Ouch!

My hands hurt. Both of them, but the left most particularly: and particularly the three fingers from the middle outward. It's all classic RSI. I've been living with it three decades now (since the first week I had my first computer: the first week, dammitall!), and if I will work this intensively I should expect a flare. But it could've waited. Another fortnight, Karen'll be here, I'll be disinclined to work; it could hurt then and not matter half so much. And I could claim to be virtuously resting. *nods*

Still. It is what it is. I have swallowed mega-ibuprofen, which is apparently doing very little but no doubt everything would be worse without. I am working through it, or despite it, or something: tho' not very vigorously yet, and I don't really anticipate vigour. It's hard to concentrate on new revelations and shouldn't-this-book-have-a-plot-or-something? when every twitch of your fingers hurts and so does keeping still.

I console myself with the thought that I have a sports injury! For yes, I blame the Book Race entirely.

In other sporty news, there's a soccer derby in town today. I have no idea why a face-off between two local teams is called a derby, but there it is. Here it is. N'cle vs Sunderland, kick-off at noon. For some reason the sound from the stadium carries immaculately down to the Silence Room, so we sit here regaled by singing and PA announcements.

In other other sporty news, 476 for 3 at the moment of typing. Hey, I'm injured: can't I just go home, lie on the sofa and listen to the cricket?

As I foretold thee...

Barely 700 words this morning, before I wimped out and came home. I shall eat sossidges and ibuprofen, and see how my hands feel after. (Gnawed, probably, by sossidge-deprived kitties.)

In happier news, Calvin Klein is opening a new underwear store in town - and there all these young men in CK boxers and no shirts, handing out balloons to advertise the fact. Tragically they did have jeans on over their boxers, but hey. No, I did not take a balloon. Nor a photograph. (Giggling women were pointing plenty of phones in their direction, though; they were very handsome lads.)

Interestingly, none of them sported a visible tattoo. I think that must've been deliberate selection: what are the odds, these days, of four random gym bunnies not having any ink between them?

In less happy news, rain has stopped play. Bah humbug. 591 for 6.

Metrics

Well, at least it didn't get worse as the day waned: neither the hand(s) nor the wordcount. Nor the cricket (except for losing another whole session to the rain). 1645 for the day, wordwise. I wouldn't have expected that at the start.

 

38346 / 80000 words. 47.9% done!