O Atalanta

Fairies. A gaggle of Playboy bunnies. BUZZ LIGHTYEAR. Army men in full kit, with packs. Halloween? Or a British charity run 10k? Sadly, as I was concentrating on “staying alive” and “breathing” there are no photos but I’ll say this, it’s a hell of a lot more entertaining to chase down the Mario brothers than another Tall Dude in Baggy Basketball Shorts or everyone’s favorite, Smelly Guy…

Result: survival in 49:58. Oh, 42:36. I hardly knew ye. One day, I will train again on a more proactive basis than sprinting across red lights. Really!

Yes. The 10k came with a medal AND a sweet disaster relief blanket. Toasty and useful for warding off guvmint mind waves— apologies to the city of Bristol for wandering around like that for hours; you can see how the camouflage effect of glitter/bunny ears/Cowardly Lion is actually a wiser sartorial choice than spandex alone.

Sartorial index aside, the thousands of runners had the length of Bristol all to our greedy legs- 4km out along the river, tracing the mudflats of the low waters, next to stark and sheer cliffs- an old quarry? Low rows of brick houses, with rough brick pavements. Dogs. If you stop running, as I always do, when the air tastes like blood, they cheered on. Kids with a lemonade pitcher next to the course. Back in castle park there were the ruins of a church with tree branches instead of stained glass. Afterwards, plates of sausages and mash in giant yorkshire puddings, the size of picture frames, in a tavern four hundred-odd years old. Most of it survived the bombing.

And now I’m going to down more than the recommended dosage of Tylenol. Repeatedly.

We take a break in your regularly scheduled jetlag

Zimmerman, Olsen and Morgan sent the Nationals to 13-10, second place in the National League East, half a game ahead of the Philadelphia Phillies and one game behind the New York Mets. The last day in April may seem too soon to start checking the standings, but the delicious novelty of the Nationals’ position makes it irresistible. The last time they stood in second place at any point after April? August 9, 2005.

Is the sky purple? Is Jumbo Slice really nirvana on a greasy napkin? Whatever! Actual runs, up on an actual scoreboard! Way to survive a month of the season!

…okay, look, it’s been hard to be a member of the W hat brigade. Tempered enthusiasm is all I’ve got.

Minutiae

There is sun in the sky, yes, the actual sky, which is actually above England. Right now! I thought it was a mythical creature, like unicorns that shoot lasers, and Peanut Butter. But no. There is sun.

Sorry, folks, it’s week 9; the exciting events of term have given over to weeks of staring at the sky and idly considering whether “ecru” or “eggshell” is a better call. I’m talking about clouds, people. Because it beats the fascinating trip through pollen count and forminafera shells that comprise the history of marshlands in Wales, and North Somerset.

…though, if anyone has an unconfessed desire to learn all about pollen counts, by all means, confess thy sins.

Oxford, by this time, is a skeleton of the term time. At night, because the mist and fog make sense then, the only people out in the backstreets are idly smoking in corners; they’re too young for Oxford, or they’re already past their cap and gown years. To get a five mile path out of Oxford requires some degree of ingenuity, since even I decline the chance to walk down forest paths near the witching hour. After a quarter of an hour out, the houses have all changed; the spires are somewhere back in the distance, though in the dark, there’s no way to tell. Bridges over the canals and dark waters of the Cherwell rise up and fall, sharply. The route to the south is all boathouses and swans beating wings against the Thames, where ten minutes of fleet feet will get you to fields and canals filled with moor hens and sleeping mallards, and something evil under a bridge. I can’t believe it’s taken six months to see the city to its ends, to see the spires set against the heavy weight of the sky.

Jumped the snooker

A gym: cinderblock walls, treadmills, punching bag, abused yoga mats, strangely skeevy dudes lifting dumbbells the size of ponies.

Oxford: Ditto, squash courts, and a snooker room. Yes. The Charles Wilson Snooker room. Because I know after those tottering steps post-run, when I wipe off the glow with last year’s Burberry scarf, when I sip champagne from a Sigg bottle carved of rock crystal, the only thing I desire is snooker.

(Tonight at midnight the game was set, halfway through, with a cue in the bridge and balls scattered across the felt. Suddenly had a desire to run only in stilettos and taffeta frocks, just in case the lads and lords came back.)

Words of wisdom

First, there are actual snow drifts in this part of England, unless it’s actually just an ingenious use of sheep in piles to warm the city. Possible!

Second, this is amazing. How to ride a pony! Because ponies? They are kick-ass.

Key quote:

Jujitsu for the “weaker sex” — 1930s British newsreels – Boing Boing

Jujitsu for the “weaker sex” — 1930s British newsreels

Posted by Cory Doctorow, February 11, 2009 9:10 AM | permalink

via Jujitsu for the “weaker sex” — 1930s British newsreels – Boing Boing.

Notice: she keeps the heels on. Advice for anyone traveling with, nearby, or into the territory of Objectionable People.

Not a hallmark occasion

Dear DC gun ban: I Love You.

So probably many of you have heard about this whole “futbol” thing that the rest of the world is just batty over, correct? Probably most of you will not have heard of the EURO 2008 CUP which frankly is english for INSANE RIOTING AND BEER PARTIES ACROSS EUROPE. Presumably since the players are hotter and everyone has an accent this makes it a cosmopolitan, swanky event completely different from say the derided Super Bowl but honestly, even I can’t see it.

What almost certainly none of you know is that in a bitter, hard-fought, extremist match last night Croatia fell to Turkey in overtime due to a series of penalty kicks, hi-jinks, yellow cards, and some other soccer terminology you can look up on the bbc like I had to. In Turkey this news was greeted in the same way that many countries celebrate imminent invasions: gunshots and honking car horns and effectively, riots. Yes, even here, in sleepy little Tarsus. Wedding? Gun shots! Soccer matches? Gun shots! Gas more expensive than decent alcohol? Riots! But not about the gas prices! Riots driving cars around for hours and hours so that you can tootle the horn at other cars who are just as excited and well-informed about the results as well!

I would find this extremely amusing if I weren’t just a little bit terrified.

On the other hand the next time someone smirks at me for the hijinks of rugby players I will politely inform them that although social songs always infringe on personal beliefs, social niceties etc. at least we do not SHOOT OFF WEAPONRY.