Last year Inge de Bruin came up with the idea that this year we would run* the City to Surf and that we would enter the Avon Descent. If anything was ever an advertisement for abstaining from the demon drink, it's the fact that I'd downed quite a number of champagnes when she pushed this idea on me and I was most enthusiastic. I've sobered up since then. That happened at about 2pm yesterday when she sent me her preliminary thoughts on our training schedule. In essence**, what her email said was this:
I will begrudgingly allow you time to go to work, eat the occasional meal and, from time to time, sleep. Other than that, you will spend every available spare minute of your life this year with me training for these two events. Then, about two months beforehand, we'll really ramp things up.
Whatever happened to going for a lazy kayak out to Seal Island, or a dive, or breakfast, or heaven forbid, spending some time doing nothing?? She's a motivated young lass is our Inge, and I don't think 'doing nothing' has ever been high on her list of priorities.
So I've decided this evening, after our run*, I'm going to calmly explain to her that I can't commit that much time. That I need some space. It's not her, it's me.
I'm being sensible, I've chosen neutral territory: the Queen's, to which we shall repair for a meal post-torture session. Hopefully that will keep the shrieking and the tears to a minimum, and whatever reaction Inge might have. The only problem is she always orders some kind of prime rib meat for dinner, and I generally get seafood.
If things gets nasty we're talking about a beating with a cow bone versus a lashing with a piece of squid. I'm so going down.
*Open to interpretation.
**Summary may not stand up in a court of law.
2 comments:
Boy your August is going to be hell! Good luck with that. :)
I won't need luck, dear, because I AIN'T DOING BOTH. Tonight I either win the argument with IdeB or I am six feet under.
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