Another weekend of intervals

This weekend. Cor. This weekend.

Well. What a weekend.
After running around to view houses on Friday, I actually managed to do some drinking repeat intervals with a mate. At a local pub. In Peckham. I missed the last train and got a bus. And a kebab. I did a sprint session on that. No vomit.
As a family we went to Bishop’s Stortford on Saturday. No chance of looking at the excellent example of a Motte and Bailey castle at Mountfitchet. There was a bit of beer and some lasagna and a lot of music video repeat sessions.
The journey back was amazing with transitions at Tottenham Hale, Crystal Palace and a final hill session from West Norwood to the rundown mansion.

I then spent most of Sunday realising that as a parent my major task appears to be washing machine repeats. Empty, hang up, fill, turn on, fold. Repeat. I was close to breaking point.
So I went to bed at 8 and sort of felt better this morning.

I am now responsible for taking Miriam to nursery and child minder every morning. I am hoping that we’ll stop using the 315 (though it’s her favourite) and go back to walking over the hill and down on her scooter. And then hopefully I’ll be able to bring my bike along as well and ride straight from these waypoints to my final destination.

I used to ride bikes. I’m sure I did.

Another weekend of intervals

This weekend

This weekend just passed was interesting. How’s that for an introduction?

I started this post earlier in the week and have only just been able to return to it. I am now wondering what was so interesting about it.
I’m guessing it was the fact we decided not to go looking at houses to live in. I think it was probably related to that. That and going out. On my own. On a bike.
Keen readers of the stuff I put up on here will perhaps recall a previous trip to the local lanes which sparked a train of thought culminating in the discussion of the size (and role) of testicles in different breeding strategies.
This weekend I noticed the product of the instigators of this discussion. Already marked with spray paint to identify them.
I thought that was vaguely amusing. And certainly more interesting than my intrepid ride out and back through Petts Wood and bits of Bromley.
While I was riding my bike, Miriam was swimming with Alex.
I think we ate some food. There was sleeping and then some cleaning.

I am currently running with a 3 day memory buffer.
Swimming on Sunday with Miriam was eventful. I think she got “the knock”. One hour of jumping in and out of the water. Far away eyes. Hot shower. Eat all the hot cross buns. I recognise something in that.

It’s been an eventful week, work has been busy, Miriam wants me to drop her off at nursery and at child minder. There have been many tantrums. I am lost when this happens. Sometimes I can cope with it all and manage to distract/reason/maintain it all. Other times, I lose my temper and then wonder what the fuck I’m trying to achieve. I’m sure one of the tantrums I dealt with this week could have been avoided and I’m fairly sure I handled it badly.

We’re still looking for a new house, we’re still living in a big mansion that’s in need of repair but is still cheaper than the 1-2 bed alternatives we could probably get.

More importantly, I’m really fucked off with reading Roger Hargreaves books. Little Miss and Mr Men series are particularly uninspiring stories, I’m going to have to buy new books to replace these. We had some great books to read, but then these got picked up and now it’s nothing but Little Miss Star.
Which is the type of book a smart arse might write when asked to write a short story for kids and they’d run out of all ideas.
“I know! I’ll write a book about writing a book for someone who wants to get famous! I know! I’ll ask questions in the narrative and say “I’ll tell you later!” Nobody will think that’s a pile of shit.”

Perhaps this weekend will be as, if not more, interesting.

This week has also featured some quality spotting of wildlife. A jay, simplistically just a crow (or a magpie that got dressed in the dark). However, there’s something special about spotting them.
“is it, could it be? it is!”
Then there’s the trying to point it out to a nearly 3 year old. Who was more interested in the squirrel, “hello mr squirrel”, she’s just seen running around behind the tree.
The massive mansion has a pair of long tailed tits in the garden. As well as something with the most amazing call at the end of the night. It’s probably a sparrow or something “dull”. This has actually sparked the memory.
There was a point on Sunday afternoon when I’d swapped doing the cooking to Alex and was doing something in the garden with Miriam. Possibly pretending to eat ice cream at the shed, and getting charged £50 for a ‘nilla ice cream. And there was quiet. And sunshine. And this bird singing. Really, it was something else to get a moment of quiet in West Norwood. The chicken dinner didn’t get eaten fully by Miriam, which probably kickstarted the weirdness to the week. She woke up at 0130 Monday morning and was hungry. The dawn chorus is quite crackers at the moment too.
It sounds like they’re in the house.

They might be. We don’t get up to the third floor very often.

This weekend