I Would Have Updated...
Nov. 18th, 2006 11:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
magicaddict...in fact, every day, I got as far as hovering the cursor over my LJ link.
Before remembering that absolutely naff all had happened and I had absolutely nothing to say. I would go into work when I required the contact time, work for a while, come home and play EQ2. This continued all week, and short of getting more characters up into midgame territory, didn't achieve anything worth reporting here. I seem to have slotted into a temporary rhythm that will last until I start working for The Man on the 27th, and renders my days completely inconsequential save when they are accompanied by Emma or when they form the weekend.
This morose feeling coninued until Friday morning when Emma called to say that her Dad had a couple of tickets to today's international at Twickenham going spare, and would she and I like to make use of them.
For those who don't know (and I say this with the genuine feeling that there may be regular readers of this who live in such different circles with different areas of knowledge that they aren't actually aware), Twickenham is the home of both the RFU and the England rugby union team. It's like Wembley, but without the fighting, verbal abuse, crass drunkenness and mindless fanbois who refuse to look at opposing supporters. There are no segregative areas among its eighty thousand plus seats - fans of one side mingle freely on the stands with those of the others, and there is never a genuinely cross word spoken between either. Like fan like player, football is a gentleman's game played and watched by lunatics, and rugby is a lunatic's game played and watched by gentlemen (and women).
Today, I finally got to watch a match there. England played South Africa in a game that was fairly crunch on both sides - England were coming off the worst losing streak they'd been on since the early seventies, and South Africa weren't far behind. Both coaches were undoubtedly in the dressing rooms before the game imploring their players to win so they could still be in a job come the final whistle.
My transition from reserved observer to screaming substitute referee no. 72,354 ran to completion well before the final whistle, in very much the same way it does every time I get into a ground to watch any kind of sporting event live. We were sitting five rows back between the five yard and try lines, giving us a good view of Charlie Hodgson missing penalties and the South African winger running in a try after a little bit of genius with a chip kick. Unfortunately, England did their scoring at the other end of the pitch - fortunately, they did more of it. We won 23-21 with a try seven minutes from time.
I am now slightly hoarse, exceptionally tired, and with a pleasant buzz of having just watched my country win against another one. Emma is waiting for me to finish this so I can fall asleep somewhere other than her shoulder on a train, and I think I'll call it a night there.
Yay for punctuating the blandness.
Before remembering that absolutely naff all had happened and I had absolutely nothing to say. I would go into work when I required the contact time, work for a while, come home and play EQ2. This continued all week, and short of getting more characters up into midgame territory, didn't achieve anything worth reporting here. I seem to have slotted into a temporary rhythm that will last until I start working for The Man on the 27th, and renders my days completely inconsequential save when they are accompanied by Emma or when they form the weekend.
This morose feeling coninued until Friday morning when Emma called to say that her Dad had a couple of tickets to today's international at Twickenham going spare, and would she and I like to make use of them.
For those who don't know (and I say this with the genuine feeling that there may be regular readers of this who live in such different circles with different areas of knowledge that they aren't actually aware), Twickenham is the home of both the RFU and the England rugby union team. It's like Wembley, but without the fighting, verbal abuse, crass drunkenness and mindless fanbois who refuse to look at opposing supporters. There are no segregative areas among its eighty thousand plus seats - fans of one side mingle freely on the stands with those of the others, and there is never a genuinely cross word spoken between either. Like fan like player, football is a gentleman's game played and watched by lunatics, and rugby is a lunatic's game played and watched by gentlemen (and women).
Today, I finally got to watch a match there. England played South Africa in a game that was fairly crunch on both sides - England were coming off the worst losing streak they'd been on since the early seventies, and South Africa weren't far behind. Both coaches were undoubtedly in the dressing rooms before the game imploring their players to win so they could still be in a job come the final whistle.
My transition from reserved observer to screaming substitute referee no. 72,354 ran to completion well before the final whistle, in very much the same way it does every time I get into a ground to watch any kind of sporting event live. We were sitting five rows back between the five yard and try lines, giving us a good view of Charlie Hodgson missing penalties and the South African winger running in a try after a little bit of genius with a chip kick. Unfortunately, England did their scoring at the other end of the pitch - fortunately, they did more of it. We won 23-21 with a try seven minutes from time.
I am now slightly hoarse, exceptionally tired, and with a pleasant buzz of having just watched my country win against another one. Emma is waiting for me to finish this so I can fall asleep somewhere other than her shoulder on a train, and I think I'll call it a night there.
Yay for punctuating the blandness.
