(no subject)
Hmm, me again, randomly wandering in and updating, otherwise known as avoiding writing a commentary that I have to get done by 1:30pm. Meh, if life's not getting on top of you, you're nopt living, and if I ever feel completely in control, I look for a new hobby to do.
I can no longer feel my feet, my ankles hurt like hell, but my feet are just dead, I've taken a look or two, and I'm about 90% sure that they're still there, but actual senses would be nice. Probably my own fault, not content with an hour of rugby training, I cycled about 2 miles (uphill!!!) to play 2 hours of football (and it's not the relaxed elegant passing football, it's charge around constantly as fast as you can football) then totally exhausted, (I'm sure there should be some sort of comma arrangement around those two words, but I have no idea what) had to cycle home. Hence the lack of feeling in my feet. They're probably just angry at me for making them work so hard and are ignoring me out of spite, I'm sure they'll get over it soon. And if they don't, I'll make a living setting records for walking across hot coals and things like that. Win-win situation.
Moving on to Trade Unions in Britain in history now, which is pretty boring to be honest, very important to the development of the welfare state, but a recommended cure for insombnia at the same time. Ah for the times when we learnt about monarchs being assassinated with red hot pokers (I have a feeling that certain corrupted minds will guess how the pokers were used, and be correct).
My rugby is going reasonably all right, but I'm having trouble fully committing to a tackle, and it's annoying me. Dates back to about 2-3 years ago when I tackled a large boy, two other large players drove him forward, and dislocated my collarbone (since it was only moved about an inch or so, the medical opinion was just leave it, hence one of my collarbones is now permanently pointing at a slightly odd angle). Ever since then when I commit to a tackle of that nature, my mind takes over and forces me to back out of it and protect my shoulder at the last minute. Which often ends in me missing tackles. Stupid mind.
*sigh* My mind is arguing with itself again, so I might as well finish typing and let it get on with it.
...
I can no longer feel my feet, my ankles hurt like hell, but my feet are just dead, I've taken a look or two, and I'm about 90% sure that they're still there, but actual senses would be nice. Probably my own fault, not content with an hour of rugby training, I cycled about 2 miles (uphill!!!) to play 2 hours of football (and it's not the relaxed elegant passing football, it's charge around constantly as fast as you can football) then totally exhausted, (I'm sure there should be some sort of comma arrangement around those two words, but I have no idea what) had to cycle home. Hence the lack of feeling in my feet. They're probably just angry at me for making them work so hard and are ignoring me out of spite, I'm sure they'll get over it soon. And if they don't, I'll make a living setting records for walking across hot coals and things like that. Win-win situation.
Moving on to Trade Unions in Britain in history now, which is pretty boring to be honest, very important to the development of the welfare state, but a recommended cure for insombnia at the same time. Ah for the times when we learnt about monarchs being assassinated with red hot pokers (I have a feeling that certain corrupted minds will guess how the pokers were used, and be correct).
My rugby is going reasonably all right, but I'm having trouble fully committing to a tackle, and it's annoying me. Dates back to about 2-3 years ago when I tackled a large boy, two other large players drove him forward, and dislocated my collarbone (since it was only moved about an inch or so, the medical opinion was just leave it, hence one of my collarbones is now permanently pointing at a slightly odd angle). Ever since then when I commit to a tackle of that nature, my mind takes over and forces me to back out of it and protect my shoulder at the last minute. Which often ends in me missing tackles. Stupid mind.
*sigh* My mind is arguing with itself again, so I might as well finish typing and let it get on with it.
...