Consecutive

With nothing much to write about, I thought I'd do so anyway since I have the opportunity to post something on consecutive days.

I am going to conduct a poll amongst the readers here, the question is:

"Should Sniffy quit her job and just get something through a recruitment agency instead?"

I am so tempted.

If I did this, would I still be allowed to do the thing where I block all the fire exits and set fire to the building? Or do I still have to be employed there for that sort of action to count?

Or.... I could become a serial killer and get them one by one in a Midsomer Murders-esque killing spree?

And before anybody says something to the tune of "I wouldn't want to live in that village; about ten people get murdered there each week", Midsomer is the name of a fictional county, not a village. And it's a telly programme so don't even think about being so obtuse as to draw a parallel to real life.

I could never be bothered killing somebody, I couldn't do with the hassle of a court appearance and unwanted media attention.

Ideally, somebody somebody would sponsor me to take a year out to go on a tour of the civilised world and report back to the masses via the medium of my blog. But I don't see that happening in the real world.

Anyway, on a lighter note, readers failed to spot that the photos in yesterday's post were in fact stalker shots of Trump. Either that or it wasn't interesting enough to make note of.


Exercise
I'm going to get serious about getting back to the gym. It's already started with me organising my collection of jogging pants, buying a new sports top and attempting to change my gym membership to allow me to use any of the gyms in the chain (there's one near work and one near Trump's).

All that remains is for me to actually go to the gym and do some exercise. Easy peasy.

I went last night. The woman on reception didn't know how to change my membership over so I have to go back again. Fuckers. But I suppose that's the idea.

"Stop if you feel out of breath or any pain", the warning labels on the machines tell you. I'm sorry, but when you're in as bad a condition as I am, you get out of breath and feel pain just by moving your eyelids. For fuck's sake.

I ran a mile and a bit.

I did a couple of kilometres on the cross trainer.

I was losing the will to live by the time I got to the rowing machine and managed to do a kilometre. My arms ached, my knickers were cutting me in two up my arse crack.

The indignity of it.

Right, I'm off to check out the jobs on the Guardian website!