Four seasons in one day.

The weather is about as stable as a two-legged table today. We've had, sun, rain, sleet, a few flakes and howling wind and it's only just midday. It's all over the place like a mad dog's poop, I tell you. One of the trees at the bottom of the garden is making an ominous creaking sound and leaning a little further in the direction of the house than I'm comfortable with in the strongest gusts, but with a casual shrug I reason that it's not my heap of bricks - and the landlady's a thorn in my ass anyway.

I'm dying to go for a run but it's difficult to gauge what to wear to get there. Running outside is definitely out of the question unless I can be sure of having the wind at my back...I'd have no trouble beating my personal best if I could manage that. Today's one of those days when you practically need to pack a survival kit just to walk to the end of the road: umbrella, jumper, coat, gloves, scarf, hat, tissues, lip balm, sunnies.....the list goes on. Am beginning to wonder if it's worth all the trouble. After all, the proper gym shuts at weekends (squaddie logic, go figure...) so I'm relegated to a tiny room in the mess where they throw all the old equipment that's too worn and shitty to be of any use to anyone serious about exercising. I guess I should feel right at home.

The treadmill is a deathtrap when all is said and done, but it's worth chancing if I can forget Skippy for a half hour and up my distance. Brettus Minimus will be accompanying me as my gym buddy because you can't exercise alone in this gym for safety reasons - whether they're worried about you simply pulling a hamstring or being crushed by dodgy machinery is open to speculation. I feel quite bad about inviting Brett because I know I won't speak a word to him while we're there. I'm still at the stage where I have to concentrate hard on breathing to survive a 20 minute run without a crashteam stepping in, and, to be brutally honest and very mean spirited, I generally run to escape people, not to make polite small talk with them. I'm becoming as crabby and anti-social as my sister, the self professed 'bitch-hermit' extraordinaire. ;)

Just cooked myself a salmon steak. Like all of it's culinary predecessors this week at least half of it met with a sticky end in the bin. It tasted just fine, despite supposedly having gone out of date yesterday (I reason 'no mould, therefore it's all good') but somehow I seem to have developed a powerful aversion to food I've cooked. I even ate at McDonalds yesterday to avoid having to cook, and after my abortive attempt at salmon earlier I reason I may have to order pizza later if I'm to avoid starvation or over-dosing on 'After Eights'. Luckily I already have two dinner invites this week, and Skippy will no doubt have something up his sleeve as it's been over a week since we last ate together. I can probably squeeze a meal out of Nina the housemate too at a push. It's times like these when I miss home the most. What I wouldn't give for a big, juicy steak and home made chips the way Dad does them. I'm missing mother's day too. I wish the train fares were cheaper and work-load was lighter.

Have another 2000 words to bash out about Cuban disaster reduction by tomorrow. Right now all I want to do is curl up and pile up some Zs. Think I might do just that. I'm sure the Cubans can manage just fine without me for now.