I still don't appear to be any good at this

Orienteering near Chichester, with the blue and yellow-clad Southdowns Orienteers. Usual assortment of wild-eyed, mad-haired people in distressingly tight legwear, including one in strange psychadelic patterned lycra.

Here are my key stats:

• Number of over-60s that beat me: THREE
• Slip-slide trouser-muddying experiences: ONE
• Bramble scratches on legs: ABOUT 50

But the important thing is that I managed to beat Glenn again. This time by a spectacular 15 minutes. Of course, the writing was on the wall for him when I passed him running the wrong way only 2 minutes after the start.

Hey, and I also beat the over-70 who was competing. Take that, Grandpa. Eat my dust.

Breasts & Gorgeousness

Am in a debate with someone at work. He says that Andrea Corr is gorgeous. I say that "gorgeous" is a voluptuous term which cannot possibly be used for people with no breasts, like la Corr. She might be exquisite, or stunning, or attractive (or none of the above). But she cannot be gorgeous.

Is this true?

The tragedy of office life

Sent by the Director who sits at the next desk to me, to our office manager:

Hi Raj
In the style of Jim'll Fix-It:
Please Jim, can you fix it for me to replace my antique printer with one like George has?
Points to note are:
1)Those sitting near me could benefit from this too (i.e. Nick, Jane, Amit etc).
2) We don't know how George managed to get such special treatment..... am suspicious about how he manages these things.....
3) We could be so much more productive if we could print quicker
4) Not to mention better motivated - it gives us a constant topic to moan about at the moment
5) Please......
Many thanks, Julia

Bear in that a Director's charge-out rate is £441 per hour, and she put in a 20 hour day on Monday. You'd think they could buy the poor girl a decent printer.

Ah, beautiful Feltham

Feltham. Known only (if at all) for its Young Offenders Institution, and possibly its unfortunate proximity to Staines.

But no longer an object of pity or scorn... I present feltham station at dawn, a work of profound beauty.

Note how the delicate rose glow of the sky echoes the blazing aura of the street light; the fluorescent strip lights of the platform speaking of the rhythmicity of the train journey; the distress of the commuters leaving this trancendental vision behind for the grimy squalour of a South West Trains cattle wagon.

Midnight feast

GB got in just before me last night (although he'd been on the beer, whereas I'd been finalising a report)

He made bangers and mash for a midnight feast. I have to say, it was a pretty convincing effort, given the amount of ale he'd consumed.

The measure of the ale quota - a completely accurate test which ought to be adopted by the Met instead of their funny blow bag things - is to get him to articulate the word "Custody".

...cushteddy...
...cashtoddy...
...cushtardy...
...cuh-oh bog off

Little names

Is there a thing for naming children with little names going on at the mo?

First there was Tom (not Thomas) and then Pippa Jess (not Philippa Jessica), and now I've just met baby Archie (not Archibald).

But fear not! Little Hattie Marriott (who is as yet not even the barest twinkle in her mother's eye) will definitely be christened Harriet Marriott.

Festive Insolvency

More of the corporate Lucozade-wielding. We've spent the day discussing what month it would be best to go bust for a poorly little client. The conclusion? End of January, since you ask.

This is all very cheering. Normally companies seem to go bust at Christmas, just so you can combine ludicrous long hours with not legitimately being able to feel sorry for yourself (festive redundancies for the poor employees).

This is most unfortunate, because as we all know: the only thing that makes long hours feel better is being able to have a jolly good moan about them.

Earn your dinner

Strange "thump-thump-thump" emanating from the woods over the South Downs. It was me, charging about in the undergrowth doing some orienteering. I did a 6.3km course with lots of hills. Bear in mind that the 6.3km refers to the distance in straight lines between the markers, and excludes:

1. detours around obstacles - sheer cliffs and the like
2. taking the safe route (i.e. sticking to a long route via a track, rather than charging across country)
3. headless chicken moments, of which there are many

so it actually works out at much longer. Felt like 10,000,000 miles. Even so, I don't think my time of 1hr 53 will set any course records.

****

In fact, I've just checked the results (http://www.londonorienteering.co.uk/) and I came a frankly embarrassing 99th out of 121 competitors. The winner did 47 minutes, and I was beaten by no less than 16 pensioners. However, there are two points to note:

• These are MAD pensioners, not normal ones (skinny legs, wild-eyed stares, muttering to themselves, have done the course at least 40 times before and-this-one-quite-frankly wasn't-a-patch-on-the-one-in-1974-my-dear)
• I beat Glenn and Mick. That's all that counts.

Floppy Botty

Have you noticed how trackie bottoms have become so fashionably low-rise that they fall down if you attempt anything more vigorous than a little light shopping in them? I have to pin my trews to my t-shirt (it's a winning look), in a triumph of function over form, to avoid the nightmare Plod Plod HOIK Plod Plod Plod HOIK.

The Magic of the Shoes does not appear to have worn off yet. Hurrah!

Concert - EC4 Music

Next concert date for the diaries: Sunday 27 November at Duke's Hall, Royal Academy of Music (Baker St tube). Probably a 7.30pm kick-off.

Programme is:

• Tchaik piano concerto No 1 (you know - PLONGGG-PLANNNGG-PLUNGGG!! PLONGGG-PLANNNGG-PLUNGGG!!)
• Rutter's Gloria (although I'd prefer if you didn't listen to this too closely. There's an oboe bit in the 2nd mvt that I don't like the look of)
• Something else. I forget what. Perhaps Bernstein's Chichester Psalms? (no oboe, but still a great piece)

Beancount Towers

Is indeed, as Rach surmises, a monstrosity of bean-filled gabian walls. You can see our little faces pressed against the wire mesh as we peer helplessly out at the real world.

Book review

Apparently, according to this page...

http://books.guardian.co.uk/firstlook/0,16023,1486860,00.html

... the Guardian is running a competition whereby, if selected, you get an advance copy of a book and have to submit a review for publication on their website. Unfortunately, I can't really see from the page how it is supposed to work.

There is the disadvantage that an amateur reviewer wants to be perceived as discerning and intelligent, therefore is inclined to be a bit sniffy. Liking something leaves you open to taste criticism in a way that sporting an air of superior disdain does not. So all the reviews I can see are really damning. Either that, or the books are actually rubbish.

Mincemeat

I made some mincemeat at the weekend. It has to sit and fester for a bit now, but eventually I'll work my festive magic with a packet of pre-rolled pastry (eat that, Delia) and an icing sugar shaker and wow the world with my top notch (and, crucially, CANDIED PEEL FREE) mince pies.

Candied peel. Surely it is the devil's own earwax?

The mincemeat-making process was a late night affair. I baked the apples until they exploded (that bit is not in the recipe, strangely). And then, after dinner, I scraped all the apple pulp out of the inside of the cooker and mixed it with the ALCOHOL and other cruicial substances in a huge pot with a giant spoon. I'm sure it will all be fine. All I have to do now (it says here) is bung it in some jars and wait until Christmas. And drink the rest of the brandy, to help pass the time.

I'll have to palm some of the m/m off on poor unfortunates (or sell it to fellow candiedpeelphobes) since I seem to have made about half a ton of the stuff.

Wagamama or bust

Oh dear. It's another late night at Beancount Towers, as we rally round to pat the hand, pour the lucazade and eat all the metaphorical grapes of our ailing client.

No outing for The Magic Shoes tonight, as I won't be home until well after jogger-mugging time (pretty much 24hrs in Feltham, I expect, but you know what I mean). But I DO get a trip down to Wagamama for my tea. Hurrah for expenses.

http://www.wagamama.co.uk/food_menus.php

Positive eating. My arse. The deep-fried-crumb-coated prawns don't seem too cheerful. And they don't serve coffee (the restaurant, not the prawns) on the grounds that it's not "positive". But it is at least better than Deliverance.

The Magic Shoes

I have a new pair of magic running shoes. I took them out last night and they ran for 45 minutes without a break. Given that my typical exercise schedule makes the London Zoo sloth look like it's in training for the Nike 10k, this is nothing short of miraculous.

I can only conclude, therefore, that the shoes are magic, like the red shoes that couldn't stop dancing. So if you see me madly running down the street, grabbing frantically at my ankles and hanging onto lampposts, reach for a stun gun.

Saw a great version of The Red Shoes down at the open air theatre in Cornwall a couple of years back. It was a bit mad, but in a good way. At one point, the shoes were on fishing lines, being waved about over the protagonist's head.

Squashed flies

Go Ahead! biscuits. Are they just garibaldis in (rather expensive) disguise?

What's this all about, eh?

I'm getting in on the act.