The day didn't get off to a great start with the first task of the day. I made the bed, only for a dead mouse to fall out. Oh dear. Bloody Dotty. I'm at a loss to explain how we managed to sleep through this. Some positive work news followed. It's been a little delicate of late. I received the email of reassurance I was hoping for. I drifted in and out of Surrey's ball-by-ball away at Northamptonshire. It's my favourite cricketing time of the year as the early and late shadows start to form. TC hit a fine century to set Surrey up for an exciting end to the Championship. I got away with the lunchtime run. Both my calf muscles have been a little delicate of late. I had a slight twinge, but nothing to get in the way of a half decent 8km plod. There was a bloody awful stench of shit in the fields around the University. My summer of running around the Estuary Wilds route has probably ended. The slightest hint of rain and the paths become covered in crap.
#Album of the Day: Talk Talk - The Colour of Spring#
I gave
Alabama 3's Last Train to Mashville Vol 2 a spin on the CD player. It's been a while - almost two decades since I heard this. I'm not sure what the Vol 2 refers to, but then I'm not sure about many things with Alabama 3. It was a bloody decent listen. The stripped down songs to acoustics only show that they can write a tune. You don't need the acid beats to bring the party. The band have had their troubles over recent years. But they remain Brixton's Great Survivors. I still have a very naive mind when it comes to understanding drugs references in lyrics.
#Walking football was decent this evening. We've struggled with numbers over recent weeks, as well as finding a long term pitch. There was a competitive game of five on four. I was in the four. The score was something like 4:5. It all got a little confusing. The pitch situation is a consequence of the Cost of Living shit. We've politely been told that we can't train at the usual base over the winter months because of the cost of the floodlights. We're already paying the club a fee for the electricity each week. Hey hoe. Other options involve out of town arrangements. I don't really fancy cycling over to Brightlingsea every Wednesday evening during the winter months. The University is a possibility. That would give me the opportunity of re-living my 1990 Uni red card for what was I admit a shocking, shocking challenge on the old astro pitch. I departed with no shame giving the opposition my Psycho salute. Oh dear.
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We watched the
Chelsea Champions League game. Well, the second half anyway. I found myself in the unlikely situation of cheering on Chelsea. I despise everything abut the club. The arrogance, the money, the fans. This is no modern era reaction either. I've never liked that lot. Our days of rocking up at Liverpool Street at midday, still strung out from the night before and looking for a game to watch led to this feeling. We had some great early 90's afternoons out at White Hart Lane, Upton Park, and even Selhurst. But Stamford Bridge was always an intimidating experience. And not in a partisan good way, either. But tonight I wanted Graham Potter to succeed. One man doesn't make a club. So said a paid up member of the Brian Clough Militia, which is rapidly morphing into the Steve Cooper Sect. But Potter seems half decent. Let's see.
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