15 minutes with a Pirate colleague

There’s long been a suspicion in the household of how the Hubster doesn’t really pay as much attention to me as perhaps he should do. Case in point was this past week.

“Hey, Hubster,” I said, my phone roughly three inches from his nose. “Look at this photo of where I was today.”

He’s always keen to hear about my day at work, and as that particular day had taken us to play Pirate Crazy Golf, part of a team-building/getting-to-know-you/building-relationships day with colleagues, it was sure to be a better conversation than the normal one along the lines of.

Hubster. “How was your day?”

Me. “Same old, same old. This one did this, that one did that, I got lost in the warehouse again, lunch was yet another baked potato with tuna, blah, blah, blah, I came home.”

Hubster. “Right. Coffee or tea?” – a euphemism for, well that was bloody boring, let’s move on.

So back to the phone, settled inches from his nose, displaying a superb digital image that with all likeliness will never be seen again.

“Oh,” the Hubster, says, completely genuinely, no jokes, no nothing. “He looks a bit stiff, is that one of your colleagues?”

“WHAT?” I said – phone dropped to my lap, chin on chest, eyes wider than a 10lt casserole dish. “Are you serious? How can that be a colleague?”

Take a look, let me know what you think.

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This blog has no theme other than to allow me 15 minutes to put a blog together. Thank you for visiting

15 minutes with WWE, give me strength and Brexit

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Honestly, all to be found tonight for viewing is WWE. I know, I know, you’re probably thinking what the heck is she doing, lost her mind and forgotten how to use the TV remote. Well, no – debatable of course – there’s simply nothing else on. Other than repeats of repeats of repeats of Midsomer Murders, NCIS, Downton Abbey and so much more. Give me some tips for good viewing, please.

Now I like WWE, well used to. These days mind, all they do is chat and or throw insults at each other from afar. A bit like watching grown-up children in a playground, antagonising each other with stoopid comments that result in a bit of very staged argy-bargy. The difference being that unlike school kids in comfy uniforms, the wrestlers are prancing around in colourful lycra, ripped trousers, barely there tops or no top at all, and of course none of this takes place until after a regular visit to the tanning studio. I wonder if the WWE wrestlers are contracted to take out obligatory tanning contracts? Probs do.

I had a tanning session once, came away smelling like a freshly peeled potato. Not pleasant as you can imagine.

OK, that’s it, I can’t take it anymore, let me rather watch all the Brexit news. Now where is that blooming remote?

 

 

 

 

 

This blog is here for me to write for 15 minutes and then stop. No great theme, no great planning, only tap away on the keyboard. Thank you for popping by

15 minutes on the Yoga mat and bring me a cup of beer and a sausage roll

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Photo by Burst on Pexels.com

 

One of my all time favourites has been Yoga. I’m not the best, I’m not the worse, and my legs are never going to come up behind my ears, nor will my forehead touch the ground, when bending forward, no matter how close to the ground I find myself.

Still, the pleasure is much and it’s all about some exercise and being amongst others. There’s a new studio close to home, which I’ve joined, hoping to get there at least twice a week, if not three times. A challenge, but achievable.

Most practices start with the obligatory Oom’s, deep, vibrating and rather glorious to my ears. To the extent, I find it hard not to smile at how we all boom that ommmmmmmm out together.  Now, at this studio, they like to do a bit of chanting. And it got me worried. Not because of any moral or religious or self-consciousness mind, no, more about whether my chant is lost in translation.

Take, for example, there I am, eyes closed, legs folded, amongst many,  repeating oom shaka laka bing flow too, min coo – that’s what it sounds like to me! – which means something like “may peace be within me and let it flow beyond my soul to the world and beyond” when in fact my repeating (some 27 or 54 times) is better translated as “bring me a cup of beer and a sausage roll.”

I’ll try harder tomorrow to listen and repeat, but chances are the beer and a sausage roll will be on the mat once more.

Namaste, to you all – a lovely way to complete the practice, and perhaps Yoga’s way of saying, may the force be with you 🙂

 

If you have come across my blog, it’s here for me to write for 15 minutes without real purpose, thought or – at times – good grammar.

 

 

 

15 minutes and getting fit in the High Street while boosting the economy

 

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Photo by Mark Dalton on Pexels.com

Two things on my mind right now. First being, time to think about tightening up the relaxed muscle around my middle, and second, how can we boost the High Street once more.

Both are really important in my life.

The flab, err, relaxed muscle is part of ageing I suppose and can be managed to a point without the need of a girdle – she hopes. I have memories of my Nan daily putting on hers until she was of an age that surely they didn’t sell them anymore, let alone make them.

There’s no surprise then to know how resorting to something confined such as Le Girdle, almost has me dieting and exercising 5 hours a day – well, perhaps not that extreme, but you get the idea.

The High Street falling apart makes me sad. What a joy it is, has been, to be able to wander around, window shopping, trying on, thinking, smelling, pondering, stopping for a chat with somebody I bumped into and compulsory taking a few minutes to stop for a coffee. The buzz, the vibe of being within life.  It can’t be beaten.

And also how sad to see retailers and small business being ground to a halt due to online shopping and dare I say a touch of laziness on our part.

With that in mind, I thought of a way of boosting exercise and, the High Street, without even knowing we’re doing it.  Bearing in mind there’s much put about regarding completing 10000 steps a day, why not walk and shop?

Simple. Doesn’t need a whole lot of explaining. In fact, you can get fit, support and enjoy the High Street, and you can boost yourself socially, face to face. And – yet another and – there’s no membership fee nor need to shower afterwards. For those who prefer a big shopping centre, great, even better, all-weather supporting and getting fit – you can’t go wrong.

Am I holier than thou? Not really. Just thinking about ways of achieving two things which are really important to me. Will I do online shopping? Yes I will. But sparingly.  Will I go to the gym. Did you hear the ground shake as I fell off my chair roaring?

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog all about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

 

 

15 minutes with Serena Williams and afternoon tea

Well having not watched the US Open 2018 Ladies final match in its entirety, and having caught up with the news and clips on the WWW, I kinda feel like taking Serena Williams by the hand and suggesting she takes a good old break, read some lovely books, and have some time to dwell on why it’s ok not to always win. And, if she is on the losing side, not to push the blame at any other person or situation that ends up in this sort of madness.

Easier said than done, sure. But she was losing that match, no matter the coaching or not. The outburst was likely frustration on a catastrophic level. And sure, we all have those times when you just want to punch something or somebody when you’ve tried so bloody hard to win, get, gain, achieve only for it to fall apart on the day.

And, Serena, I would say. You’ve achieved so much. You have no need to do more for your daughter to be able to see this in years to come. Jeepers, what a role model you will surely be. Come on Serena, you are a WINNER. You don’t need another trophy to polish once a week to know it.

I’m going for Afternoon Tea today, maybe Serena would have liked to join us 🙂

Basically, in about 45 mins time there will be delightful cake and small sandwiches being shovelled down my throat, washed down with Earl Grey tea – actually, correction, a glass of bubbly will do better.

Hubster and I are heading off for this. Sadly this means no roast potatoes for him today, but he will cope because he is a WINNER on so many levels.

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Photo: mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

 

 

Fifteen minutes – Fosbury Flop

Had such a brilliant earlier evening with the hubster.

Watching the European Athletics on the old television with him, I roped him into doing some running with me. On the spot of course. We do the warm-up with the runners, set ourselves in dummy blocks and when the gun goes, we’re off!

He really got into the swing of it. We were doing the 800m.

“Coming over,” he shouts out, moving towards me.

“Elbows,” I respond, flapping them like a chicken to remove him from my spot.

“Elbows,” he responds, equally flapping and moving me out the way.

We did alright, came in 1st and 2nd.

Next, I had a go at the high jump. Flinging myself onto the settee/couch. Performing my best Fosbury Flop, or should that be plop?! Pretty happy with my performance, and satisfied my expertise rests with the running.

Honestly, if the neighbours were strolling past our front window they’d be wondering what the blazes we are up to.

Went to find out about the Fosbury Flop. Found this little video on Youtube.

Fifteen minutes and a frozen t-shirt

That game was good we played yesterday. Who’d have thought a frozen t-shirt would give so much joy and competitiveness. 5 couples competing against each other to thaw and unravel a frozen t-shirt, with one member fully wearing it for the team to be declared winners.

All the t-shirts were screwed up tight before being plunged into water and then frozen. It was like being given a ball of ice to thaw, with your front door key in the middle.

No cheating allowed . . . at first. But after some of us (the hubster) had smashed their ball of fabric ice on the floor, demonstrated key tug-of-war skills while one team member gripped a scrap of fabric and the other held on for dear life, while others rubbed at it as if willing a genie to appear, the cheating began. Couples darted in all directions, holding the solid mass over the barbecue, running the hose over it, and of course the old hot water solution, before the winner charged back to the garden ripping their shirt off and pulling on a wet and soggy t-shirt to huge applause.

It was indeed a great ice-breaker – what a terrible joke to end with!

 

 

 

Purpose of this blog should you have fallen upon it:

Having fallen out of love with writing, yet deep down really wanting to, decided the best way was to write whatever comes to mind in 15 mins and then stop

didn’t reach my downward dog

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(photo from https://www.tumblr.com/search/yoga%20gone%20bad)

With my yoga teacher taking a summer break, and having been lazy to the point of words can’t describe, it seemed a good idea to have a home practice the other evening.

In theory this would take me about 30 mins. In practice, well not quite so long. There I was in my bedroom, mat out, dressed comfortably, breathing in and then breathing out. My eyes were closed, I was at peace readying myself, stretching my arms skyward, when THWACK, the back of my hand smashed against the handle of my cupboard. Thirty seconds in, that’s all it took, for the tranquility I’d been seeking to be shattered with a stream of choice words and, a throbbing hand clutched to my body.  So much for reaching downward dog.

Suffice to say Yoga ended, mat was rolled up and I went to bed with a book.

 

 

 

 

 

“Mr Bolt, you may have inspired us to have a go at the old 100m”

Hubster and I have been glued to the London IAAF, mostly drawn by the great Usain Bolt, but also because we really, really love watching it.

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(picture borrowed from: http://uk.businessinsider.com/usain-bolt-final-race-2017-8?r=US&IR=T)

Hubster in particular really, really gets involved, to the point his body reacts to every jump, fling, run, leap, splat, throw and dash he sees. I swear he has his own seated athletics championship as his head nods faster and faster as each and every athlete begins and partakes, only for his legs and arms to start flinching and reacting, until the ultimate final moment when his whole body practically levitates inches off the safety of the couch, gliding him over the finish line, landing him in the sand pit, navigating him over the hurdles and, of course, launching him over the pole vault.

Me, well I sit there anticipating a hasty retreat should he decide the old hammer throw is something to partake in.

Anyway, as to the 100m dash. So, I said to the hubster, how about we have a go at that 100m dash? How fast do you reckon you could do it? And how big is our garden?

Hubster feels he could do it, albeit a little slower than the Master Bolt himself. I tend to agree for he is a bit of a runner. Won prizes too. The best ever being a Pyrex casserole dish that who knows how many subsequent meals it served.

rob 1961Hubster taking hold of his casserole dish

The garden though he feels is probably only about 10m in length. When I was sharing the distance with a colleague, she remarked the turn would greatly reduce our time.  You will no doubt agree this could add valuable seconds to the dash.

Me, well I think I’ll have trouble with not only the turn, but also getting out of any blocks we may use.  Or if no blocks, then purely moving quickly will be the problem. My feet are bordering on the flat side.

Ah, I said, then. How about we take this 100m dash of the property and do it on the field behind our house?  Hubster had a nervous laugh. I presume as the field, while very, very large, is surrounded with lights and houses. Perhaps he could be persuaded to think the lights and potential spectators would provide a feel of being in a stadium? Hmm, I’m not convinced, he gets a little embarrassed dancing with me in the kitchen.

To run or not to run then. We will see, we will see. Rest assured if we do, you’ll be the first to know.

 

 

Great piece from WP missmelissawrites

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(photo credit )

I don’t do enough of this, but will do so from now on – reblog and promote others that is.

I’ve known Melissa for years, meeting online when we both enrolled for one of the Get Smarter Writing courses. Subsequently we met up for coffee with other course participants, and over the years we have met and shared, and supported.

Melissa not only blogs, writes, mother’s children and a husband, she also paddle surfs. Her stories are great fun, and I hope you will enjoy reading this latest piece published in Zigzagsurf magazine. She’s a great read

THE THINKING GIRL’S GUIDE TO LIFE WITH A SURFER – by: Melissa Volker