Number games and dragging knuckles home

Yesterday was a fine day for walking short distances, so I naturally chose to walk a fairly long one. I thought brownie points would surely be in the offing if I bought the correct drill bit to make those round holes for hinges on non-standard cupboard doors and if the end result was another door in the integrated kitchen... this time a door on the washing machine. I was right on the idea of the brownie points, but boy was I dog tired when I finally got home the long way via the DIY store.

"One!" somebody shouted up above in the building site which is the Arena by the Tower Hotel in Tallaght.

"Two!" someone shouted back.

"Three!"
"Four!"
"Five"
"Six!"
"Seven!"

I have no idea what was going on, but the two gurriers walking in front of me did what any self-respecting mischief-maker would do in the circumstances: one of them shouted:

"Eight!"

"What?" came the reply from Number One.

"Eight!" shouted the gurrier pretending to be walking lamely along on the crutches. Answering calls came from Numbers Two to Seven until the whole lot were in a babble of constructional confusion somewhere in the lofty heights of the partly-glazed building. Finally, someone shouted:

"One!"

and the whole lot of them resumed their collective task. Whatever it was.

On the new Firhouse Road I was struggling. It was a hot day anyway, but walking the type of road that has no bloody turning is bad at the best of times. I had pictures in my head of walking from town in the days when the last bus left at 11.00pm and the beer was still unfinished. Then that long road by the Spawell, which one hit just as the three-hour walking fatigue was setting in, looked endless.

When I flumphed into the driveway the black cat flattened himself on the top of the wall and looked at me with inky black eyes. I couldn't be bothered. He only recognises me if I follow his rules and I was not in any humour to play.

The door fitted well in the wind up. I suppose the mere stiffness in my legs this morning can be credited to crawling about on hands and knees on a kitchen floor looking for dropped screws: one way of coming down gently from exercise. This morning I was a pound and a half down. It occurs to me that if I wish to avoid the diet pills now, then the only way to lose weight is to exercise along that kind of scale. Bugger that. I gladly accepted a lift from a workmate today.

What to do and why to worry anyway?

I'm off to bed.

Goodnight.