30 days of yoga: Day 27 - Hulk hands

One of the biggest changes I've noticed in my body during the 30 day challenge has been my arms. I've got more definition in my shoulders, a bit more of a bulgy bicep (on both arms, mind; one would just be weird), and some protruding veins.

I'm curiously fascinated by the whole veins thing, although admittedly in a 'poke it and squeal a bit' way because it looks a bit like a worm stuck under the skin. They're a bit more visible in my forearms, and on the biceps just above the elbow, which is exciting; there's also one on my left arm that runs slightly horizontal and looks a bit like a smiley face. I tried taking a picture immediately after coming out of class but they don't really show that well (thanks iPhone!) and I just ended up looking like a bit of a tit taking a photo of his arm in Chiswick.

Apparently girls find veiny arms sexy because it shows you're fit and take care of yourself. That's all very well, but I just have to make sure I don't go too far with it and end up looking like Sylvester Stallone or - *shudder* - Madonna, who quite frankly looks like she's had the arms of a 110 year-old corpse transplanted onto her body.

30 days of yoga: Day 26 - AWESOME

This is going to be a short one because a) nobody likes a show-off, and b) I've only just got in.

Basically, then: favourite teacher plus plenty of between-posture witty banter, compliments on my yoga (and physique!), in-class laughter, and properly NAILING all 26 postures (on my 26th day? SYNERGY!) equal quite possibly the best class so far of this challenge.

Add to that some post-class chatting with other members of the class - which I haven't really done before because I'm antisocial I tend to just get changed and go - followed by a keep drink with a fellow yogi who first introduced me to the joys of back-chatting to the teacher in class.

It's nights like this that remind why I enjoy this yoga so much.

30 days of yoga: Day 25 - unclean, UNCLEEEEEEAN!

About a week into my 30 day challenge I went to see Inception with Best Mate Jo. Upon picking her up I asked, like a polite gentleman, how she was. Her reply, or rather what I could make out through the snot and croaking throat, horrified me. I spent the next 10 minutes smooshed up against my driver's side window, and briefly wondered whether I could get away with making her sit elsewhere in the cinema to avoid the risk of contamination.

If you were wondering, I loved the movie, though.

The following day was spent sitting around the house being incredibly paranoid and wondering if I was feeling a tad feverish or could detect the early stages of a sore throat. Having invested a considerable amount of time in the challenge, and £130 to cover my month long unlimited pass, I was understandably nervous. Fortunately, nothing transpired as a result of an evening spent with the unclean.

Fast forward to today, day 25 of my epic challenge. With the finish line in sight I'm feeling pretty chipper … until two colleagues came in sounding like death warmed up and insisted on getting within contamination range while making a cup of tea. If I'd had any holy water on me I would've showered them in it and started chanting random things in Klingon Latin. Cue the return of my paranoia and, disturbingly, a headache.

This is it, I thought, I'm stumbling on the final straight. I nevertheless went to class, fearing - although the idea was repulsive to me - that I might have to leave if I began to feel too rough. But then a miraculous thing happened! The combination of the extreme heat and excessive sweating made my headache disappear - and I went on to ace the class.

So I've now got five days left in which to evade the diseased, after which time I'll happily submit to a lurgy and bed rest. Well, maybe not 'happily,' but the idea of lolling about in bed for a few days actually is quite appealing.

30 days of yoga: Day 24 - modesty is the best policy

It occurred to me earlier that this is the final Tuesday of my 30 day challenge. Just typing that out feels a bit weird; yoga's totally dominated my life for the last three and a bit weeks, and the idea of this challenge nearing its epic conclusion brings with it some mixed feelings. This time next week I could be sitting at home with my feet up watching the telly amid a pile of junk food rather than being half naked, dripping with sweat and wondering if I'll pass out in camel pose.

Still, the fat lady hasn't sung so it's not over yet!

After a few days of somewhat mixed results, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I nailed tonight's class good and proper. I'd kind of come to the conclusion that I'd be having fair-to-middling classes for the rest of the challenge (although to be honest, an OK-ish class for me now is about on par with a damn fine class from around three months ago), so I was somewhat taken aback by how easy all the postures came to me and how awesome I felt. To be honest, if this had been a weekend class and I'd had more time I would've seriously considered going for a double.

Although I'll never be too certain why tonight's class was awesome and Sunday night's left me feeling like I'd been raped by a bear, one thing does spring to mind: one of the lovely ladies on reception asked me how the challenge was going, and I replied "oh, y'know, feeling it a bit now!"

Clearly, then, my plan from here on in should be to feign as much modesty as I can possibly muster in an attempt to fool my body into jive pushing it, pushing it real good.

So with that in mind, er, I expect tomorrow's class will be just *awful*.

30 days of yoga: Day 23 - bitch slap!

Yoga gets very busy at peak times. I think the capacity of the studio is around 60 people, and when it's full you're actually quite close to the people on either side; there's something like a 10 centimetre gap between mats.

Because some of the postures - eagle pose in particular - involve some rather vigorous arm swinging, the teachers always recommend that we, the practitioners, stagger ourselves. Helpfully, the mats are themselves staggered in the studio, so if your mat is forward, you step forward; if it's back, you step back. Simple really. Well, you'd think so. I always pick a mat that's nudged forward, but on several occasions I've found the person next to me standing right alongside, and they often frown at me disapprovingly like I'm the one that's standing in the wrong place.

Fortunately I sweat rather a lot during class, so if a disapproving glare doesn't do the trick I just splash them with a healthy amount of my salty man juice.

*ahem*

Anyway, tonight's class was going rather swimmingly for me, with the people on either side generally behaving themselves. I think my biggest complaint up until around the halfway point was that the lady to my left kept tickling the back of my right knee with her ponytail during standing separate leg stretching pose. I don't think it was intentional.

However, as we reached the floor series, lady made the heinous error of putting her water bottle at the base of my mat. Outrageous - it's well documented that I detest such behaviour! Despite the no-talking-during-class-rule, I was seriously thinking about having a word. But then something more awesome than I could ever have thought possible happened: the woman next to her slapped her right in the face while swinging her arms up to go into half tortoise!

And it wasn't a half-hearted slap either - it was a full-on, skin on skin, loud cracking noise slap. I Immediately thought about having a go as well - clearly her defenses were down because she recoiled away from her back-handing attacker toward me a little, but in an instant my window of opportunity was gone; the slapper was apologising profusely to the slappee as if the whole thing had been a horrible mistake (yeah right!). Much to my chagrin they didn't even get into a sweaty cat fight.

Suffice to say, though, that as I rolled forward and down onto Captain Kirk's face in an awesome half tortoise, I had a massive grin on my face…

30 days of yoga: Day 22 - THERE. ARE. FOUR. LIGHTS!

Bikram yoga, as I've warbled on about plenty of times, is 90 minutes of yoga done in a hot room. Not a warm room, a HOT room. It gets up to about 40 degrees C (that's 105 degrees F if you're old school, or just plain old). Most of the heat is generated by a large and powerful heating machine that is secreted somewhere in the ceiling, but in addition to this hellish device, the teachers also flick on the lights in the studio.

You wouldn't think that lighting would really do much to make you sweat, but as a matter of fact it does. At the halfway point in the class when you lie on the floor for a two minute rest period they turn the lights off so you don't get dazzled by them as you stare up at the ceiling, and you do actually feel a little bit cooler. It might be my mind playing tricks on me, but then again I flicked my kitchen lights on earlier - which are the same kind of halogen ones as are in the studio - and I started sweating like a bitch in heat so I genuinely think there's something in it.

The gist of this is, then, that I now rather hate halogen lights.

Anyway, I was in class this evening, lying on my back during a rest period between postures and for some reason my eyes were drawn to the lights. And it was at that point that for the first time I counted how many were on, and as my inner Picard began to surface, I had to resist shouting out:

30 days of yoga: Day 21 - key to the door

Day 21 of my 30 day challenge and I thought it would be hilarious to keep telling everyone that today was my 21st in the hope that they'd think it was my birthday, which would then result in everyone telling me how young and adorable I appear before they scampered off to buy me presents.

I did not expect, nor want, laughter. People can be bastards. What is that whole 'key in the door' thing about, anyway? It drove me nutty on my actual 21st.

So anyway, I'm down to single digits now. Hurrah!

I dreamt about yoga last night. In my dream I'd finished my 30 day challenge, and as a result gained the power of flight. After experimenting with tentative hovering around the house, I set off on a tour of all my familiar West London haunts in order to bid farewell to my nearest and dearest before departing for a new life on the moon.

I was expecting excessive pooing as a result of all this yoga, not something akin to a bad acid trip.

30 days of yoga: Day 20 - mariachi el yoga

The one thing that bugs me about yoga - besides the excessive sweating and people who invade my area - actually happens before class when I'm trying to enjoy my nap time relaxation period. Recently I've become more and more aware of people who think that the period prior to the beginning of class is actually the perfect time to catch up on what happened in last night's Eastenders or share some scurrilous office gossip, completely ignorant of the fact that the vast majority of people in the room are on the backs with their eyes closed, possibly even snoring gently, and certainly not caring about who Kate from accounts is boffing in the stationary cupboard.

And that's why today I was really quite happy to see that the lovely people at the studio had put out signs telling everyone to shut the f**k up, but obviously in a more polite yoga stylee. While I was chilling out I was actually hoping that someone would start nattering, at which point I had decided I would sit bolt upright, adopt my best angry face, and point furiously at the new signs. Sadly everyone behaved themselves.

What the signs had no power over, however, was the fact that the tapas bar below the studio decided that Friday night would be the perfect time to employ a mariachi band to serenade their patrons. And let me tell you, it's not easy to keep a straight face when you're upside down in standing separate leg head to knee pose and someone strikes up some jaunty latin beats.

Not only that, but no matter how pooped you are it really is quite difficult to follow the teacher's instructions and keep completely still after coming out of posture when every fibre of your being is shouting "RUUUUUUUUUMBA!"

30 days of yoga: Day 19 - supply teacher

If there's one thing I like in my yoga practise it's consistency, which is why I approached tonight's class with a bit of trepidation. Thursdays nights, y'see, are usually taken by my favourite teacher, and in the past when she's not been there I've often skipped that evening's class. This week she's on holiday, but as I'm balls deep in the midst of my 30 day challenge, I don't really have the option of taking a day off.

Well, actually I do, but I don't want to.

Anyway, whenever I have a teacher I've never met before I always slip into that old school mentality that you'd get whenever your teacher was ill and your GCSE maths class was being covered by a supply teacher. Your regular teacher was a known quantity, and it's the same with yoga teachers; Thursday night lady knows what I'm good at, she knows my limitations; I can get away with a bit of back-chat, and she doesn't say anything when I sit at the front of class picking blue fluff out of my belly button.

New teachers aren't like that. You have to impress them, prove to them that you are a good boy and you're definitely putting 100 percent effort in. And no, that wasn't you who farted and made all the other children roll around on their mats giggling like specials.

As it was, though, I had nothing to worry about; temporary teacher was lovely, and the class passed without incident. Although to be honest I am looking forward to my regular teacher's return next week; Thursday evening just wasn't the same without her broadcasting a sarcastic remark to the class about me swan-diving down and kissing Batman.

-----

In other news, I experienced a rather awe-inspiring instance of the detoxing effect of all this yoga last night. Without going into too much detail, let me just say the words 'explosive decompression' and we'll leave it at that.

On the plus side, I do feel about half a stone lighter.

30 days of yoga: Day 18 - Temptation

Eighteen days in and this was the first day where I was tempted to play hooky from my 30 day challenge (I'm officially allowed six rest days, but I've actually yet to take one). Not because I didn't want to go to yoga, mind, but because a band I'm currently a smidgeon obsessed with are playing in town tonight.

That band is OK Go. I've been a bit of a fan of theirs for a few years now - way before the treadmill video before anyone tries to accuse me of jumping on any bandwagons - and a few weeks back I ordered a USB drive off their website that contained recordings of a live electric gig, a live acoustic gig, and their new album. Since it arrived at the beginning of last week I've not actually listened to any other music while rocking out with my iPhone.

Upon hearing that they were in London, then, I was sorely tempted to be naughty and sneak off to see them. But, as it turns out, I'm a dedicated yogi; I went to class, and I was pretty damn awesome. And anyway, I think I've found my yoga theme tune - I had this playing in my head all throughout class:

30 days of yoga: Day 17 - flirtrageous

Going into this 30 day challenge I expected a number of things to happen. These included differences in my body shape and muscle definition, lots of clothes needing to be washed, and getting very sweaty.

What I did not expect was for the yoga to make me more attractive to women.

WHAT?!

OK, I might be exaggerating a bit, but no word of a lie after class this evening I popped into Sainsburys to pick up some food and something to quench my thirst (or rehydrate if I'm being scientific), and after paying I decide to stand in the foyer while I sexily knock back my Lucozade isotonic drink. While I'm standing there, patches of sweat beginning to show through on my t-shirt and inner thighs (nothing turns ladies on more than moist trousers) I get the impression I'm being watched.

Turns out I'm right.

A lovely young lady is looking at me a bit funny (funny as in like she's trying to make sure I am who she thinks I am, rather than funny with clown makeup and eyes that boing-boing out on springs). And then she says:

"Did I hear you say in the studio that you've done 18 straight days of yoga?"

"Oh, it's 17," I reply, shrugging my shoulders as if it's no biggie.

"Wow, that's amazing - I can barely manage two." She says this while turning her face down a little and tossing her hair back, actions that TV shows and movies have taught me are universal signs of instant attraction. I then proceed to impart some of my newfound yoga wisdom on her, scattered throughout with pseudo-macho phrases such as "it's nothing really" and "you just get into a natural rhythm" (hubba-hubba).

Anyway, so we chat for a couple more seconds and then she heads off to do some shopping of her own, but not before turning to me one last time to say "let me know how you get on, won't you?"

If this was an eighties movie that moment totally would've been in slow-mo with fans whipping her hair around her while she blew me a kiss.

30 days of yoga: Day 16 - level up!

Possibly as a result of being a rather chubby youngster with child-sized man boobs who excelled academically but failed epically at sports, I now find myself, as an adult (physically if not mentally), seeking affirmation of my sporting prowess whenever and wherever possible.

Of course, when I'm running I have my Nike+ kit to tell me how good (or not) I'm doing. Alas, Nike+ does not work with yoga, so I either have to go with my gut reaction as to how I did, or badger the teacher after class until they give me a verbal pat on the back and send me on my way.

Tonight, though, I didn't have to fall back on either option.

I went into class this evening resolved to taking it easy somewhat. Yesterday in particular was a bit of a rubbish session for me, so I decided to take it down a notch in this class - effectively to allow my mind and body to regroup, although you also wouldn't be wrong in saying I wouldn't be running on all cylinders and would just be going through the motions.

As a result I had what I thought was a decent if unremarkable class.

As I walked out of the studio, however, the teacher looked at me and said "there was a bit of a competition between a few of the guys in the front row there - and I think you came out on top."

I stopped and looked around like a bit of a special before pointing at myself and mouthing "me?"

"Yes," she said.

"B-but I was taking it easy tonight - I hit the wall!"

"I don't think you did - you were doing very well in there tonight."

I continued to stand there with a bit of a dumbfounded look on my face, at which point she said:

"You're Tim, aren't you? I could tell by the Star Trek towel."

Ah yes, the legendary Star Trek towel - evidently the source of all my powers.

30 days of yoga: Day 15 - Halfway

WHOA! I'm halfway theeeeeere, whoa liv-

Let us never speak of me quoting Bon Jovi lyrics again. We shall assume I'm delirious from too much yoga.

30 days of yoga: Day 14 - wall

I knew it was coming, but that doesn't make it any less annoying: I think I've hit THE WALL (and I don't mean one that leaves me with bloody knuckles and tears in my eyes).

Some of the teachers and staff at yoga warned me that I might reach a point where I feel I can't quite go any further, and while I don't think I've actually reached THAT point - I'm still enjoying it and I'm still doing everything quite capably (I think) - I don't feel like my practise has actually been advancing over the last few days. Basically that means I feel like I'm going through the motions a bit.

On the plus side, bad yoga at the moment is actually still a bit like decent yoga from a few months ago. And to be honest the situation's not helped too much by Friday's class being in the evening and Saturday's being first thing in the morning with only about 13 hours between them. Still, I do get a nice long rest between Saturday's morning class and Sunday's evening class, so hopefully my powers will be restored by this time tomorrow…

30 days of yoga: Day 13 - snigger

Some bullet points for you:

• Genuinely almost fell into a proper deep asleep before class started. At one point I might've entered a micro-sleep; I certainly jolted awake somewhat comically about 10 minutes before we kicked off.

• Someone farted halfway through. This made me laugh. Lucky I wasn't in posture at that point.

• I hit a little bit of a wall and struggled a smidgeon halfway through.

• And I'm doing it all over again at 9:00 tomorrow morning.

That's it for now; I've got the new Scott Pilgrim book and I intend to spend some special* time with it tonight.

*Not that sort of 'special.'

30 days of yoga: Day 12 - blow me

Let's get one thing straight: I am awesome at toe stands. So awesome, in fact, that my teacher tonight asked if I practised them while sitting in front of the telly because I did it so naturally. I don't, but maybe I should - not because I need to, just because I can. I am rock-solid when balanced on one foot, my bum raised above my heel (NOT resting on it).

What I'm not so good at these days is using my patented 'I WANT' expression to get the teacher to open the window. This expression has served me well throughout my life - from getting Sparky Ma to buy me new toys when I was a kid (not now, obviously; I can afford my own these days), to wangling free coffee; it's the same sort of expression that Princess Diana used in that interview with Martin Bashir, though with less mascara. It used to work on the yoga teachers when I was new and inexperienced and obviously close to overheating, but now they just look at me like I'm making a fuss.

I tried desperately to get that look to work tonight, but to no avail. I did actually do everything in class, but I really just wanted a blast of cool air. I would've turned to the person next to me and asked them to blow on me, but apparently the one thing people hate more than someone making a fuss these days is Mel Gibson.

30 days of yoga: Day 11 - poop

Don't go thinking I went into this 30 day yoga challenge blind; I did my planning, and I did my research.

The planning entailed making sure I had a comprehensive idea of how many pairs of kit I'd need, and exactly when they would need to be washed.

The research involved Googling other people's experiences of doing the 30 day challenge, and reading up on how it effected them. The results were overwhelmingly positive as you might guess, because otherwise it's highly unlikely I would've bothered with the challenge and this post would instead be about something inane like stroking a kitten or buying a solid chocolate KitKat (love those - as I kid I convinced myself they were so rare that they could imbue me with magical powers).

There was, however, one comment on a message board that did ring some alarm bells. I can't for the life of me find it know, so trust me when I say the gist of it was:

"Wow, I find Bikram yoga has so many positive benefits. I can just feel the toxins flooding out of my body - I even have to go to the toilet (no. 2) around four or five times a day!"

Now, I love a good poo as much as the next person, but four or five times a DAY?! I'm a busy man - I don't have time to keep popping off to the toilet because my body's running at peak effieciency! Four or five times a day? That can't be good, can it? Surely by about the third or fourth time you'd be straining your spleen and colon out? I've had diarrhea less potent than that.

Fortunately, my worries have fallen by the wayside. Eleven days in and I genuinely don't feel the need to recreate the end fight sequence from Aliens where Ripley flushes the Queen out of an airlock over the toilet bowl on an hourly basis. Although, in one class last week, the teacher did use the word 'hemorrhoids' and the phrases 'constipation-relief' and 'follow-through' in quick succession, so maybe there's something in it after all?

30 days of yoga: Day 10 - Benjamin Button

As I said yesterday, there are some aspects of yoga - particularly the whole zen part - that I don't quite get. But then there are other aspects I totally get - aspects that have been far more noticeable as I continue my way through my 30 day challenge.

One thing I knew would happen was a change in my body shape - shoulders, biceps, that sort of thing, because I know from past experience when I've gone three or four times a week for a couple of weeks that it has a noticeable effect on those areas.

What I was not expecting was to start growing younger. But that, apparently, is what is happening.

The first inkling I had was when I noticed that the rather deep line on my forehead from where I raise my eyebrows incredulously at people rather too often had softened somewhat, and gotten a little bit shorter. Then I noticed that the laughter lines around my eyes had decreased in size, and the dark rings under my eyes had disappeared altogether. My jaw line is more defined, and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to produce mock double-chins. I've begun to look like that bit of dodgy CGI they used in X-Men United to make Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen look younger.

And then today I walked into the office only to hear the phrase "holy shit, have you gotten taller?!" hurled at me by Scanner. Apparently I have.

So, while I'd previously scoffed at anyone telling me that yoga could make me look younger rather than just feel younger, I now can't deny the evidence - because it's staring right back at me every time I look in the mirror.

And all this after just 10 days. At this rate I'll be back in nappies by the time I hit that final class.

30 days of yoga: Day 9 - Urge to punch

The one thing I've never *quite* got with yoga is the slightly zen-like feeling it's supposed to induce. I always leave class on some sort of endorphin high, and then I walk into Sainsbury's, some scrummy-mummy wheels her trolley into me, and quite frankly I just want to punch someone.

Today was the first time I've wanted to actually do it in class, though.

Before class had even started I began to suspect that the rabble might be in; there was a bunch of people who were nattering away really loudly, which you're not really supposed to do in the studio and it seriously put me off my nap time a bit. In the end a young lady got up and asked them to keep it down a bit. Props to her.

But then when class started…

Basically I had a mannish-looking woman on my left who thought it was OK to dump her towel on my mat when she didn't need it, and a guy on my right who thought it was OK to put his water bottle on my towel when he'd taken a drink. It wasn't, and I let him know as such by relaxing fully backwards in fixed firm pose - which I can't usually do, but somehow gained the ability today, possibly because I was so incensed - and knocking his water over.

Good times, I think you'll agree.

He did actually apologise, but then at the end of class while relaxing in savasana I felt something against my leg. Turns out he'd decided to spread himself out a bit and encroach on my Batman towel. Outrageous. In disgust I got up and pulled it out from under him. I hope he got carpet burns on his hands as a result - it's not what you'd call a fluffy towel, and cheap, sweaty, fast-moving towelling can be particularly unforgiving on soft skin.

30 days of yoga: Day 8 - the story so far…

It was exactly one week ago today that I began my 30 day yoga challenge, so I thought I'd look back and see how I've been coping.

The answer? Very well, thank you for asking.

I originally thought I'd struggle to go every day, and even if I did manage to actually get there I thought I'd certainly struggle with the class itself. Turns out the regime of actually having to be at the studio at a certain time each day (particularly during the week) has been something of a blessing in disguise; I'm actually getting up on time because I know I have to be at work by a certain time so that I can leave at a certain time to be at the studio at … well, you get the idea.

And far from struggling more with each passing day I'm finding that it's actually getting easier. The 90 minutes often feel like they zip by in a flash (although I do still hate balancing stick pose with a passion) and before I know it I'm queuing in Waitrose to buy a refreshing fruity drink.

As for other benefits … well, my shoulders have gotten noticeably bigger, my thighs and calves more defined, and I've dropped down a hole on my belt (which is both awesome and a little worrying because I'm on the last hole now). All that in just one week.

Lord knows what will happen in the three weeks still remaining.

30 days of yoga: Day 7 - a mighty wind

Having done Bikram yoga for well over a year now I think I can say with some certainty that I pretty much know what I'm buying into every time I step in that room. While my yogic powers (is yogic even a word?) may fluctuate from day to day (although they've been consistently awesome this last week) I know for sure that the room is going to be hot.

Well, except for that time toward the end of last year when the heating broke.

Anyway, so yes, it gets very hot. Fortunately, the teachers are well aware of our plight as students, mainly because they're also in the heated room with us so they're sort of going through the same thing, and they take measures to make sure we don't a) collapse, or b) die. These measures basically involve opening a window or a door, or a combination thereof.

Of course, they don't do this too frequently because then all the hot air would just float away and you'd just be in a normal room, which kind of defeats the object. And by 'kind of' I mean 'completely.'

As a general rule of thumb, then, I go on the expectation that we'll sizzle for the standing series of postures, then get a window treat around the midway point, thereafter followed by an occasional treat every now and then until the 90 minutes is up.

Believe me, a window being opened has never been so exciting. If you're flagging a bit, it's basically like all your Christmases have come at once. And the studio where I practice really does get a nice through-flow of air if both the windows and the door are opened. You'd never believe how rejuvenating a blast of cool air could be.

Not everyone likes a nice breeze, though, so more often than not they don't stay open very long. As a result, I have come to the conclusion that I have two means at my disposal to keep cool if the teacher's being particularly stingy. The first is simply to tip water over my head, which is both quick, easy, and effective; the second, which involves an attempt at bribing my teachers before class, has yet to prove successful - although I did buy some additional open-window time once with an angrily-raised eyebrow.

30 days of yoga: Day 6 - nap time

I've just done my sixth day of yoga and I'm now in totally uncharted territory. I think the most I've ever done in a row before is … what - three? And what's slightly miraculous is the fact that I don't actually feel like I need a break. In fact, I feel energised - and not just physically.

Because I always get there early - primarily to nab my spot of choice in the studio - I actually end up with about half an hour to kill before we kick off our 90 minutes of sweaty madness. And because you're not really supposed to take anything in with you I can't use the time to play Angry Birds on my iPhone or leave witty comments on your Facebook pages.

So instead I go to sleep.

OK, I don't *properly* go to sleep, but I do doze rather impressively; I'm still conscious of everything going on around me, but my eyes are shut, I'm totally chilled out, and quite frankly it's entirely possible that one day I will drift off and then there'll be an awkward moment where everyone else will have to wait while the teacher tries to wake me up (which, let me tell you, will be nigh-on impossible).

But until that time I do love my pre-class doze; it's one of the few times I genuinely have where I've got nothing to do but lie back and relax without anything going on to district me.

Yes, Angry Birds, I'm looking at you.

30 days of yoga: Day 5 - naughty cows

I was particularly looking forward to today's yoga because Thursday night class is with one of my favourite teachers, a really funny lady who always keeps things lighthearted so you end up smiling and doing more than you think you're capable of. And she just happens to have been pretty instrumental in making me take on this 30 day challenge in the first place.

"I'm doing it!" I said excitedly and a little bit like a mentalist when I arrived. "The 30 days, I mean - I'm doing the 30 day challenge!" (I thought it best that I should clarify exactly what it was I was 'doing')

"Brilliant," she replied, beaming at me a bit like a proud mum even after their simpleton child has staggered in last in a primary school egg and spoon race. "How do you feel?"

"Really good, actually," I said. "All my classes since Monday have been amazing."

"Great, but don't be disappointed if you do find that you have a bad class at some point. You can hit a wall where your body just tells you to chill out."

"Yeah, I'm kind of prepared for that, and I'm surprised it's not happened already to be honest. It's been great so far though - I wake up in the morning and think 'yay, yoga in 10 hours!'"

That's when she looked me straight in the eye and said "well, first of all you really need to get a life…"

-----

So class went well AGAIN (I expect you all want me to have that bad class now just so I stop sounding so smug, don't you?), and as usual quality teacher lady kept it all fun and lighthearted, which helped bring the best out of us. Probably the peak of hilarity came when she was explaining how to do a Bikram sit-up and actually quoted the man himself:

"An empty barn is better than a barn full of naughty cows."

I have no idea what that actually means or how it was related to achieving the perfect sit-up, but it was very funny.

-----

Just after class while I was chilling out max and relaxing with my eyes closed on my Batman towel I felt something nudge my arm. I opened my peepers to see a chap I've occasionally chatted to standing over me.

"How *do* you do those toe-stands?" he said.

"Um, I dunno," I replied. "I just, y'know, do them…"

He looked at me with mock anger, harumphed, and stormed off, pausing only briefly to turn round and shout "I HATE YOU AND YOUR BLOODY TOWELS!"

Did I mention I'm loving yoga at the moment?

30 days of yoga: Day 4 - sweaty betty

Sorry to sound like a broken record, but day four: nailed it AGAIN.

Now, the thing with Bikram yoga is that because you're in a hot room you sweat. A lot. It's a bit like doing yoga under a running shower, except the water stings when you're doubled over with your forehead pressed against your knee and everything runs down your face into your eyes. Seriously, sometimes I've come out of posture and half expected someone to give me a tissue because I look like I'm blinking back floods of tears.

Anyway, so sweating in class is a given. But what I've found since I started Bikram yoga is that when it's warm my body's instant reaction now is just to open the floodgates and SWEAT. It's warm in the office? SWEAT. Wander into a warm shop? SWEAT. How do I like my tea? SWEET. At one point I was actually a little bit confused about why I was sweating so much, but then a few weeks back one of my yoga teachers - maybe picking up on my sweaty psychic vibes - mentioned in passing that it's a side effect of spending so much time in the hot room. Sweating is, after all, your body's natural way of trying to cool down.

So if you see me wandering around the streets looking like I've just done several lengths of a swimming pool fully clothed, just remember that while I may look a damp mess, my yoga-honed physique is actually running at peak efficiency.

At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

30 days of yoga: Day 3 - parachute pants

Three classes down - heck, that's 10 percent of my challenge nailed, if my incredibly poor maths skills don't betray me once again.

So, another day, another new pair of shorts to break in. Today's were some Puma running shorts which weren't quite as light as yesterday's wearable-air Nikes, but still did the job more than adequately. Somewhat bizarrely, though, they're even more sweat resistant than the Nikes, to the point that I began to wonder at one point if they'd been coated in the same stuff that makes water run off ducks' backs; my sweat was just flowing off them, a bit like I was in the midst of peeing myself rather energetically.

On top of that, if I sat down on my heels rather too vigorously in the upright postures of the floor series they inflated slightly at the front, basically so … well, look, I'm enjoying my yoga challenge, but not THAT much, if you catch my drift.

As a result there was rather a lot of smoothing down done throughout class. Still, they were cheap and they cover my gentlemanly bits well enough, so I shan't complain too much.

Roll on day four.

30 days of yoga: Day 2 - new kit

Well, that went well; in fact, I think you could say I nailed it.

*flexes muscles, feels awesome*

As part of my 30 days of yoga I obviously had to go and buy a load of new kit because quite frankly there was no way I'd be able to see it through with just the two pairs of shorts I've been using so far. So, the other week I bought a few new pairs of shorts, and today I wore one of these new pairs for the first time.

They're actually running shorts, and as a result they're very light and breezy. Don't get excited, they're not transparent or anything, but it does sort of feel like you're not really wearing anything, which made me do a double take at one point. It's the closest I expect I'll come to naked yoga, which is probably for the best. Anyway, they were very nice, although not very absorbent when you're trying to wipe sweat off your hands. Still, the pros more than outweigh the cons.

Also nice is the new towel I bought from Tesco for the bargain price of £3. While it doesn't have an awesome picture of Batman on it, it more than makes up for it by being really fluffy, which was very nice when we got to the floor series. I almost wrapped myself in it, despite the fact that by about halfway through the class it had pretty much doubled in weight after absorbing a considerable amount of my manly sweat.

Anyway, two down, 28 to go.

30 days of yoga: Day 1

Well that went … OK. There were only about 20 of us in the class, and admittedly I did drop to the mat and sat out the second set of two different postures, but I definitely perked up a bit when we did the floor series, which is bizarre because that's the bit where I usually collapse the most (if I'm going to collapse at all, that is).

Essentially, then, while that was a very long first sentence indeed, what I'm trying to say is that the first class of my 30 day challenge was completed without too much trouble, and set the bar reasonably low for all the classes that will follow. Definitely no repeat of last September's full-face pins and needles trauma, though.

As 80s singing sensation Yazz (and I use the term VERY loosely) might say, from here on in the only way is up.

And … here we go

A few weeks ago I was chatting to one of the guys who works at my yoga studio and in passing he just said "you're good enough - you should do the 30 day challenge."

I replied "…huh?"

The 30 day challenge, for those of you that don't know, is quite literally 30 days of yoga. Well, not literally, to be honest: it's really 30 classes in 36 days, so you do have six days leeway in case you want to take a day off here or there to, well, die.

They usually push it in January when everyone's on a post-Christmas health kick. I'd actually thought about doing it back then, but was put off the idea by the simple fact that I didn't think I'd be able to get all my kit washed and dry in time (and not forgetting the fact I was snowed in for two days). It wasn't until it was mentioned to me again the other week that I realised they actually ran it all year long, which is perfect because my washing is drying in about four seconds in this glorious heat.

So, the idea stuck in my head. In the days that followed I grew more and more interested in the idea of doing it, started working out how many new pairs of shorts I'd need to buy, and, crucially, whether there was going to be a glut of decent films coming out at the cinema that I'd risk missing while I dedicated my life to yoga (turns out there's not). I started working out how I could get to the studio everyday - which quite frankly is easy because it's not far from work. I liked the idea of having a challenge in my life. I cleared my social diary. I've told friends I'll be MIA for the next four weeks.

I bought this in preparation.

I'm doing this, and I start tonight.

(OK, technically I could've started yesterday, but I had a rather late night on Friday - my last social hurrah for a while - so I allowed myself a lazy day)

I'm fascinated by what it's going to do to my body. When I did three classes a week for a couple of weeks I noticed more definition in my shoulders, so lord knows what sort of effect 30 constant days of it will do. And yes, I'm aiming to do 30 days straight; I'll only use one of my six rest days if I *really* need it. Starting today, I should finish on August 9th.

That being the case, there'll obviously be a significant drop-off in the malarkey quota here for the next month or so. But! I'm thinking I *might* try to write very short daily updates tracking my progress; no promises, but it *might* happen.

So, wish me luck, and in the words of Mr J…

Tuxedo hotpants

As if you haven't noticed, Britain's been basking in a much-needed, long overdue heat wave for the last week or so. And bearing in mind I only seem to own three pairs of casual shorts what does that mean?

Summer wardrobe - yay!

OK, so while you'd imagine that sort of statement would go hand-in-hand with a little jump that stops at the apex in a freeze-frame - which would be awesome - it didn't; it actually led to a bit of sighing on my part because I'm having real difficulty finding any clothes I like at the moment. Still, always one for a challenge I decided to hit-up some shops.

My first stop was of the online variety - specifically ASOS - where I picked up a new white wifebeater vest because I inexplicably seemed to have dumped my old one. Either that or someone snuck in through my open window, stole it, and is currently sat at home reading Star Trek novels with it wrapped around their head or something. I also picked up a grey sleeveless tee because I had one of those years ago and absolutely j'dored it, but also seemed to have thrown that away at some point. Weird huh? Anyway, both tops were six quid each, making them, I think you'll agree, a bloomin' bargain (even if they end up disintegrating in the wash).

I was also tempted by a vest with a palm tree and dramatic sunset on it because it reminded me of something Tyler Durden wore in Fight Club, although one swift Google reveals that it's actually nothing like anything Tyler Durden wore in Fight Club so I don't know what I was smoking back in 1999 when I saw that movie. I still might buy it though.

If anyone can actually find me a vest with 'LIVE HARD SEX' written on the front that would be just fantastic.

The day after my vest shopping extravaganza I wondered down to Westfield to try to rectify the whole 'I only own three pairs of shorts' thing, because quite frankly it's a bit awkward only owning three pairs of shorts as it leaves you having to go at least a couple of days in jeans in the hot weather - an unenviable position because not only do they get hot and sticky, but because while the upper portion of my body tans rather easily, my legs are still embarrassingly pale; it's like they were transplanted from an albino. And before you say it, I am vehemently against this whole rolling up your jeans thing that everyone seems to be doing these days; they end up looking like capri pants, and my calves are too manly and bulgy to nail that look (thank god).

Anyway, bearing in mind I'm trying to be a bit more dapper these days and my three existing pairs are all of the tres casual variety (just thought I'd throw a little French in there), I thought I might look for something a little more tailored. So I went to Topman, primarily because I am, I like to think, a top man.

An epic fail ensued, however, because I found their selection depressingly limited. Not only that, but the one pair I did pick up - which I thought were just simple black shorts - actually turned out to be a horrific pair of truncated tuxedo trousers. I kid you not, they were *short* shorts made in the style of tuxedo trousers. I was so horrified that someone might actually see me holding them and mistakenly think that I was actually considering buying them that I flung them back on the rack and hot-stepped it out of there faster than Ini Kamoze. I simply can't fathom where or when they would've been appropriate to wear. Or, bearing in mind how short they were, legal.

I think the tuxedo hotpants scarred me a little bit because I felt a bit queasy after that and had to go and sit down for a while. Because I'm such a conscientious blogger, though, I thought I'd give you the option of seeing them for yourself. Please approach with caution, however, and note that while they may look of reasonable length here, in real life even Kylie might balk at the prospect of slipping into them.

*voms in mouth a bit*

On the plus side, my vests were delivered on Friday. Curiously, though, while I ordered both in medium and the white wifebeater fits *perfectly,* the grey one is huge. So huge, in fact, that as I stood there looking at myself in the mirror, I had flashbacks to when I was about four years old and tried on some of Sparky Pa's clothes. As a result, I'll be sending that one back.

Of course, what all of this summer shopping adds up to is the fact that inevitably just as I'm baring arms and finally ready for this wonderful hot weather the sun will implode and - BAM! - autumn will arrive. Always one to look on the bright side, however, at least then I'll have a reason to go shopping for a new winter wardrobe - hopefully without fear of my eyes being assaulted by a pair of tuxedo hotpants.

Jerk off

About a month ago I received an email telling me that a comment had been left on a post I wrote back in September 2007 entitled Crotch rot. That post, for anyone who can't remember or can't be bothered to hit the link and go read it, told the thrilling tale of me having to buy a new pair of jeans to replace a pair that had developed a rather ill-placed hole in the groinal region (although you might consider it a well-placed hole if you can't be bothered, or don't have the time, to undo your trousers before going to the toilet).

Seriously, though, you should go read that post; it was vintage - a bit like the jeans.

So anyway, this comment dropped into my inbox. Comments made on old posts are more often than not spam or, even worse, spam in Chinese so I can't even read it and dream about what I would do with piles of cheap viagra, an 18 inch penis, or the money deposited into my bank account by a Nigerian prince, but this one grabbed my eye because it was a legitimate comment from a real person, albeit one named Chip Monk (although not this one - at least I don't think so anyway).

And then I read it.

"Crotch rot? Holes in the crotch area in your jeans, underwear, sweats or any other fabric that covers your genitals? Well, maybe you have the same problem I have -- I find whenever I'm sitting down in any semi-private area: at my desk, in the car, etc., my left hand mysteriously (and chronically) somehow finds its way to my penis where it habitually wants to massage the head of my penis through the cloth. Over varying amounts of time all this penis attention eventually gets the best of any clothing I wear over my groin area. Having had the problem of crotch rot for many years its my opinion that your problem may be the same as mine. I wonder if anyone will ever come up with a solution that works?"

Now, I've been accused of many things over the years, but causing the material of my clothing to disintegrate via the medium of chronic masturbation is one of the more bizarre. I mean, unless you're buying really cheap clothing from Primark I think you'd really have to be going pretty gung-ho to wear a hole in anything. Particularly denim. And in the car? Bitch, please; I can't even begin to fathom how that would work. I mean, I use my left hand to change gear - can you imagine the tailback it would cause on the dual-carriageway if you couldn't change out of first?

Don't even get me started on the "at my desk" part. I work in an open plan office - just imagine how awkward that would be:

"Call on line one for you."

"Oh, um, could you, like, maybe take a message or someth- oh shit, I've worn a hole in my trousers."

So, dear Chip Monk, if you're reading, while I'll happily admit that I have on occasion been plagued with crotch rot in my jeans, I can assure you that my problem most certainly does not originate for the same reasons as yours. As for a solution that works, maybe you should try a bowl of corn flakes, or at least sit on your hands for a while? Basically anything that gives your wiener an opportunity to recover even for a few hours is probably for the best - the poor thing is probably more chafed than an arctic explorer's cheeks.

It's gone all floppy

A few weeks ago I reported on how Sparky Ma's little cactus in a Mexican-themed earthenware pot had mutated and was on the verge of taking over the kitchen, and then, quite possibly, the world. In contrast, mine was a happy and healthy if somewhat unremarkable six inches fully erect. The cactus, I mean. Filth.

What a difference a few weeks can make, though, because while mine looked like this just at the beginning of the month…

Happy cactus

… it subsequently went like this…

Sad cactus

…And now looks like this:

Dead cactus

For some reason this last pic reminds me of the slightly squished tail of a squirrel who had an unfortunate altercation with a fast moving car. Oh, and while I'd love to claim that the steady onset of darkness in each successive photos was a subconscious attempt to portray the end of this little cactus' life, it actually had more to do with the fact that I took the last picture later in the evening and there's no flash on my iPhone.

In contrast, one of my other little cacti has actually begun going mad-bonkers crazy and growing new, um, arm-things all over the place. Between that one's sudden growth spurt and this one's sudden demise it's been a bit like the horticultural equivalent of The Picture of Dorian Gray…

What have we learnt here then? Well, not to take pictures of cacti, to be honest. It seems they have the same sort of 'it's stealing our soul!' reaction as the first dumb people who were captured on film. So, while I'd love to show you the one that's been growing like crazy, I daren't for fear I'd get home from work one day to find it's thrown itself out the window or something.

The results are in… **now with sexy update!**

…And despite my fears about this year's Richmond 10k, I, RACE NUMBER 150, GOT A NEW PERSONAL BEST: 51 minutes, six seconds!

Not only was it a new PB (as we call it in the biz), but it absolutely annihilated my previous PB from last year's run by a whole two minutes, 30 seconds!

Yo, checkout my Nike+ graph, bitches.

What does this tell you? Honestly, I don't really know, so I'm going to hazard a guess that the fact that the curve is swinging upwards means that not only was I relatively consistent in my performance, but I was actually getting faster as the run went on. Chances are if this had been a marathon I would've ultimately attained such a high speed that the Earth would've started spinning backwards like in Superman: The Movie.

Let's look at a hastily revised version of the graph from my last post.

BAM! That's how I roll. And all this with barely any prep work; next year I might not bother doing any - chances are I'd win. It's strange; the older I get, the faster I appear to run. At this rate I'm going to be the speediest pensioner in the world (which could prove rather useful when racing all the other OAPs to the Post Office to collect my pension).

Do you want some more facts? Tough, you're getting them anyway (last year's numbers are in red):

• 10k (10.08k)
• 51:06 (53:36)
• Average pace 5:06 min per km (5:18)
• 684 calories (695)

Hmmm … I'm somewhat disturbed that I busted loose less calories. Either it's a discrepancy in my Nike+ data, or I wasn't burning off last night's chicken 'n chips quite as efficiently.

Truth be told, I probably would've just nudged UNDER the 51 minute mark if it hadn't been for my conscience; coming up on the 8km mark a woman in front of me stacked it massively. For zero point six eight seconds I considered leaping over her and carrying on, but because I'm a nice fella I did stop to check she was OK. A marshall was nearby and also came running over, so in hindsight she actually stacked it in quite a good place because they only really put marshalls at junctions to make sure you don't make a wrong turn. Anyway, she was fine and soon started off again. Fortunately the incident gave me a good opportunity to get in front of her (I'd been pacing behind her for about 10 minutes) in the run-up to the finish line.

Some bullet pointed facts? I'm tired and can't be bothered to write a cohesive piece.

• Accepted a cup of water off a small boy at the halfway mark but slightly misjudged where my hand was and ended up pouring most of it over his arm. This made me laugh, but I am grateful to the small boy for his efforts. BTW, he was helping out at a water station and wasn't just some random small boy holding out a cup of water. That would've been weird.

• Got massively cut-up by some lumbering beast of a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Bernard Bresslaw. He literally ran alongside me then stepped into my path. I was NOT happy. Got my revenge later, though, when I did the same to him (maybe not quite so aggressively though) and topped it off with a jaunty smile. You never have a top hat and cane to hand when you need them, do you?

• Overtook a midget.

• Was going to accuse the midget of cheating when I spotted it further ahead about 10 minutes after I'd overtaken it. Turns out it was a different midget. What's with all the midgets?

• The new route was … OK. Not sure if I preferred it to the old one or not. Maybe I'm just being nostalgic? Annoyingly this new course still featured two laps of one section, which is just horrifically demoralising when you realise you've been there before and remember how far you've got left to go.

• Hydrated with coconut water (people at my yoga place swear by it) before starting. At about 8:55 I suddenly realised I desperately needed a wee. The toilets were a good five minute walk away, and the race started at 9:00. Considered finding a tree, but there weren't any that didn't have any runners doing elaborate stretches against them. I thus ran the whole 10k with a full bladder, which might explain why I ran it so quickly.

• There was a kid at the start line with one of those annoying vuvuzela things that everyone is using at the World Cup. After about 30 seconds I was tempted to either a) shove it down her throat, or b) insert her little white terrier in the end of it. I was pleased to see at the finish line that her dad had confiscated it.

All in all, then I'm feeling quite chuffed about the whole thing. The only downside was that for the first time I ran the race without my regular wingman (wingwoman?) Sweatband, who couldn't make it this year.

I think she was intimidated by my awesome skillz.

Oh, and then there was the fact that unlike previous years, there were no medals for the runners. Instead we all got mugs with a Mars bar and a banana stuck in the top. At first I was all, like, WTF? But then I realised that a mug is actually far more useful to me than a medal which, while admittedly impressive and shiny, does just get shoved in a drawer afterward.

The Mars bar has been taken care of. God knows what I'm going to do with a bloody banana though.

I think that's about it - apart from the traditional sexily-dishevelled post-race picture of course.

**SEXY UPDATE!**

OK, so official times are out based on the time recorded by the chip we had to attach to our shoes (not a potato chip), and it turns out I was faster than my Nike+ data led me to believe!

*drum roll*

New official time of … 50:57 - nine seconds faster than I thought! I WAS ON FIRE!! (Not literally)

Graph-tastic

Two posts in two days? I am spoiling you.

SO. I'm running the Richmond 10k (the artist formerly known as the Dysart Dash) tomorrow. Actually, I should be finishing in almost exactly 12 hours. It's crept up on me a bit - well, a lot to be honest; so much so, in fact, that I've not harped on about it at all so far, in distinct contrast to previous years where I've procrastinated endlessly in the run-up to the, well, run.

This'll be the fifth time I've done the run (even though it's got a new name and follows a new course, so technically it's a completely different thing), and although I'm not suffering from the lingering after effects of a whiplash injury like I was last year, I've not really done *that* many practise runs until just the last couple of weeks. I am, thus, feeling horrifically a little bit unprepared.

Apart from the 2007 run, I've been a smidgeon faster each successive year. Look - I've prepared a graph to prove it:

In the time it took to draw this I could've done a fairly decent practise run.

I'd like to continue this trend, if only because I don't want to be a sweaty, staggering mess trundling across the finish line long after everyone else has packed up and gone home.

Only time will tell - CHECK BACK TOMORROW FOR THE EXCITING/TERRIBLE RESULT, BITCHES!

(Catch up on previous year's runs here, here, here, and here, if you're interested).

Where's Sparky?

I went to see Local Natives play at the Shepherds Bush Empire on Tuesday. Awesome gig by the way, and as if you needed proof I took a little video of their song Airplanes.

See: awesome. What - did you think I'd lie to you?

Anyway, as the gig was drawing to a close one of the band members took a photo of the crowd, and lo and behold it subsequently popped up on their tumblr page.

Which gave me an idea.

I nabbed a copy of the pic, fiddled around with it a bit in photoshop (they'd applied a funny filter to it to make it look a bit vintage, y'see) and … here it is:

My challenge to you, then, is to click on the above pic to embiggen it, and then see if you can find me Where's Wally-stylee. Closest guess gets a round of applause; furthest away gets ridiculed mercilessly.

Two minutes of your life you'll never get back

After four years of blogging it's come to this. Inexplicable Device demanded it, so here it is:

*hears sound of barrel being scraped*

A kettle boiling.

Oh the excitement.

Normal service will resume once we've all regained consciousness.

Woe is me

A few months back we had a visitor at work, a little old guy who came in for a meeting. About halfway through his time in the office my boss came in, strolled up to him, and said "hi, how are you?"

The little old guy then proceeded to ramble on in considerable detail about everything that was ailing him.

After about a minute my boss cut him off mid-sentence with the unforgettable line "oh well, could be worse. At least you're not dead, eh?" before strolling off to his desk.

About an hour later, shortly after the little old guy had left, my boss came over to me. "Bloody hell," he said. "I was only being polite. I didn't want to know his entire fucking life story."

The gist of this, then, is that while we all have the odd problem or two in our lives, essentially if you're still breathing something's going right for you, right?

I say this because quite frankly I don't know what deity I've upset, but I think I've done *something* wrong because ... Well, it seems like an awful lot is going wrong for me at the moment.

It all began last week with the chipped windscreen and the screwed tyre (literally). The tyre was, of course, sorted at great expense, while the chip in my windscreen was all set to be repaired on Tuesday by a man in a van who would come by Sparky Towers sometime between 8-11 in the morning. That being the case I arranged to work from home and was up bright and early.

The first sign that the day wasn't exactly going to go to plan came when I flicked the kettle on, flicked my computer on, and then stood there in startled silence as all the power went out. I went to my circuit box, flicked the breakers back on, then began to deduce what had been responsible for the outage. I did this by realising, after about two minutes, that while the light on the kettle was on, it wasn't actually boiling.

Bollocks.

Being a boy, I tapped it a couple of times, flicked the switch a few more times, then swore at it. No tea for me. I'm not a happy bunny if I don't get my early morning tea.

A short time later the windscreen repair man phoned to say that as it was raining - something that was readily apparent to me by the fact I could both see it and hear it - he might have to cancel the appointment and reschedule for another day. He promised to call me back in half an hour to let me know what he thought. Ten minutes after speaking to him the rain stopped, and the sun came out. Good times.

Unfortunately, by about one o'clock, the windscreen repair man hadn't called back, so I had to call his office to find out what the hell was going on. I had, after all, expected him sometime between 8-11, and had planned to go into work after he'd been. He eventually called me back at about half one and promised to be with me by half two.

At quarter to three the heavens opened again - quite literally as he drove down the road. "I can't do it in this weather," he moaned, before pulling out his phone and booking me in for another appointment on Friday.

"Do you not carry a little gazebo you could erect over the windscreen?" I pleaded. "Is that not too much to ask?"

In the hope that the rain might pass quickly, I began making small talk, trying anything to keep him from leaving. If I'd had a working kettle I would've made him a cup of tea. DAMN YOU, KETTLE!

Anyway, he left. Two minutes later it stopped raining. I sighed, and went to the local Tesco to buy a new kettle, where I swiftly discovered that most new kettles are either cheap looking white plastic things or vile reflective monstrosities. I bought my last one, a rounded matt-effect grey kettle, based on the fact that it looked like something used in the captain's dining room on Star Trek: Enterprise. The only one I was particularly nutty for here was a titanium effect one, but it cost 40 quid (rather more than I wanted to pay given the recent unexpected expenses I've had). Anyway/fortunately, it was out of stock.

I eventually plumped for a black one that looks a bit like Darth Vader's helmet and lights up like Voyager's war core when it's boiling water, so at least there's some kettle/Star Trek continuity there. Incidentally, the box says it's 'contemporary black,' which quite frankly is ridiculous. Black is black as far as I'm concerned. If you have light black it's just dark grey, surely? Go figure.

So with exploding kettle replaced in my affections by warp core kettle, and my anger against windscreen repair man's lack of gazebo subsiding somewhat, I came to realise that yes, essentially things could be worse. I could be a little old man with nothing better to do than list his grievances to a complete stranger in front of an office full of complete strangers.

The thing is ... bearing in mind the last two Tuesdays have each resulted in *nightmares* I'm actually beginning to dread next week.

If anyone wants me on the 15th, no doubt I'll be cowering behind a door leant up against the wall, checking to see if my home insurance covers me for Sparky Towers being annihilated by falling meteorites.

Size isn't everything, right?

As many of you know, I'm a big fan of small cacti in Mexican-themed earthenware pots (you weren't aware of this? Good grief, do catch up here, here, and here). A couple of years ago, in the wake of *sniff* the tragic passing of one of my beloved cacti, Sparky Ma took pity and bought me a replacement. She also bought one for herself, despite not really liking cacti (I think she was won over by the Mexican-themed earthenware pot - I mean, who wouldn't be?).

While I lavish mine with love and affection, Sparky Ma just leaves hers plonked on top of the microwave. That being the case, I can only assume that while mine looks like this:

Hers looks like this as the result of some ungodly mutation caused by ambient background radiation:

Either that or she's got the damn thing on steroids. How do you urine test a cactus?

The good and the bad of the holiday

My original intention this year was to be sensible and spread my 20 days holiday throughout the year with one week off in each quarter. Sensible and very grown-up, I think you'll agree.

Unfortunately the best laid plans of mice and men…

So here we are just sneaking into June and I've FINALLY got some time off. Much-needed time off, it must be said. Monday was a bank holiday, so *technically* holiday time didn't start until Tuesday. Needless to say I was well excited at the prospect of scampering around and doing my own thing.

I awoke early on Tuesday so I could head over to a yoga class taught by one of my favourite teachers. It was raining, but I could cope with it, or so I thought. In future I shall remember to pay closer attention to such signs.

Approximately seven minutes into my drive to yoga I was cut up by a Nissan Serena of all things on a dual carriageway, and about a second after that there was a loud cracking sound and a rather beguiling star-shaped pattern appeared on my windscreen. I have never seen a stone actually chip a windscreen like that; I thought that was the sort of old wives tale that Autoglass repairmen told naughty drivers to make sure they didn't misbehave.

Huffing, I nevertheless pressed on.

Yoga was excellent, thanks for asking.

I later called Autoglass to arrange for a man in a van to come out and repair the chip (going by their "is it larger or smaller than a two-pound coin?" line of questioning apparently it is repairable). Unfortunately the closest available time they can come out to do it is next Tuesday. At one point the guy accidentally said the "8th of August" at which point I almost had an aneurysm.

Shortly after that I popped off to get my haircut. It looks lovely, thanks for asking (initially it was a bit anime-style, but today it's more Brad Pitt in Inglorious Basterds; I can live with either look, quite frankly).

After arriving home again I decided to call Sparky Ma about something or other; I can't remember what, but knowing me it probably had something to do with having seen an adorable looking cat. So I'm standing by my car chatting aways when ohmygodwhatthehellisthat!?

Turns out it was a big eff-off screw embedded in my front tyre. By this point I just wanted to go inside, sit on the sofa and power through about 18 episodes of Gilmore Girls, but the slightly more rational part of my brain (yes, it does exist) suggested that I probably ought to go and get it seen to.

Yes, probably best.

So I jump back in Clubbie and head off to the tyre place. Now, Clubbie has a tyre pressure warning system that tells me when it's got a puncture, and that wasn't registering anything so I began thinking that maybe the screw had missed the delicate inner workings of the tyre (I'm not totally sure what's inside a tyre other than air, but I'm sure they must have something delicate like ovaries or a spleen) and it might just be repairable with a … I don't know, puncture repair kit?

The lovely people at the tyre place whipped Clubbie in very quickly and I went and sat in a waiting room with lots of other bored men watching a program about big and powerful machines presented by James May on Dave. Well, I pretended to watch it; mostly I was surreptitiously tweeting about a middle-aged couple who I suspected were on the verge of heading to the toilets for some risky and quite frankly icky tyre shop toilet sex.

After about 10 minutes someone called out "Gentleman with the Clubman!" I then proceeded to sit there looking around for a couple of seconds before literally saying "Oh that's me!" and jumping up to head over to the front desk.

"Yes, there was a big screw stuck in your tyre, but it wasn't leaking," the man said to me.

"Oh good!" I replied.

"And then we pulled it out and it started leaking quite badly."

"Oh."

And that's basically how I ended up spending a rather unexpected £156 on a new tyre (yes I know that's a lot of money for a tyre; they're runflats - the cost is outweighed somewhat by the fact that I can keep driving on it while it's flat, waving regally like the Queen at those unfortunate peasants sitting by the side of the road changing their own tyres).

An hour later I retreated a little light-headedly (and somewhat drained financially) to Sparky Ma and Pa's for a rejuvenating cup of tea, and from there home, where I basically barricaded myself inside with my iPad and a Gilmore Girls boxset.

-----

Aside from the financial aspect, sucky Tuesday was offset by awesome Wednesday, a day on which the sun was shining gloriously and Sparky Ma and I hit Kingston for a day out shopping. I can't say I spent too much money, but a lovely time was had - and I was a little tempted by some rather unusual items.

Gross enough that I was seriously tempted. Although the salty chocolate strays dangerously close to South Park territory.

£5.25p for a bag of 10 glow sticks. Seriously tempting, my friends.

Soap Nuts or Dolly Washer Balls? Sometimes you're just spoilt for choice.

Surely it would just be easier to put on some lippy and flutter your eyelids, but the question still remains: why on Earth would you want to attract wasps?

Oh, of course. Silly me.

And to top it off, as a result of the latest post from everyone's least favourite witch, I sought out the new Star Trek novel Unspoken Truth to indeed confirm that I make an appearance on page 309 as a Vulcan high priestess.

I'm a pointy-eared priestess!

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That's not to say that there wasn't a mild bit of Grrrrr-ing on Wednesday, however. Upon returning home from Kingston, I glanced down at my new tyre. When I bought Clubbie one of the smaller details that I was particularly proud of was the fact that it had really quite nice shiny valve caps on the tyres. Turns out that when they changed the tyre on Tuesday, though, they threw the proverbial baby out with the bath water by junking the shiny valve cap with the old tyre and replacing it with a cheap black plastic one that quite frankly was the sort of thing I'd expect to find on a Perodua Nippa.

I sighed upon making this discovery. But then DECIDED TO GET PROACTIVE.

I phoned the tyre place, and basically said "find my shiny valve cap. Now."

They had a look, but understandably they'd accumulated quite a mountain of busted tyres since the previous day so it was a bit like finding a needle in a haystack, although without the actual 'finding' bit.

On the plus side, they invited me down and replaced all four valve caps with brand new uber-shiny ones FREE OF CHARGE.

And that, dear reader, is the happy ending to this post.