Treadmills and burnt buns

I don't believe it - I finally got my fat ass back into gym last night. after a way-too-short 4-week fat break, my colleague forced me into it. of course, I emerged with a face the colour of a beetroot and a distinct limp (partly dramatised, for extra effect), but that was the bulk of the unpleasantness. I can happily report that I have minor muscle stiffness, and can go on eith life. I've also discovered that them hormones aren't so fond of exercise (sexercise yes, but the regular old vertical workout no), which means I have a new way to deal with them. Whew! Ladies and gentlemen, it is safe to let your sons out again.

On a tv note, I've decided csi:ny is crap. what gullible moron viewer would believe the software programmes they use in their investigations, actually exist? "oh yes, we'll just locate the exact position in the whole of new york where this flower specimen occurs using our spiffy programme that generates really cool but unnecessary graphics" (i've paraphrased a bit, but that's essentially the dialogue)

Tonight's plans involve a soiree, hosted by myself - after substantial pressure from the CT peeps. I am cooking for 10, and have made the unwise decision to make rosemary and olive rolls from scratch. And no, I don't have a backup plan - that's such a Dorito's moment of boldness, isn't it?

So bottoms up, dearies, and a good vino-quaffing to you all...