Let's Get Retarded - Black Eyed Peas

It's an old picture, I know.

The one on the right. Colin, the lad who's been fueled by burgers, fries, jello, Coke, beer, rum, pizza and deep-fried chicken for as long as I've known him, has decided that he wants to try to avoid the pre-30 heart attack.

His initial strategy - to avoid having a heart - was quite effective all last year. However, since then, his rise to SRA and decrease in drinking has led to him actually having regular moments of pleasentness, quite the conscience and a decided lack of the political realism that had so defined him before. Now he's on to the more conventional method, of sweating like a horse in August, chasing around a small ball in a concrete room.

Colin has yet to master the finer points of squash. He's got a killer backhand, though. Sadly - the killer part comes from the fact that it routinely finds my bare leg, the back of my head or whizzes through my hair. On one occasion it kicked off my glasses on its way to the side wall. In any case, he's improving in both aerobic fitness AND in cutting his 'hits-to-Rivers-ration' down to one per day or so.

After he'd randomly written me around 10:00 one night, complaining of a burst of energy and a desire to play squash, we got a court and played until 11:00. Upon leaving, Colin got - as the title indicates - stupid.

Colin: "I want to go swimming."
Rivers: "Dude... the pool's closed. It's, like, quarter after 11."
Colin: "Figure something out then."
Rivers: "Umm... there's the resevoir?"

Interjection: the resevoir is about a 3km walk from the gym, completely uphill. The outside temperature is about 8 degrees. Neither Colin nor I have towels, warm clothing, bathing suits or - apparently - sanity.

Up we go, and we go swimming in our squash shorts. This now leaves about a 3.5 km walk BACK to my house, so we can have a drink.

To be fair, I recovered just fine. Colin's body hated him for about a week.

I also made a decision worthy of the title. But that's one for another time.