Mr has picked a ridiculous day to have his birthday this year, a day in which he has to get up early and work till late. He is treated to a cup of tea in bed, and last night we had cake for supper. I have an early hurried start and it’s not until midmorning I realise that my underwear is inside out. Since grumpy baby has capitulated to nap time I sit down and watch the athletic competition on TV. Long distance women run the track, they look like beautiful hunters, slender and solidly lithe, in pursuit of medals. Outside the sun loiters behind cloud cover, maybe it can’t decide what to wear today. Sometimes a cloud shakes out a pouf of fine rain.
There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

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