Tuesday, January 03, 2012


Today I felt sluggish, after the hyperactive rush of the first two days of the New Year, when you're full of plans and optimism and hope. Plans and optimism and hope that keep your brain fizzing so you don't sleep for half the night, and plans and optimism and hope that then dissolve to nowt in the dark fug of sleeplessness. Basically, my New Year's Resolutions are a bit like an enormous Alka-Seltzer.

I got to work but my concentration span was short, or I was distracted by all the Christmas food still available. Every year, we get far too many Christmas hampers sent to us, full of ridiculous and vaguely horrible foods, like tinned foie gras, and nougat, and gingerbread biscuits with plastic pictures of Santa glued to them. But, tired and desperate as I was, I peeled and scraped Santa from the slightly stale gingerbread biscuit, and then quaffed the tattered bits of paper and glue along with the gingerbread.
Which raises the obvious question: can you quaff food, or only drinks? If only I had a dictionary...

It was cold today in Hong Kong, but it warmed up by lunchtime, and I returned to the office this afternoon to find the air thick and stuffy. Nobody was in the office, but somebody had jammed the windows open, so there was a constant clatter of traffic from the street. If it had been hard to concentrate before, it was impossible now; I went downstairs to the other floor that we lease, and although it was cool enough for my brain to function, the lighting was too dim.

Basically, I'm a finely tuned machine for weaving money out of spreadsheets, and if I'm not kept in an air conditioned environment with just the right amounts of caffeine, sugar and daylight, then it all goes to shit.

So after about ten hours of this, alternating bursts of productivity with raging at the dying of the (office) light, I'd had quite enough, and lit out for the other end of the island, where I was going to fulfil my twice weekly obligation to get punched about. I always go there ever so slightly reluctantly, yet after two hours of being punched, thrown, and having somebody try to pull my arms off while crushing my kidneys, I feel so much more alive, so much more awake.

Basically, I'm a masochistic moron who's bound to not sleep well again tonight.


Post a Comment