near-constant gyp, Not Working. Is not. Is NOT. Despite the bit in the guardian online today about the cyborg implants not working.

Well, people at fightclub did remember who I am, which was nice, and I got lots of hugs and ‘good to see you again’s which was a great relief. And then I nearly died during the warm-up – and we had to invent our own warm-up. Then, there was Shadowboxing. Oh come on, woman, you may hate feeling ‘exposed and idiotic’, but earlier this very week you had your kit off on the world’s biggest, coldest beach this side of the Arctic, you should be immune to ‘exposed and idiotic’ – but lo, I still felt a right tit shadowboxing. (See, boobs are in the way once more).

We spent the rest of the night on single-leg take-downs, and how to destroy them. I was ‘paired’ with the instructor and the biggest guy in the class. While attempting to roll into a position where I could get a headlock on the biggest guy in the class, which took some doing, I gave a mighty heave and accidentally pile-drivered his elbow straight into my own crotch. Which hurt like all hell, but hopefully nobody noticed. Especially him, because he’s lovely and would be ever so mortified. I also accidentally put my instructor in a beard-lock. See me and martial arts? I’m amazed we’ve gotten along as well as we have so far.

The four miles home was therefore ‘interesting’ – not least because I was in no thermals, for the first time in ages, and I was in my thinnest fighting trousers. Oh go me and the forward planning. Also, the pain, the pain.

In slightly better news, footage (well, stills) of the first Disaster Squad mission is now on the internet. No, I am not linking to it. The film itself ain’t up till April, apparently, which is good because everyone will have forgotten about it and Rice Krispies and I will be over our mayfly period of being tempted to tell the whole world about it, which will, guaranteed, bite at least one of us on the arse at some point.

Speaking of which, having been thrown onto mine repeatedly all night and having forgotten how to do so gracefully, a hot shower is urgently needed.


About beshemoth

Mainly making art, making wine, writing and gardening. Having a life only as the above allows.
This entry was posted in fightclub, forever coming down with something, idiotic injuries. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s