Running flat out

I ran for 8 miles this morning, a slightly painful exercise that involved swallowing too many flies. There's an optimum time for running; when it's light enough that the flies have dispersed from the trails near the water's edge, but not so light that you return home frazzled by the heat.

Demolition of Clarke Quay continues, very slowly, to support the building of an MRT station that will be ready in 2017. They've blocked off one bridge and destroyed the walkway to another one; I guess by 2015 they'll have bulldozed all of Clarke Quay in order to have space to deliver visitors to it.

I got home, drenched once again. I got my beard trimmed at the weekend so that was about the only part of me that wasn't sopping wet, and so I made quite a mess as I staggered through the flat, trying to cool myself off. With any luck, some of my perspiration will kill the ants that infest our abode.

At work, I discovered that I missed the staff party last week, at a bar with a swimming pool in Kuala Lumpur that I visited months ago. We had a sedate time there, but the company bash degenerated into drunken carnage and everyone being thrown in the pool. I'm not one for being spontaneously thrown into any large body of water, so it's lucky I was already in Singapore, rather than decking somebody for making me soaking wet. It's not that I don't know how to have fun. It's just that I only have fun when I'm bone dry.

Returning home this evening I was greeted by the traditional sound of two mentalists banging cymbals together as hard as they possibly could for twenty minutes, with no discernable rhythm or talent. Which is actually quite impressive. I wonder if there was an avant-garde concert going on in Chinatown that I hadn't been told about. Then it stopped, and I watched Armando Ianucci and then had to sleep. It's been a tiring week. And it's only Monday.