Up against it

It wasn't my body that rebelled, but my GPS. I got up this morning, put on my expensively minimalist shoes, and went downstairs for a five minute run. My GPS declined to behave itself, and although I thought I was running quite quickly, laughed in my face. It wasn't until I got back and uploaded the data to the computer that I found my GPS had gone in the opposite direction to me and wibbled around the bars opposite our apartment.

Thus I went to work in high dudgeon, legs sore from yesterday, and spent the day configuring databases and trying to think about things. I avoided leaving the office until 5pm, when instead of walking home like a sane man would, I bought an ice cream, did one circuit of the block and then did another two hours' work, before going home to tend to my feverish wife.

Now we have a big stack of paracetamol and ibuprofen from my fevered week, I really can tell her to take two pills and wait for the morning.

I don't, because I don't want to get divorced a week before our wedding anniversary, so instead we settled down on the sofa and watched the first MotoGP race of the year. It seemed like a lot of money when I paid for a season's subscription, but we've derived a lot of happiness from seeing a succession of tiny leatherclad men ride motorcycles in circles at unfeasible speeds.

What they're missing is a compendium of The Greatest Crashes Of 2012; as long as nobody is actually smashed to pieces, of course. It's fun to watch the first race after the first half of the season has passed, and see how the championship has changed (or hasn't changed) in the intervening eight races. Poor old Ben Spies still can't ride a factory bike as fast as Dovioooozio and Crutchlow can the satellite bikes, Rossi is still pootling around, and on and on we go...