Bionic

Well folks, I seem to have survived my appointment with the medico's on the north bank... I am now heavier by the cost of artificial materials placed within myself to make me harder, better, faster, stronger and more importantly, considerably not dead. Bionic? Well, I'm certainly running in slow motion. But then I always did, I was built for cross country (gentle ambles, short cuts) rather than sprinting, and you can put the slow motion down to my unfit lardiness rather than some Lee Majors'esque special effect. Let me take the opportunity to say "greets" to all those who've sent greetings this week, and tons of kudos to Kelly, Dawn, Sarah, and me muvver for directly supporting me and worrying tons. Must be more popular than I thought. Of all the folks who knew about this in advance, I think I was the only one reasonably chilled about it. It's better than being in the chiller, folks. Anyway's up, for those with no sense of metaphor, I've just had some heart work done. Hey, at least it proves I've got one after all. All done under a local knockout; at times uncomfortable, downrite boring and yes, occaisionally a little scary. But the "that which does not kill me" metaphor is pretty true here, and it's nice to be out the other side. With any luck that's the beginning of the end of being stranded in the office. I'm also looking to treating myself to a steak with blue cheese topping, although I fear that rabidly healthy eating is going to dominate my life for the remainder of it, always assuming of course that I wish it to continue. Certainly I seem to have filled the fridge and freezer with things that are good for me to extremes, there is no room left in the inn. I'm car'less for a week now, doc's orders; and not supposed to carry for a few days so I got loaded for bear. For once in this bachellor pad, there's enough healthy food to survive a nuclear winter. Although I can do without putting that one to the test, eh?

Anyway, back in the world. The cat of the household has ANOTHER new game. He's an inventive lad at the moment. Moved the lounge around on Monday, don't know why, just seemed like the time to do it. The telly and associated flashy boxes are all transferred to their new home, the sofa is moved away from the wall to face the new angle. This means that his cattyness can get at the rear of the sofa, the lining, he can get inside it and he has decided that this is a fun place to have huge fights with invisible enemies. Of course, I am daft and accept rough play so I tease him when he's in there, and he goes furball on my hand, with all claws and the mad wee fighter look in his eyes as he bares his teeth in a dreadful insane rictus. Absolutely bonkers. He looks like he's enjoying himself anyway. My right hand isn't.