Open Your Eyes, Look At The Day

I woke up, rolled out of bed, did nothing with a comb and didn't catch a bus at all because the nearest bus stop to my house is about 20 yards from the newsagents in which I work from 6 until 9 every morning at the moment. Sundays are the worst of days because paperboys will invariably cancel and the Sunday Times takes a large crane to construct. I'm hoping to get a new job with more pay and I'll be okay. There was just enough time after my shift for breakfast, before the ever reliable Bob picked me up in the Bobsleigh. Disappointingly, it's actually a car, but off we headed, rowing-club bound.

I was livid with myself for failing to complete 2000m on an Ergo, especially since I'm rowing 25km on the 29th July, which is three weeks from now for those of you who are mathematically challenged. That's the Great Tyne Row, starting at Newburn and ending in Tynemouth. I did it last year when I was much fitter, so the worst affected area of my body was my bottom. This year, I expect to ache all over. Following the aforementioned pathetic 6-minute stint on a rowing machine, I moved some weights up and down in various different motions, which apparently builds various difficult muscle groups. If you're interested in that sort of thing, Google phrases like "shoulder press" and "bicep curl." In the end, I was quite contented with my workout and I left under blue skies in pain. More of an ache, really.

After frivolities and workout-ities in ye olde clubhouse, it was time for some delicious refreshment. As ever, I wandered through Tynemouth to that most lovely of chocolatier's, whose staff are delightful, if I can be so biased as to say so. White hot chocolate trumps the regular kind in every respect of which I can think. That is to say, it is more delicious and creamy and there are no other criteria for hot chocolates in my experience. My lovely friend Becky was working, fortunately, so we had our first chat in nearly three months and the entire trip to the chocolate factory was a pleasant one, with not a fizzy lifting drink in sight.

I vacated sooner than I'd have liked, but I had plans. A plan to travel to Royal Quays in search of a new bicycle failed. Now, Nexus are malevolent, psychic and have a vendetta against me. So, instead of travelling by Metro to Royal Quays, I wandered about the market at Tynemouth Station, eventually buying the third instalment in my vinyl collection of my favourite albums. Led Zeppelin IV now makes a triumvirate of musical bliss with Rumours and Wish You Were Here. I have in mind three more albums to acquire. The incredibly astute amongst you will know them simply by reading this post. Mr Perry, I'm looking at you in particular. Anyway, a bit more wandering around and a sick realisation that I had to walk home in time for the Wimbledon Men's Final ensued.

The walk was enjoyable, though tiring after the weights and rowing and wandering about a market. And as I wound on down the road, I listened to Rumours as is my wont, my mind quizzical of the pataphysical, just as I like it. I arrived home with ten minutes to spare before the brilliant display of sporting talent on Centre Court. The result came as expected, but the play from Andy Murray was phenomenal. Unfortunately for him, Federer is the greatest player — on grass at the very least — of all time. To quote Forrest Gump: "that's all I have to say about that."

In conclusion, I had a great day. It was filled with stuff that I like, including the roast dinner I didn't mention, and I thoroughly enjoyed my second Sunday back in the land of a very old and mostly destroyed castle that we still call New.