Today I went to ‘Go Ape’, a simian-themed obstacle course which takes place 40-feet up in a forest. Kitted out with a harness, pulley and caribana, you traverse ladders, walkways, bridges and then shoot down long zip slides. You get a half-hour training course where there’s a thorough regard for safety. And if you’re thinking of going yourself, let me re-assure you the staff are very conscientious about safety; please don’t allow the fact that they’re not even able to spell the basic and fundamentally operative word ‘safety’ correctly on their company website disconcert you. The ‘saftey’ procedures they have in place are just as good. Although if you are of easily disconcerted temperament, then Go Ape is probably an experience best avoided. Personally I found the experience of being 40-foot high in the trees to traverse ladders, walkways, bridges and zip slides using only a harness, pulley and caribana to prevent you from falling to certain death - a disconcerting experience to say the least. In fact, having typed the word ‘caribana’, I have just noticed that my computer has drawn red squiggly line underneath it. That I have effectively had my life in the hands of something which my comprehensive spell-checker has never even heard of, is a even tad disconcerting in itself!
I am not usually bothered by thrills and spills and ‘white knuckle’ rides and the like, but kidding aside, I must admit I felt genuinely fearful. I suppose it might be something to do with having responsibility for your own safety. At least with theme park and fairground rides, you get strapped in, thrown about a bit then let off. With Go Ape, there are no instructors following you round, you have to attach the hooks (or ‘caribanas’ if you want to use the lingo) yourself, ensuring they are strapped to the each wire properly. This is not the easiest thing to do with a stinking hangover, but potentially fatal should you make a mistake. I shouldn’t really have been so worried. After all, there were even children partaking. I even overheard one lad of about 12 years old, whining to his mother about the hold up; getting genuinely impatient for the next life-risking death slide into a vertigo-inducing abyss (as he waited for me to check I’d attached my harness properly for the 512th time). But the little brat failed to appreciate my apprehension to take a literal leap of faith in my own safety preparation. It was easy for him, the horrible little git – at least he had his mom and dad on hand to check he was always attached properly.
So there – I admit it. I was scared. And the main reason I was scared must have been because I didn’t like taking responsibility for my own life. I would rather trust my own safety in the hands of some minimum wage students who are wondering how long it is till-clocking off time whilst strapping you in to the latest theme park ride and have no emotional attachment or investment to you at all, than I would in myself. What subconscious implications does this have on the way that my mind must live and work on a day-to-day basis? Is there a sadder revelation, than discovering at the core, I am a man who is effectively frightened to take responsibility for his own life? Well is there?
In real terms, yes there probably is. But then I’d probably have to strap a parachute to my back and hurl myself out of the door of a plane to find out what it might be. In what strange ways we willingly spend our leisure time!
Sat 4th April 2009
Continuing with the rather impressive health regime, I went on a 20 mile bike ride with my Dad. Quite early on in the journey he found a postman’s post bag full of letters in the middle of the road, and felt obliged to pick it up so the lost mail may be returned to the post office on Monday. This meant he had to lug it round with him, with the bag balanced precariously on his handlebars; which seems an inconvenience to say the least. Such is the curse of the Good Samaritan. The worst part is that he goes to work before the Post Office opens and doesn’t get back till after it closed. So I will have to return it for him, and thus take the credit for all his bag-carrying efforts.
My Dad didn’t seem to mind, he just seemed preoccupied with pride about the length of the journey we had managed. After we finished he even said he felt “as fit as a Butcher’s Dog”. Is that a popular saying, or is it just a regional one that is spoken in our village? I’ve only ever heard it once before, and that was when the neighbour from three doors down once told me that I similarly looked “as fit as a butcher’s dog.” Having heard my Dad use it in such a self-congratulatory context, at least I now feel assured it is a phrase of politeness. Assumedly it implies that a butcher’s dog is healthy because it gets to eat prime cuts of meat. But I remember feeling unsure of the intent when my neighbour said it to me. It doesn’t necessarily sound like a compliment. I’d argue that when assessing the fitness of a butcher’s dog relies on context to a certain degree. Is the butcher a successful businessman who manages to sell a great percentage of his stock onto his patrons? If he is not, then surely a Butcher’s Dog risks being over-fed on all the left-overs. In which case my neighbour would be implying I am obese. Conversely, if butcher the butcher has amazing business prowess then presumably the only stock left will be the stuff that is of too low quality to be sold on to customers and would otherwise need to be discarded. In which case, the poor dog would be at perpetual risk of food poisoning from rancid meat. In my experience, anyone with food poisoning generally tends to look of ill-health. Like I say, context is everything. Surely we need to learn about the butcher before we can make assumptive assess about how fit his dog is?
Putting the canine of a food retailer aside, I do feel genuinely better for all of the exercise I’ve accomplished this week. I have easily surpassed my 2000 calorie target. It is just a shame I had to spoil all this good work by going out last night and drinking my own weight in Guinness. That is the reason this blog has been posted so late. In a nutshell, I got so blind drunk I was unable to make an entry. And not for the first time; as many of my exes would probably testify (hur hur).
(I should probably apologise for finishing with such a lazy and vulgar innuendo. But I am too worn out to bother deleting it now).
My Dad didn’t seem to mind, he just seemed preoccupied with pride about the length of the journey we had managed. After we finished he even said he felt “as fit as a Butcher’s Dog”. Is that a popular saying, or is it just a regional one that is spoken in our village? I’ve only ever heard it once before, and that was when the neighbour from three doors down once told me that I similarly looked “as fit as a butcher’s dog.” Having heard my Dad use it in such a self-congratulatory context, at least I now feel assured it is a phrase of politeness. Assumedly it implies that a butcher’s dog is healthy because it gets to eat prime cuts of meat. But I remember feeling unsure of the intent when my neighbour said it to me. It doesn’t necessarily sound like a compliment. I’d argue that when assessing the fitness of a butcher’s dog relies on context to a certain degree. Is the butcher a successful businessman who manages to sell a great percentage of his stock onto his patrons? If he is not, then surely a Butcher’s Dog risks being over-fed on all the left-overs. In which case my neighbour would be implying I am obese. Conversely, if butcher the butcher has amazing business prowess then presumably the only stock left will be the stuff that is of too low quality to be sold on to customers and would otherwise need to be discarded. In which case, the poor dog would be at perpetual risk of food poisoning from rancid meat. In my experience, anyone with food poisoning generally tends to look of ill-health. Like I say, context is everything. Surely we need to learn about the butcher before we can make assumptive assess about how fit his dog is?
Putting the canine of a food retailer aside, I do feel genuinely better for all of the exercise I’ve accomplished this week. I have easily surpassed my 2000 calorie target. It is just a shame I had to spoil all this good work by going out last night and drinking my own weight in Guinness. That is the reason this blog has been posted so late. In a nutshell, I got so blind drunk I was unable to make an entry. And not for the first time; as many of my exes would probably testify (hur hur).
(I should probably apologise for finishing with such a lazy and vulgar innuendo. But I am too worn out to bother deleting it now).
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