Roundup

Clearly, I have been remiss in my blogging activities. This might have something to do with the fact that I have been as busy as buggery at work, staggering home with barely enough energy to collapse by the fire and be fed an assortment of home cooked loveliness by Sid or Noodal - for which, thank dawg.

Perhaps the most surprising development chez Luso Towers is that Sid "I'm French I am and I will eat and drink as much and as often as I like" Johnson has gone on a health kick. Yes folks, it's true. Long walks with the dogs in every wood and forest and beach within a 30 mile radius are no longer enough: indeed, he's had his bike fixed and has been out cycling in those same woods and forests like a man possessed. And now that he's bought me a bike as well, a whole new chapter has begun.

A couple of weekends back we went cycling in Bedgebury Forest. Given that I haven't cycled on an actual bike in more than 20 years and my prep was a rather wobbly sojourn around the yard one night after work to the background accompaniment of one snorting, bug-eyed stallion, it is perhaps unsurprising that I was a bit agog at the idea. This wasn't helped by the fact that the car park at Bedgebury was positively awash with clumps of professional-looking cyclists when we arrived, and Sid repeatedly saying "God, there's some really serious cyclists here", over and over until I barked "ARGH!  That's not helping!" before retreating back into my spike-infested, angst-ridden bubble to contemplate the dash I was about cut with my obviously brand new, virgin bike replete with newbie wobble, blood-free knuckles and horse hair-coated fleece and clearly non-cycling attire.

Off we went, Sid like a man born on a bike, and me resolutely not. He roared off with something approaching gay abandon down the hills while I inched along, one hand permanently on the brakes and experiencing some consternation at the idea of riding in a straight line while CHANGING GEARS, let alone freewheeling at 40kph headlong down a muddy, stony track. That being said, it didn't take me long to gain some confidence and I soon caught the bastard on the uphills, repaying the favour by roaring past him going "wheeeee!" and "wow this is ace!". In the end we did about 9k and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

Next day we went to Dering Woods, with the dogs this time and a much more technical ride, as I believe they say in the trade. By technical I mean replete with hazards such as mud, roots, fallen branches and wayward Labradors. I'm not sure I'd have been able to do it without the experience of the previous day, but once going we had a fab time. It was Five Go Mad in Dering Woods, only with Sid, Rach, Dora, Willow and Franklin D. Husky instead of Julian, Dick and Anne, George and Timmy the dog.

Since then we've all joined Endomondo and have been enjoying a pleasant competition about who cycled the most. During the week my efforts must be confined to the gym where hitherto I have done 10k max on the bike, but with the goad of Sid pushing 14K upwards I did first 16k and then 18k, on consecutive days. Running has gone out the window for the moment.

However I think we've overdone it a bit as we did bugger all this weekend and everyone was feeling sub-optimal at best, so I missed my planned hack with Liz "balls of steel" Roberts on Saturday and also lesson with Mandy on Sunday. Argh.

Back at the ranch, today is day two of weaning for the Noms. Yesterday was really quite stressful as reported in the stud blog, but today things are more settled, with the Noms doing less fence walking and yelling. I went to see them tonight when I got home from work and they came running over for some reassurance and some hay. Little Nom started belly slapping whilst enjoying a butt rub and Gualter took the opportunity to get down and have a good roll. They were quite anxious first thing this morning but are slowly settling. Meanwhile the mares are doing well and hanging out with Q at the fence. Q finds any change stressful particularly when it involves his mares, so he spent yesterday getting himself in a complete lather, quite literally, running up and down the fence line. We've left T in his all weather area today to avoid excessive blokeishness; he's quite content there enjoying his own special horse TV (Dan's horses on the walker) and with his goatie girlies, especially after a good workout with Dan. I am quite relieved that it's done as I wasn't looking forward to it. So far so good.

Otherwise, we have sent off our application for the AI Technician course, a feat which involved a trip to get the forms countersigned by the vet to enable us to get our DEFRA Accreditation. I did this last week on the way in to work, arranging to collect the forms on the way back home. The surgery closed at 6pm so I left work at 5, on a mission to get to said surgery which, ordinarily, would be quite doable were it not for the array of bottom-feeding fucktards whom I had the misfortune to encounter along the way. Regular or even sometime readers of this blog will know by now that I have an ongoing passion for hitherto undocumented laws of nature, and here is another one which I intend to christen "Rach's First Law of Restricted Motion". In essence, this Law governs the phenomenon which states that the more pressing the need to get from A to B in a fixed period of time, the higher the chances of encountering a mind-boggling collection of sump-dwelling motorised conards whose single purpose in life appears to be to keep you from your goal. Even the expeditory effects of Project FM radio were not sufficient to offset these irritations. However. There is more than one way to skin a cat and, rather than get into a 2 and 8 by ranting impotently as I may well have done in an earlier life, instead I rang the surgery and prevailed upon them to leave the forms outside, thus facilitating a nice relaxing Radio 4-enhanced sojourn at my leisure, contemplating this new Law.