Last Thursday rugby training started again. I turned up at the field despite every muscle of my body pulling me in the opposite direction, and spent two hours running around in the pouring rain, throwing a ball around while a thunderstorm raged all around us. It was not the best return to training ever; Sydney’s summer has been pretty lame so far and I feel a bit cheated, frankly. Where is the sunshine? I might as well have stayed in England.
It’s quite nice to back at rugby, especially since I have been indulging on the cakes/pies/booze all over Christmas on the promise that I would return. The theory that “if you put it quickly on, it’s comes quickly off” makes up in rhetorical value what it lacks in scientific accuracy, and it has kept me going over the past few months. Now it is time to balance that equation through exercise, sadly. But it’s not all exercise and pain, of course – it was lovely to see my team mates again after a long break, even if we were all dripping wet and slipping over every ten minutes in the mud.
Not content with one training session, I decided that the rugby run on Saturday morning was also a good idea – in for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose – and was on the beach at 9am to run the Bronte-Bondi return trip. This is nothing short of a miracle for three reasons:
- It was a Saturday morning, and the night before I had drunk the lions’ share of two bottles of wine at Greg’s house. By rights, I should have slept till noon.
- I hate running. I consider it the most tedious, least rewarding form of exercise known to man.
- It’s exercise. Enough said.
40 minutes and 8 kilometres later I was in the sea, splashing about and swimming around in the swell. No one is at liberty to remind me I said this, but it was actually one of the most refreshing and invigorating ways to start the weekend. I went home, stretched out and felt fantastic, if a little sore. (There was also the added bonus of feeling virtuous despite eating a chocolate brownie at the MCA Cafe on my blind date. I seldom regret eating food, but it’s always good when you feel like you deserve a treat, don’t you think?)
So, my goal this year is to be thin and fabulous for my sister’s wedding in October. I figure ten months of running around a rugby pitch (including, potentially, the chance to play in the Bingham Cup in June) should do wonders for my waistline. Now all I need is some sunshine for a decent tan. Sadly, it seems that is just too much to ask.
Since moving to Australia I’ve been lucky enough to avoid having to go to the doctor for anything, but there are some pretty vicious colds going around at the moment (apart from the swine flu, of course) and last week I had a few days off work while I sweated out a particularly nasty bug. I had to go to the doctor to certify I was actually ill, and since it’s not free here (unlike the UK with the fabulous, wonderful NHS) I was determined to get everything I could for my $30.
Paying for your doctor’s appointment does seem to get you a better service, it must be said. As much as I think I shouldn’t have to shell out every time I’m sick, the doctor does take his time with you rather than hustling you out the door like UK doctors often do. I got a sick note for my cold after a thorough examination and interrogation about my symptoms; a good look at my nose after a 20-stone guy smashed into it at rugby a few weeks ago (it took me three weeks to notice that it has changed shape – thankfully it’s not broken); and the usual run of tests for STIs and the like. They’re a pain in the ass but they’ve got to be done. Now I’m a single boy the general advice is to get everything checked out so while I was there I took the opportunity to get everything checked out.
Compared to the UK, sexual health testing in Australia is fantastic. I don’t know how the UK government can claim anything but total failure on this front: my last test in the UK was fine, but the care was atrocious. The results take three weeks to come back and they only call you if there’s something wrong; essentially you spend 21 days worrying every time the phone rings. In Australia the tests were back in two days and they even checked my existing vaccinations for free, too. No long waits on the edge of your seat waiting for the all clear. I never take any risks, of course, but no matter how safe you think you are there’s always a chance that something could have gone wrong and no matter how slim, that chance always looks massive right before you get the results. Thankfully, the results were as expected: everything came back clear.
The only damn cheek about the whole thing was having to pay for a second appointment to get my results. $30 for a five minute all clear and a prescription for a Hep B vaccination booster? Outrageous! Still, money well spent to get the good news. I guess I can live with that.
The joy of freelance writing is that you can do it more or less on your own time. Writing letters home is the same; however, I’m not freelancing quite so much any more so I should pull my finger out and write to you all like someone is paying me to do it, too. The trouble is, despite the financial crisis and the swine flu and the Taliban knocking on the door to Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal, things are going pretty well here, which means I am far too busy having a good time to sit down and write about it. Sorry, everyone!
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Gays and girls, don’t say I don’t do anything for you. (Yes, there’s plenty of mileage in that statement; don’t think I haven’t already anticipated everything you can come up with.) Guaranteed to put a smile on your face on a dreary weekend. My favourite? Tamati Ellison and Jimmy Cowan, fullscreen, slo-mo replay. I’m easily pleased.
First spotted on marksimpson.com
