I know, I know.

I suspect Elgar stayed behind in Exeter, but the Second Cousin Ivans are being contrary and for the last week in particular have apparently been taking great delight in making me stop.

Normally feeding of the goblins is a Winter Solstice event. I'm just wondering if I can do it earlier in the year, and, if so, do I need to adjust the offerings? Do we think Scottish goblins like jelly babies? Would a return to the bread and milk be advisable? Is it the one good use of a vegetarian haggis? Does anyone else want to join in?

I need to do something. I'm starting to sympathise with red light jumpers.

It's the last one! I'm distraught! Grief-stricken! How will I ever survive?!

Fabian, I don't care what it takes. Kidnap someone. Hold Stan Lee to ransom. I DON'T CARE. You can't stop now!

«17:10» Sometimes teh intarwebs makes me happy

This one is for Alan Moore fans.

It's immensely dull. This is one of the most influential books of the 20th century? For why? I don't see it.

«12:25» Reasons to commute by bicycle #5685: Commuter Racing

I realised I'd picked up a tail.

As a result of my over-active imagination, I'm always on the lookout for tails. You know, black-ops military types lying in wait to whisk me off to some hidden lab somewhere to prod and poke and generally turn my latent mutant superpowers into a secret weapon. I mostly get trapped in that particular bout of paranoid fantasy on public transport, however I've been getting a lot of attention on the street of late and I'm not convinced it's just because the warmer weather has me dressed in skimpier clothing and my 32DD assets (coupled with a 22" waist, which makes all the difference) are being noticed more often.

Although you never know.

Boobs aside, this morning I have a tail. After 5 minutes or so I relax my legs and let the natural inclination of a fixed gear to slow down if its rider seems to have lost interest have its way. Eventually my tail takes the hint and pulls in front.

Frabjous day! He has some manners! He gives it half a breath so I can spin up to speed and take his wheel. And then we hit the roundabout. He times his approach for one, not two, and I am forced to squeal to a halt in the face of a fast-moving blue Lexus.

Right. That's it.

I give chase, catch him before the next roundabout and go past. Now he notices that I'm a girl on a fixed gear. And I've overtaken him.

Guys don't like that very much.

Without boring you with the details of roundabout approach tactics (I'm an outside girl: he was an inside man) and him taking advantage of his gears on the long, slight descent (I refuse to spin up to more than 120rpm at that time of the morning: it's indecent), suffice to say I won.

Naturally.

I have taken tomorrow off. I have also ordered the Orange Box express delivery (not to mention a pile of Marvel comics — note to self: don't tell Frood how much it all cost).

Winning a commuter race is hopefully the start of a good long weekend. Certainly takes the sting out of having to work today.

Followed an archive link? Click here.