Iron Maiden - Run to the Hills

Since I've been a massive lazypants for the past fortnight or so (due to procrastination, as per usual!), I figured today is my day off so I would pick up my walking again and I aimed to do 4 miles.

So, I got up early (for me, for a day off) at 9.30, had a healthy breakfast and then, of course, sat around on my ass and watched crappy daytime TV and wrote succinct, 140 character rants on Twitter until 3pm. Obviously.

When I finally got my butt up and got dressed (yes, the whole time I was procrastinating, I was going so in my white dressing gown with the cute pink polka dots on), I pulled on my leggings, socks, rummaged around for my trainers, and ummed and ahhed trying to find a top that is thin and breathable for my sweaty ick factor to be as low as possible, but that still had pockets for my keys, phone (complete with workout tracker app, "Cardio Trainer", and headphones to listen to my music) and some change to buy milk when I'd finished.

I plugged in the headphones, selected Cherry Bomb by Ash as my first track, started my cardio tracker app, locked my front door, put my sunglasses on and trotted off into the distance.

Or not.

My plan was to walk along the sea wall, as has become customary for my walking/attempts at jogging.
(I like to think that when I "run", I look like this:


when really, I look more like this:

But that's okay. No really, it is.)

What I hadn't banked on is the wind. OH MY DAYS is it windy. I took a few steps to face the direction of the beach and the sea gale blew and jumped right into my mouth and I swallowed a huge gulp of fresh air. I almost walked into a neighbour's garden wall, the strength of the wind was that strong. I thought it was August, not fricking November!

I decided to persist, after all, the more resistance I was against with the elements, the harder my body would have to work and the better my workout would be.

Then my music stopped and I couldn't get it started again, my stupid phone had decided that it no longer wanted to "support this file type" even though I've played those songs almost a billion times before. Grumble grumble. Walking without music does not a happy Emmy make.

Then I noticed that the top I had chosen had been weighed down by the change, keys and phone in my pockets and due to my poor choice of bra, I was now displaying my jubbliest bits to my entire home town. Joy of joys. So I took my phone out of my pocket and my keys but of course with my quick power-walking, my top was still coming down, meaning I got some banter from some roofers who obviously got a damn good view (no Dad, and no The Boy, I won't tell you which house it was!).

(Ugh! Even as I am typing this, I can hear the wind whistling and howling through the trees!)

So, un-heroically, I gave up and just decided to power walk the half-mile to the shop to buy a bottle of milk and flounced off with a grumpy stomp back home. I'll try again tomorrow.

And there ends my middle-class problem.

Daniel Powter - Bad Day

 

Bad Day by Daniel Powter is just one of the many stupid song choices that come over the tannoy of the shopping village I work at. Others include :

The Bangles - Manic Monday

Celine Dion - All by Myself

That guy (what's his name?) - All by Myself (yes, they play 2 versions!)

Westlife - Let Me Go Home

 

Ridiculous, aren't they? How do those songs encourage people to think they're having a fantastic time and think they should buy All The Things?!

 

Other inappropriate songs I think they should choose are:

 

Engelbert Humperdinck - Please Release Me

The Animals - We've Gotta Get Out of this Place

Pink Floyd - Money

Beach Boys - Sloop John B (complete with the lyrics "let me go home/why wonxt you let me go home?/this is the worst trip I've ever been on)

Led Zeppelin - Tea For One

So, I just spent the best part of an hour making a birthday cake for my Dad (yes, I decided to bake at midnight, what of it?). I like to think that it's because I'm nice and lovely and a good daughter, not that I have no money to buy him a real present.
Yes, good daughter, that's the ticket.

Anyway, it was one of those rare times when everything goes perfect, you whip the cake batter together and instead of making cake sludge, it goes all light and fluffy and there is no gloop or goo or general nastiness. I lined the tin and spooned the mixture (Victoria sponge with a hint of ground ginger - Dad likes all things spicy) into said lined tin and popped it into the oven on Gas Mark 7. I'd left the cake to cool on the side and all was well, it was a beautiful golden browny beige colour so I set to work making the icing.

I went to take the cake out of the tin and put it on a cooling rack and plop! It fell on the floor.

Now I know what you're thinking 3 second rule, it'll be fiiine , right? No.
It broke into pieces and accumulated an unsavoury amount of dog hair on it.

FML squared. I could've cried if it didn't look so fucking funny, beautiful pieces of cake smashed up on our kitchen tiles.

So sorry Dad, your birthday cake *was* going to be fabulous, ginger flavoured and fluffy and light. It was even going to have sprinkles and candles.

Instead there's a kitchen with every single utensil we own covered in cake batter. At least there's no crumbs on the floor though, but our cocker spaniel has gained approximately 14 stone.

Happy birthday!