As I enter the fourth week of Juneathon I smile to myself. I honestly didn’t think I’d still be here. Not only did I think the regime of exercise everyday would be too much but I thought the blogging might have been as well. I’d never done either before but it seems I have coped admirably. So far.
Another grey start in Cornwall but it wasn’t raining which gave me motivation to get out and record my 22nd installment of Juneathon.
After two 5km efforts I decided that today’s run would be shorter, switching back to my self-imposed minimum distance of 3km. I still wanted it to be a challenge and with the abundant hills meaning a fast 3k was out of the question I instead tried out some hill work. Behind the Porthminster Cafe there is a footpath that winds its way up hill and over the railway which I knew would be quieter than the hills in town.
It wasn’t a long ascent (probably only 300 metres or so) but it is a decent gradient and has a viciously steep end to really test the legs. I managed it 3 times and with an easier, flatter run back along the station car park I soon clocked up my 3km.
And there it is again. The number 3. They say things come in three’s. They say 3 is the magic number. I’m not sure who “they” are but they seem to have a lot of opinions! In any case, for some reason, 3 has recently featured more prominently in my life.
I’ve already mentioned the 3 hill climbs and my self-imposed 3km minimum run but it doesn’t stop there.
The Wife and I have had 3 meals out in a row with some issue with service – a Sunday Roast at the Frogmill where the food was decent but the service was non-existent, a Mexican pit stop at the Cribbs Causeway Chiquito’s on the way down to Cornwall where they got The Wife’s order wrong, and a great steak at the Firehouse, eventually after taking my order wrong! I must admit that the last 2 of the 3 were very good at putting the issues right.
And the other “3” that sticks in my mind, and much to The Wife’s amusement is that I have been the recipient, 3 days in a row, of dive-bombing seagulls! Now some of you may be aware that Seagulls aren’t on my Christmas Card list as it is.
When I lived in Aberdeen I had a slight contretemps with a humongous gull just a few paces outside of a Burger King. As I put my favourite burger, the Bacon DOuble Cheeseburger, to my lips I found myself dining with a flying “friend”. I hadn’t requested a table for two, and boy, them buggers are big when they’re in your face.
You don’t know man, you weren’t there!
And relax. The flashbacks are less frequent now but they’re just as vivid!
So the dive bombing started with a secret mission with my Levi’s being the unsuspecting target. What had they done wrong? Then I had a lucky escape from the Newquay Squadron with just a couple of specs of the bad stuff easily neutralised from my hands with a wet wipe. And the three-of-a-kind in 3 days was completed today when i noticed, after finishing my run that I had a nice large lump of the stuff on my calf. Again, The Wife was on standby with the wipes to patch me up.
Despite the seagull trauma we’ve had another cracking day by the sea. We ventured to the Tate today and the current exhibition had a number of really interesting exhibits. There were two in particular that, whilst they may invoke a debate about whether or not they deserve to be called “Art”, certainly engaged the gallery voyeurs.
The first, filled the bottom half of the semi-circular main gallery space. Hundreds, probably thousands of white balloons were sat up to 6ft high in places creating an amazing, constantly changing maze. The Wife has an aversion to balloons so it was up to me to join the other brave souls to explore this potentially claustrophobic exhibit. It was both unnerving and reassuringly comfortable at the same time. And it was great fun!
The other really notable exhibit was equally engaging, perhaps more so. One of the smaller gallery spaces, with its traditionally white walls, had something unusual going on in it.
Is she doing what I think she is? She is. She’s…Oh, I get it!
The work of art was growing and each visitor had their opportunity to become part of the exhibit. The friendly gallery steward smiled and asked, “Are you waiting to be measured?”
The walls were covered in small lines, themselves accompanied by a name and a date. This was the worlds most congested height chart! It was fantastic – there was a crowded band of almost complete black around the room at around 5-6ft off the floor, with a scattering of children’s names beneath and just a spattering of the exceptional tall above. Close up you could identify all the participants and then, stepping back, all the individual efforts joined together to create a fantastic pattern.
Perhaps you had to be there. And I know some would struggle even contemplate them as “Art”.
One thing that is as clear as the seagull excrement on my jeans is that both had engaged their audience (whether they actively participated or just watched), started conversations and provoked excited smiles on the faces of all of the visitors and stewards.