venta

On Monday, I flew a short distance. I'd finally got my act together, and

wimble and I headed down to Lewes to have a day's paragliding lesson. Amid a lot of bumping, scraping, sprawling on the floor, panicking, flailing and wrestling there were lovely moments of just hanging in the air.

I suspect that paragliding is a lot of fun. Learning, however, is very hard work. Promotional material for paragliding always shows someone floating freely in a tranquil sky, at one with the birds. It omits to mention the landing at the bottom of the hill part, which is closely followed by the gathering up of a hundred square feet of angry nylon and walking back up the hill. Walking up hills features extremely heavily in learning to paraglide. Not least because, as you get to the top of the hill, someone notices the wind's changed and compels you to walk to the top of a different hill instead. Never take up a sport which is dependent on something so quixotic as British weather.

But I been done seen about everything, when I see a Wimble fly.

While I was out on Tuesday,

secutatrix let a bunch of weirdos into my house. I would have told her off, but she's in my good books at the moment for bringing me back a mysterious-shaped canister of sirop de menthe verte from her recent trip to Foreign. Many thanks to those who suggested it - it does indeed make excellent milk shakes. Though I can't help feeling that if you diluted it 1 part in 6 with water as it suggests in the instructions, the result would be vile.

The weirdos tried to hide, but I eventually located them in Intrustion. Still, they turned out to be quite nice weirdos in the end. I've not seen

grahamb to chat to in far too long. And

toripink does a mean line in limericks.

Now, if only I'd actually remembered to give

davefish his birthday present, instead of just thinking I should.