doctor, doctor

While I have no beef with doctors and nurses as people – I’m sure they’re perfectly nice – I can’t say I’ve ever enjoyed talking to one of them, at least in a professional capacity. For one thing, if they have a flaw as a group, it’s a tendency towards being patronising. I sometimes am rude in return but I mostly don’t have the energy, owing to the fact I’m always coughing, spluttering or crying in pain like a baby.

So, I try to keep my interactions with the medical system to an absolute minimum whenever possible: my thinking being if I avoid the doctor I might avoid the sickness too. Not entirely logical I know, but hey: whatareyagunnado?

The whole doctor surgery experience only makes it worse. It’s not enough that you’re on death’s door, you also need to sit in a freezing room for 45 minutes reading ancient copies of New Idea (“Is Jen and Brad’s marriage on the rocks?” I think I know the answer to that one.)

By the time you actually get to see the quack, you’ve either gotten over your sickness or you’re dead. Either way, the whole experience is a little underwhelming.

Then you have to hand over some exorbitant amount of money and then take the receipt somewhere else where they give you some money back, although only after standing in yet another queue, as if to make sure you’re serious.

I’m a little down on the whole thing. I’d generally rather just be sick.

However, there are times when medical attention can’t be avoided, including when you’re seemingly having a heart attack. I think I wrote something about it earlier in the week – Sore ribs.

The doctor lived up, or more accurately, “down” to expectations and I emerged, blinking, into the Exhibition street sunshine, wallet considerably lighter and clutching a receipt in my hot little hand. Off I toddled looking for a Medicare office to unlighten my wallet a touch.

I wasn’t too hopeful. The last time I went to Medicare was sometime in the neolithic era and the office was tucked up 3 flights of stairs and behind a dustbin somewhere in Carlton. Most of the customers were from the paleolithic era and were busily filling in forms with a chisel and piece of rock. That was then.

So to say I was surprised when I saw the new, streamlined Medicare office on Bourke Street, is a bit of an understatement. I was flabbergasted.

You go in there, click a button, take a ticket and they see you within 3 minutes. You get your refund in another 2 and out you go, clutching brand new folding money that you can spend on lollies, poker machines or whatever takes your fancy.

I found it quite disorientating actually. I kept looking around for the forms to fill in and the queue to stand behind.

Who was that nice woman behind the glass? What was she doing with her mouth? Could it be… a smile?

Wow.

Who could have predicted it? The government actually does something well.

Running
I will attempt to run today, although the schedule is looking a touch cramped. This weekend will be another long run. This one is quite key. I only realistically have 3 weekends left to do hard long runs, and one of them might be spent at the AV half marathon in Richmond, watching Tiger Boy disappear into the distance.

new look

To those of you who, right now, are thinking

eh what? isn’t this blog supposed to be greenish, with an orange bit near the top?

I congratulate you on your eye for detail: you are 100% correct.

After a year of the old design, I’ve got fed up and moved to something new. Something wider, more expansive. Something that gives more space and attention to the words, which are the star of the show.

To those of you who say I should do something about the words I say…. well I say something pretty darn clever and cutting. I’m not sure what. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.

Watch this space.

fairy-floss

If this blog were a foodstuff, it would probably be fairy-floss: light, fluffy, not much actual content to it and liable to rot your teeth.

Naturally enough, it’s a pretty accurate reflection of the contents of my skull, which bears a strong resemblance to one of those big sea-shells you pick up at the beach. I think they’re called “conches“.

If it were possible to shrink yourself down and stand inside my head you would no doubt hear the sound, if not of the ocean, definitely the sound of wind whistling across the prairie, aimless and directionless.

Frankly, I like it. Who wants to be serious? Who wants substantial analysis? Who wants the real world? Especially when real life seems to consist mainly of corruption, violence, war, ugliness and Alexander Downer….

So that’s the rule. Today’s post is the exception.

Politics, ugliness, violence, Alexander Downer
I only usually read the Australian when I feel like getting myself all worked up and punching the nearest wall.

Not often.

They’re known, among the cognoscenti, as the “government journal” and tend to publish articles by people like Janet Albrechtsen and Greg Sheridan, neither of whom would know a sensible idea if they ran over it in their Humvees.

Today, however, they seem to have come to their senses: at least to the point where they seem to be endorsing Kevin “07” Rudd. See today’s editorial.

Is this the death knell for the liberal party? Have even it’s closest mates deserted it?

Or is this just a confirmation of my suspicions, back at the time Kevin07’s nocturnal activities were coming to light? Rudd is actually a liberal party plant: so close to Howard it makes no difference who’s in power.

We all get screwed either way.

Running
Mapmyrun.com didn’t seem to like my run last night, as it mainly consisted of the same, hilly, 600 metres over and over again.

I didn’t like it either, but I still did it. Mapmyrun.com just refused, probably sensibly.

Anyway, you’ll just have to take my word for it: I ran 15k, including lots of hills and a bit of speedy stuff towards the end.

It was quite an enjoyable run, one of those ones were you start out feeling flat and listless and finish in a triumphant sprint, punching the air.

Sadly, I don’t think the good people of Ringwood East were looking out their windows last night. They missed a treat: a veritable running exhibition.

baddie

Everyone loves a good villain. Given there’s a reasonable chance Phillip Ruddock (the cadaver) will be voted out of office late this year, we’ll have to learn to make do with the fictional variety.

If you’re looking for a fictional baddie to boo and hiss at, may I humbly suggest this guy: PC Zain Nadir from the Bill.
He’s everything a good villain should be: he’s lying, cheating, vain, arrogant, he talks like Tony Blair and he’s sleeping with a woman from Paradise Beach. He’s a real schmuck. The lying and cheating I could forgive, but PARADISE BEACH?????

Anyway, if you have been watching the Bill, don’t look at this page on Wikipedia: it kinda gives away the ending a bit.

Rib
The sore rib problem has subsided a bit, at least to the point where breathing in doesn’t leave me doubled over in pain. I ask you, is there anything a couple of laps of the tan can’t fix?

I even managed a laugh last night, but that was during the Bill and PC Nadir was about to get his comeuppance. I couldn’t help it.

Running
I’m up to 2300km for the year so far. There’s a reasonable chance I’ll reach the big three-oh-oh-oh.

I’ve booked some one-on-one time tonight with a nasty hill near my place, so that should be fun. I’m trying to reach 300km for the month and push my daily average back over 10km.

Marathon
The marathon is looking good this year. I’m increasingly feeling confident about it, which is usually a sign something really bad is about to happen.

sore ribs

A minor technical problem has surfaced with the JRuns body over the past few days. Nothing to worry about, mind you, just an irritation.

Yes, on Saturday night past, as I lay in bed awaiting blissful slumber, my chest started to hurt: not a stabbing pain, just an ache.

I didn’t tell anyone, as in my experience when you tell people you’re having chest pains they’re liable to do embarrassing things like calling ambulances. In fact, I got up the next morning and ran just under 32k with Clarkey.

So it can’t have been too bad.

But it did continue, and was still going yesterday. Irritating. So I went to the GP who assured me:

1. I wasn’t having the world’s slowest heart attack, and
2. I didn’t have avian or equine flu

That was a relief.

It turns out I’ve just pulled one of the muscles between my ribs. I guess my heart is just too big – it’s stretched the rib-cage.

It’ll go away in a while and in the meantime it doesn’t interfere with normal operations; other than breathing.

Facebook
I’ve noticed a steady, inexorable drift from blogging into Facebook. One by one, all or your/my blogging favourites seem to have succumbed to Facebook’s irresistible charms.

I don’t like it.

I don’t want to get to the stage when I communicate with people by writing on their “wall”. Also, while I hold AJH in the highest esteem, I have no desire whatsoever to “poke” him, either on facebook, or in person.

Running
Common sense would suggest a run today is probably not an A-1 wonderful idea. Luckily, common sense isn’t really relevant to me, and hasn’t been for quite some time.

The doctor did say I could run, just not “to exhaustion”. Now, I can run for 2.5 to 3 hours without reaching exhaustion, so a brisk couple of laps of the tan shouldn’t be any problem.

Should it?

I’ll report back this afternoon.

Update
Well, I was right. The run was okay. In fact it was better than that. I should have known, whenever you’re feeling bad, a run will make it better.

Today was a couple of laps of the tan (see route at mapmyrun). 12,75k in total.

William Barrack bridge
If you look closely at the mapmyrun thing, you’ll notice I appear to have taken my lead from Nelly Furtado and flown like a bird over the train tracks towards the MCG.

The truth is, I went over the William Barrack bridge. Now, unless the Melbourne Marathon organisers see sense in the next few weeks and arrange a temporary closure of the train system on the day, I’m going to have to run over that bridge in the last 2k of the marathon.

So what’s it like? After 10k, it’s not too bad. After 40k, I have the feeling it’ll be another story. At least, it’s something to bear in mind when you’re zooming up St Kilda road.

danni minogue

I had intended to launch today’s salvo by saying making humorous remarks at Danni Minogue’s expense was like shooting fish in a barrel.

On reflection, I’m not so sure about that. Shooting fish, I would imagine, would be quite difficult. They flap about a bit, you know, in preparation for kicking the bucket. (There are those who say Danni’s dancing is a bit like a fish flapping about in its death throes, but that’s just plain mean.)

So, making fun of Danni M is far easier than the shooting fish caper, and there’s no need to feel guilty about it either. After all, she’s about 80% plastic these days, and plastic has no feelings. She also appears to be wholly without pride, inhibitions or talent.

And she delivers such wonderful material:

DANNII Minogue is keen to “concentrate on the music” after embarrassing images of her canoodling with a female stripper in a London nightclub surfaced last week.
Source: theage.com.au

Surely she doesn’t mean HER music? Has she ever listened to it? No-one could be that crazy.

New shoes
I bought new shoes on Friday. They’re yet another pair of Brooks Adrenalines. This time, they’re in a rather fetching shade of red, rather than the staid blue I had already. They currently have about 4ks on them, after a brief test on Friday night.

Right now, they’re sitting at the end of my bed, white, virginal and pure. No nasty comments, thanks.

Running
A 30k run yesterday morning with Clarkey for company. We started nice and early and took it pretty easy for the most part. Well, reasonably easy – it was marginally faster than 5 minute ks, but we were able to talk fairly comfortably the whole way. It actually turned out to be slightly under 32k and I did the last 3k at a faster pace.

The course is mapped out on mapmyrun.

jana rawlinson

I tend not to pay that much attention to elite athletes – the world championships and stuff – mostly for the same reason bulldogs don’t watch greyhound races.

I can see what they’re doing is vaguely similar to me, but in practical terms they may as well be a different species.

When God/Allah/evolution plunged his or her hands into the genetic melting-pot and pulled out a handful of the stuff that would become me, he forgot to pick up some of those genes that allow 2 hour 10 marathons, or sub 4-minute miles etc.

I got stuck with the bull-dog genes – great for scaring small children and propping open doors, but that’s about it.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes: Jana Rawlinson.

Apparently Jana, bless her cotton-sox, is a bit upset, for a change.

It has torn Jana Rawlinson’s heart but she has decided to leave her baby son with her mother Jackie in Australia

Based on the accompanying photo, it looks like it’s torn her left arm too.

By the way, that’s not exactly a ringing endorsement of her Mum’s baby-sitting abilities is it?

Running
13k fastish along the northern bank of the Yarra.

dreams can come true

I bloody hope not. At least not the dream I had last night.

Before I go on, let me preface my remarks be saying I know how irritating it is when people tell you about their dreams. What’s that Dylan line?

At dawn my lover comes to me and tells me of her dreams
with no attempts to shovel a glimpse into the ditch of what each one means

Quite.

Unfortunately, I’m not your lover, it’s not dawn and the ditch of what this one means is pretty darn shallow. So, you’re for it.

The dream is simple: I’m midway through my long run and I come to a hill. At this point I’m running in a pack; a pack of super aggressive, nasty guys urging me on with pitchforks.

That’s all well and good, as I can keep up all-right. As the dream goes on, however, the hill gets steeper. So steep, it becomes more like a ladder, or a cliff. The nasty peleton don’t slow down though. Pretty soon I’m gasping for breath begging to be allowed to stop.

And then I wake up, ironically NOT in a pool of sweat.

Meaning: I’ve been doing too many Anderson street reps. (non Melbournites: Anderson street = particularly nasty hill on one side of the “tan” track, our most popular running spot).

Running
A set of Anderson street hill reps yesterday that obviously affected me powerfully on a subconscious level. On a physical level, my heart decided it was time to spontaneously exit the building by the nearest exit, and had to be forcibly restrained. 10k-ish.

Today, a mercifully flat lap of Albert Park lake, plus distance from work and back. Around 13k, I think.