Back to Ballistics
There may be a problem with my elbows. They look fairly normal, a cross between padded coathangers and chickenís feet, but Iím not sure they are fully functional. Somewhere between the little pulses sent out by my brain and the typing tips of my fingers, something is getting lost. Maybe I lean on them too much. The full weight of my chin is not to be dismissed lightly.
My fingers donít even seem to be typing much Ė note lack of recent blog entries. I should nag them more.
Yesterday I had a very nice evening eating spinach soup with Tamsyn, Ziqian and Leila. We did a poetry workshop, and the two poems I managed to rivet together were about headphones, and Wittgenstein. And rubbish. Ribbush. Baggage. Mind you, this wonít stop me handing them in, if needs beÖ
Badminton tonight, so a bit of token running around and swearing at work colleague. 10 points if you manage to leave a mark. I wonít tell you about the funniness of Annaís damaging her nose on a glass door, because Iím fairly sure sheíll have mentioned it on her blog. (See favourites).
Officially, of course, Iím at work, so am not typing this. You must have imagined it.