Wednesday, 26 April 2017

Treadmill of Death

For the last few months, I’ve been writing like a demon as part of the Phoenix Prime group to put together a body of work to pummel PhD students into submission with. In many ways this is working, in sheer volume if not in sales volume, but it’s meant that for a very long time my arse has been in contact with my couch.

Back when I had a day job (oh, regular paycheque, I miss you so) I may not have been the fittest member of the office but I did have to walk farther to my work than five metres down the hall. During the day, the copious volume of things I printed didn’t collect themselves off the printer. No. Sometimes I had to yell at a colleague to go and fetch them and other times I’d get up off my chair and walk.

Lunch was a flight of stairs away, as were any Coke refills. Coffee was kept in the kitchenette and on occasion I’d even sacrifice my comfort to the exercise gods and walk all the way home.

During a standard day, I could expect to take anywhere between 3000 to 13000 steps. Leaning toward the former but I’m sure if I dug deep into my Samsung Gear Fit 2’s memory there’d be a few days of excess here and there.

Now, having a shower is the most exercise I get, apart from Thursday, when I wheel bins down to the gate, and Fridays, when I wheel them back again. Even hanging the washing out doesn’t take long and the extra ten metres out to the washing line probably isn’t going to strip any creamy yellow fat off the layers gathering around my heart.

Last night, as I was falling asleep in bed, I suddenly made a resolution. No more! I was going to get fit. I was going to *gasp* USE THE TREADMILL.

Before you start worrying that I’ve lost my mind, I’d like to reassure you that in no way did I intend to become a gym bunny. Not even a home gym bunny. I was, however, going to science myself into a slightly better state of wellbeing than I’ve so far enjoyed this year.

My memory ruthlessly cuts anything that it considers extraneous information these days. Things like current events, the times of my next meeting, or the names of friends and relatives. Snip. Gone.

It does still have a vested instinct for self-preservation, though, so it helpfully retained a vague outline of an exercise plan put forth by Michael Mosley in which a person only needs to exercise for three minutes or so a week to improve their health profile.

I have three minutes. I am the perfect subject.

I dusted off my treadmill, after also removing the various books, items of clothing, and aluminium bars (???) that had found their way on top of it. Once revealed, it looked in pretty good nick. Possibly because I take good care of my things. More probably because I’ve hardly ever turned it on.

Although it gave a little bit of a groan to start with, it soon got back into the routine. The routine consists of me standing on it, frowning at the instructions and pushing randomly at buttons until something starts to move.

Now, this three minutes of exercise per week isn’t just a random, freestyle, do it until it hurts type of deal. It’s science, people. I had to time things. And set things up. After a warmup of just a minute, I had to put my treadmill on the steepest incline and crank it up to the highest speed.

In theory, 20 seconds x 3 sessions = 1 minute. Perform that activity three times a week and you’re golden for only three minutes of lost time. In practice there’s more to it. The fine print, if you will. I had to warm up for 60 seconds, wait for another 5 for my treadmill to actually incline and speed up and then…

Well.

The first 20 second session was all a bit of a blur. For a start, time ceases to mean anything when you’re exercising. Like the TARDIS, it’s longer on the inside. I guess I made it through and out the other side, though. Certainly, the room came back into focus and I remembered how to breathe.

In the second session, I had no trouble remembering to breathe. Gasping for breath actually seemed to occupy me even more than the moving of my legs. I possibly should have called a halt to the whole endeavour then, but I’m not a quitter.

Or, I’m not a quitter ANYMORE, I should say.

Last time for the ramp up and I struggled through the next twenty seconds like I’d struggled through the last six months of high school. Desperate, unhappy, and grateful that it wouldn’t need to be repeated.

It’s hard to explain the satisfaction that comes after a good, thorough, one minute exercise session. It’s especially hard when you’re choking for breath in between coughing bouts and swallowing tall glasses of cold water to quench the fire burning in your lungs.

The good news is that, twelve hours later, I’ve mostly stopped coughing. The bad news? My second run through the torture chamber is only 36 hours away.

If nobody hears from me, please tell my darling to check for my corpse in the front room.

Wednesday, 5 April 2017

Literary Flits: Skeletal by Lee (Katherine) Hayton

Literary Flits: Skeletal by Lee (Katherine) Hayton: Skeletal by Lee (Katherine) Hayton Self published in January 2015. Where to buy this book: Buy from independent booksell...

Monday, 3 April 2017

T S Paul: Even More Phoenix Prime!

T S Paul: Even More Phoenix Prime!: Great response for the Authors of Phoenix Prime. Here are even more of their work. Some romance, mystery, and Science Fiction all mixed...

Sunday, 2 April 2017

T S Paul: Just what is Phoenix Prime?

T S Paul: Just what is Phoenix Prime?:  Phoenix Prime started out as a spin off class from the 20books to 50k Facebook group. It was a way for some authors to learn to write bet...

Tuesday, 28 February 2017

Send help... maybe

A year or two ago, I set up a personal safety alert on my phone that I could activate when I was in trouble. It would send a picture from my front and rear cameras, my location coordinates and a recording link where the phone would record for a few minutes after I pressed the help key combination. All of this would be parceled up and sent to my darling’s phone.

I’m aware that since he never checks his text messages, or even knows how, that the plaintive cry for help would go unanswered. Whatever fate was befalling me would continue to do so without intervention. But still. When the police pulled my dismembered and horrifically abused body from whichever water course it had been weighted down in, THEY would get around to checking my incoming and outgoing phone messages and wah-lah! My killer may or may not be caught.

All of this magic was also dependent on me remembering the “special combination” required to trigger the emergency warnings in the first place. A remote hope indeed for someone who gets distracted walking into the kitchen for… well… whatever reason I walked into the kitchen for.

To tell the truth, I’d forgotten that this special system had even been set up on my phone. There’s still a faint hope that in the grip of a madman, I’d fumble my phone out of my pocket, remember this was set up AND remember the combination to activate it, but that hope is spinning-head and vertigo faint.

Tonight, I activated it.

Before you express any concern (and to prompt you that this would be the place to do that if you’re having trouble getting in touch with your emotions) I’m fine. I’m still confused as to what the key combination is, but nothing happened to warrant the call out for help at all.

I did, however, discover a fatal flaw in my plan.

When setting up said message, the phone asked me for an emergency contact to call. Of course, my darling topped the list, but highly sensitive to his special needs in relation to txt and pxt messaging, I helpfully set the call up to go straight to our home phone. Yes, that’s right. The landline. Just about the only thing in our house that plugs into a wall but ISN’T capable of receiving a message.

It goes without saying, I’ve now disabled the whole thing. The criminal element has triumphed yet again.

If you’d like to read a free short story that leads into a longer novel where the criminal underbelly may or may not triumph, then please click on the cover below to download my new short-short, Dead as a Dodo.

This is the first outing in my new Birdman Series and is short, sharp, and succinct, just like a drive-by shooting.

The first novel will follow along shortly, so in the meantime here’s a pretty cover:

(and if you’re still having trouble getting in touch with your emotions, here’s the bit where you go oooh and aaaah!)

Monday, 20 February 2017

You don’t know me…

This afternoon I was sitting at my laptop, writing my little heart out, when Amazon sent me an email. Pleased of the distraction, I eagerly opened to find that they thought I would be interested in the latest releases in Sports and Outdoors.

Yes, you read that right. Sports and Outdoors.

Now, I’m not judging if that’s the kind of thing you like (oh, yes I am, I am so judging, can’t you feel me judging from here) but I didn’t even know there was such a section on Amazon. Let alone that it contained such esteemed titles as the Baseball Prospectus 2017 that I’m now obviously dying to read. I didn’t know this because I’VE NEVER CLICKED ON SPORTS IN… MY… LIFE…!!!

Amazon is meant to know what I like based on past purchases. Using this data, it should then send me emails making recommendations of things I might like to try. Secret algorithms and computer database magic govern the process, or so I’ve been led to believe.

What they’re not meant to do, is send me recommendations for Spanish-language novels when the only books I’ve ever purchased are in English (and, let’s face it, I sometimes struggle with that). They’re not meant to send me recommendations for Book IV in a series when I’ve never so much as dreamed of thinking of clicking on Book I. And they’re definitely, positively, not meant to send me recommendations for titles listed under the Sports and Outdoors section.

I’m fairly certain that where I live, there isn’t even an outdoors to begin with. If it’s on the other side of the window, it’s make-believe.

So Amazon, it hurts me to say this after we’ve spent so much time together, but it appears we’ve grown apart.

As an aside, in another real way, Amazon doesn’t know me any longer. This is because I’ve changed the name I publish under from Katherine Hayton to Lee Hayton. This was meant to be a name change to define books I was publishing in another genre, but I’ve discovered the joys of having a shorter name on a book cover so I’m not going back. If you want to stay abreast of any new releases, feel free to follow me on Amazon under the new pen name:

https://www.amazon.com/author/leehayton

You’ll find the below joys** already waiting for you there 🙂

**Joy not guaranteed

Saturday, 14 January 2017

At a new angle

The clothesline broke last week. I was mid hanging-out-all-the-washing and turned it past a spoke, then hung up my brown skirt. The whole thing lurched to one side. I’m quite sure it wasn’t the weight of my skirt. Even with the unnecessary detail of beads on the end of the draw-string, because Ezibuy want you to know I’m a GIRL (in case the skirt wasn’t enough), the whole thing probably still weighs about the same as a hand-towel.

When I say broken, it’s not unusable. As long as I don’t mind the hideous angle of the clothes, and hang up only short garments, it’s perfectly fine. Sure, I’m scared to hang out the bath towels, but when has that not been an issue?

So, just about usable. For some things. Completely beyond repair, though.

The lovely invention of Hill may contain many benefits, but anchoring a metal structure into a concrete one at the end of your back yard path doesn’t offer many opportunities to fix things up with number eight wire. Usually, we’d just go out and buy a replacement, but in this case we’d also have to dig up a wedge of concrete and then pour some replacement concrete. Somehow. While holding the clothesline upright, in place.

Yeah, we’re not that handy.

I pointed out that since we can hang lightweight garments on it, we could continue indefinitely with the agreement that we don’t wash the towels or the sheets. Hey, it’s probably time we bought new ones. Each week, if need be. That’s easier all round, isn’t it? Who likes the slap of a wet towel in the face on a windy day when they’re hanging out washing?

Yeah, okay. In summer it’s quite refreshing. Guess we’ll just leave it be.

[Edit: I spoke too soon. New clothesline required.]