It's the Olympics. You'd have to be an ear-muffed troll, living in a very deep, dark cave to not have been bombarded by the brightly lycra'd bodies careering about our screens in all manner of smarty-alecky ways. Impressive is the ease that folk duck and dive elegantly off towering diving boards or flit over padded mats with pert bottoms perpendicular to the floor.Blah, blah, blah.
Click.
Enough of that. Who wants to be made to feel athletically challenged while dipping your biscuit into your tea? Biscuit dipping (Tim Tam favourite, chocolate chip a close second), now there's a sport ... you try to lower the biscuit in at just the right depth for just the right time, so it doesn't break off and ruin your cuppa. Now that's skill, real life skill. It's something you'll still be doing when you're 92.
The Olympics last a couple of weeks, and it's basically two weeks of solid guilt infusion. You should be on that bike, it shouldn't be a spider's condominium. Where are your sneakers? What about your togs? Shoulders back, bum out. What happened to those abs and pick up that pelvic floor.
Righty ho, must be time to pop the kettle on.
Wonder how many golds the Kiwis will pick up?
I know exactly where you are coming from!
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