I’ve been working on this for some time, only setting it aside while I completed my second book. Maybe I will go back to it shorlty.
Jake Serfontein felt a wave of nausea in the back of his throat, and it had nothing to do with the gluttonous pie he’d just finished. Blood he could cope with, but the coagulating pool he’d sidestepped in the kitchen was pushing his comfort level to the extreme.
His brow was beading,he needed air. A cursory scan of the room garnered no air-con unit, which kind of surprised him, seeing as the victim’s house was slap bang in the middle of shit-load-of-money bracket. If the security guards enclosed in their luxury hut at the entrance to the estate hadn’t given it away, then surely the multiple attached garages – larger than the average South African home – would have sufficed. Jake snorted. It was a good job the deceased hadn’t been dead for hours; the house would have stank to high hell in this heat.
“So, Ms Doyle,” Jake said, sweat rolling down his back, settling at his belt. Not showering wasn’t helping either, he could smell himself, and it wasn’t pretty.
“Can I call you Maisie?” He didn’t wait for a response; Jake didn’t give a shit if she had any objections to familiarity. “Let me be clear about this then. You found the front door open. Thinking nothing of it you came into the house,” he paused, glancing between the door and Maisie. “You called out a greeting.” He cupped his ear. “You listened for a response.” He shrugged, the corners of his mouth dropping. “Not hearing a reply you strolled into the kitchen, and what did you find, Ray and Marietjie Theron, dead.”
I know there’s a book called The Secret out there. Please tell me it’s about how to wear, and keep in place, secret socks.
Seriously, there is more to the secret of these little fabric foot pouches than simply not seeing them when wearing shoes. Although, and I kid you not, I have seen somebody wearing them with sandals. Best not go there.
Today I’ve got a pair on my feet. I won’t say I’m wearing them, because while they are on my person, they are shifting around in my shoes, moving towards my toes where they will bunch up and have me grinding my teeth within the hour.
I don’t even know which way round they go, as in do I have the heel part over my toes, or vice versa? For crying in a bucket, how difficult can it be to put them on? I’m an adult for goodness sake, you’d think I’d know how to put on a pair of socks, secret or not.
I’m wondering, could this be my new book?
Picture in part available from here
In my previous post about being a lazy old cow, it was pretty obvious my love of all that related to working up a sweat at the gym was not on my favourite-thing-to-do-list. And so when I read a story about Olivia, a little girl looking to bunk phys ed, I could so very, very much relate.
Olivia’s mother’s response was brilliant. Have a read, I think you’ll have a smile
Exercise and I really don’t do all that well. I’m the kind of gal who will go to the gym regularly, but will find joy in parking and leaving without the need to walk through the door.
When I do get in there though, my point of exercise has generally been the treadmill. Where to be fair, the gym folk make it pretty easy for you really. You can eat, use the free Wi-Fi, watch bodies, watch bodies, watch bodies . . . and then . . .climb the stairs to the beasts. Honestly, after doing all that, there seems to be no reason why I can’t hit the start button instead of standing there, gloomily, willing the machine to fall apart, rendering me free from exercise. I mean, once on, I can plug in my iPod and listen to music, or utilise my headphones to watch and listen to live TV.
What’s the problem then? Well during my moderate walk on this hateful machine, I tend to swing my arms rather gently, and in doing so manage to wrap the earphone cable around my hands, which then rips them from my ears. It’s painful people, and a pretty good reason to not hit the start button after all. Between you and me, I have considered kicking it as I climb on, however there is fear that wearing steel-tipped boots might draw attention.
Nevertheless, taking note of my medical aid’s questionnaire to determine my state of fitness and exercise level, they tell me that sitting at a desk all day I am in fact a lazy old cow. Now I don’t know about you, but that seems pretty rude, and so I set about monitoring how lazy I really am.
To do this I got myself a little pedometer. Nifty little gadget it is, that once set up can be clipped to my belt, jacket, shoe, even my ear with no further worry about pressing buttons to ensure my lack of movement is being recorded. Yes, I peep at it every so often to see how many steps I’ve taken, and to see the little feet images are ready to flash with each step I take. Other than that it merrily counts away
It’s clipped on when I get up, and then off when I go to bed.
There be success, and I can happily say that on a daily basis of sitting all day, walking to the kitchen for food and drink breaks, as well as all other daily movement, including walking my dog and general chores of life – no visits to the gym’s parking area – I can achieve close to the 10000 steps per day my medical aid say I should be doing.
Huh! So not such a lazy cow after all, you medical aid questionnaire you!
I put this to them via Facebook a couple of weeks ago, and so far no response. One can only assume they are seeking funding to test my findings.
Happy stepping to you all ☺
I see fifty shades of grey will be at the movies from Friday, is this a euphemism for senior citizens movie night?