#oneaday Day 608: Pain Killer

Aimee Lee had been wracked with inexplicable pains for several days now. She couldn't explain them, nor did she feel that she could bother the doctors with them. She couldn't talk to her friends about them, because she didn't have any friends. But every night, it seemed, the pain got worse, and always, after she did manage to succumb to sleep, she woke the next morning feeling as if she has been beaten, battered and abused.

But there's no-one there. No-one has beaten her, no-one has taken advantage of her, no-one has violated her. She's all alone. She has been ever since the day when she decided enough was enough, and called the police on her abusive boyfriend, who took him away, never to be seen again.

"Bitch!" he'd called after her as he was forcibly removed from the premises, her trembling figure cowering in the corner as a female police officer spoke to her in a calm, low voice, assuring her that everything was going to be all right now. "Whore! You'll suffer! You'll suffer!"

She'd come to this town of her own volition, given up her life for the man she thought she loved, and for a while all was well. But then his fury started. Every day she'd dread the turning of the key in the lock, for it would mean that he would be back again, and the beatings would start. She'd often be in tears even before he arrived in the house, but that would only fuel his aggression. There was no explanation for it, and on the few occasions where he did prove to be lucid, he had no justification for it, either.

But she missed him. There had been love there, once, and amidst all the abuse and horrors, she knew that he was surely still the man she had fallen for and given everything up for. After a while, she even found herself longing to hear his voice in any form — even if it was yelling at her, a prelude to another beating.

It was in this admission that the shadow found its way into her soul. A fleeting thought, that was all it took for it to take hold. And then the pain started — a dull ache in her limbs at first, but gradually growing in intensity night by night. By now, by the time she eventually passed out from the pain — she couldn't call it "falling asleep" — her body was wracked with the agony of a thousand burning needles searing her flesh, though her skin bore no scars.

The girl knew the signs as soon as she became aware of Aimee. She had come across this kind of horror before, and she knew all too well that if it were not dealt with quickly, Aimee's mind and body would tear themselves apart, whether the agony were real or imagined.

So it was that she stepped into Aimee's mind, flickering energy running up her arm letting her know that the blade with which she had already dispatched so many similar terrors hungered for the blood of the dark one responsible for this particular mess.

The room she found herself in was dark, its walls made of stone, and dull lights sitting in sconces high on the walls.

How cliché, she thought. A dungeon. Perhaps this'll be simpler than I thought.

A moan from somewhere in the darkness led her to the prone figure of Aimee, lying on the floor, clad in a white dress that was already stained crimson with blood.

"Please!" cried Aimee, her voice quavering with tears. Invisible lashes cause her body to jolt with pain, fresh wounds opening with each hit. "Please!"

The girl stood watching this horrific sight, her jaw set. She wouldn't have called herself "embittered" or "cynical" but she had been doing this for some time now, and she knew that to become emotionally invested in the situation was to show weakness to the shadow.

"Show yourself," she muttered, clearing her throat then uttering it again. "Show yourself!"

Aimee's writhing stopped as the invisible lashes ceased to batter her body. The darkness seemed to shift around her, taking form, becoming a recognisable shape.

"Uh-huh," said the girl. "Let me guess. Couldn't get no satisfaction, so decided to take to beating on this poor girl to get your ya-yas."

The male figure before her snarled, black smoke billowing from his head as he did so. There was to be no parley, it seemed, as it lurched straight at the girl — but she was ready for him, deftly stepping aside and flourishing her arm as she had done so many times, the blade flashing and appearing ready in her hand as she summoned it.

The shadowy, smoky figure lunged at her again, tackling her and slamming her against a wall. Aimee screamed as she watched — she knew his violence all too well, both in reality and here in her own mind, and was terrified to see it inflicted on another. She sobbed, taking big gulps of air as she hoped the girl could escape his terrible clutches.

She did. Kicking away the shadowy figure and slashing at him with the curious blade she held in her right hand, the girl moved with the agility and speed of a cat. She wasn't going to be caught out again. By the time the smoky figure crudely lurched at her again, she was already elsewhere, slashing at his body with her sword, but even a direct hit caused only black smoke to spew from the wound, not blood.

"Hey!" said the girl, addressing the terrified Aimee for the first time. "What do you want? This isn't going to work if you don't know."

Aimee didn't know what she meant. She watched the unfolding scene with tears blurring her vision, unable to stand, the pain from her wounds stinging her body and leaving her immobile.

"Come on!" said the girl. "I can't help you if you don't help me. I need you to know, Aimee. I need you to say it."

Aimee gulped, swallowed some air, hiccuped and sobbed again. What did this strange girl mean? And who was she? Aimee had never seen her before in her life, but somehow the girl knew her — or at least her name.

The shadowy figure's blow found its target, and the girl was sent clattering across the ground, winded, blade still clutched firmly in her right hand. It turned back to Aimee, menace in its glowing red eyes. It began to advance — far more threatening now it has a visible form than when it lashed her body with invisible strokes.

Aimee screamed. This isn't what she wanted. She wanted things to be back how they once were — back when she was in love, back before he was engulfed with this inexplicable rage. She wanted —

"I want," said Aimee uneasily, staring in fright at the advancing figure. "I want — I want the pain to stop!"

The girl leapt to her feet.

"That's it," she said. "You never wanted this abuse. You never wanted this pain. Once you thought you might, and that's how you let this thing in. But now you know that way lies only suffering. So I'm here to help with that."

She plunged the blade deep into the back of the shadowy, smoky figure, which let out an ear-splitting howl before whirling around in an attempt to strike back at its assailant.

"Come on!" cried the girl. "Torture's such an easy, boring way to inflict pain. Take me instead! I'll give you a fight."

She struck again, slicing at its face this time. The blade found its target, and this time instead of smoke, black ichor spewed forth. The girl hopped backwards to avoid the spray.

"Made that mistake before," she said, more to herself than the horrified Aimee. "That shit never comes out."

Aimee watched in astonishment. Tears still stung her eyes and blurred her vision, but the sheer oddness of the scene before her almost made her forget the pain that had brought her to her knees in the first place.

The girl plunged the blade deep into the shadowy figure's torso now, and it let out a howl even worse than the first one. It seemed to shake the very foundations of the room they were in. Its foul black blood sprayed again as the girl twisted the blade, no trace of anger on her face, to all intents and purposes looking as if she was simply screwing a piece of furniture together rather than doing untold damage to the innards of some monstrous creature.

Finally, the figure let out one last roar and exploded in a cloud of black smoke, a torrent of the black ichor suddenly falling to the floor and splattering across it, leaving a stain. There was a silence for a moment, then the blade simply seemed to disappear from the girl's hand.

"Thank you," said Aimee, though she still wasn't quite sure what had just happened.

"You're welcome," said the girl, who promptly vanished.

Aimee gasped and opened her eyes. She saw the familiar sight of her bedroom ceiling above her and was momentarily disoriented. What had just happened?

She had no answer to that question, but she knew one thing — the pain had stopped, just like she wanted.

But who was that girl?

#oneaday Day 607: Musical Memories

In the last couple of places I lived, I didn't have my CDs out, largely due to space issues. They sat quietly in boxes in cupboards waiting to be set free once again. Occasionally I had a sudden urge to rip some to my computer, then once I started the process I realised it took quite a long time, so often gave up rather quickly.

In my new place, though, I've got all my CDs out again. There's some among the collection that I'm not sure I'll ever listen to again, but it's nice to revisit some albums that I've had for many, many years now — particularly those which I got back when I was at school, as these are often the ones that have the strongest memories attached to them.

They're not even specific memories as such — simply memories of a time and a place, not any particularly special events. But I can remember when I got many of these albums and why — in some cases it was a simple matter of buying something that was popular at the time (and in some cases struggling to understand why it was so popular — see: The Verve, Urban Hymns, one of the most tedious albums I've ever listened to), others it was a case of thinking the lead singer was hot, others still it was songs I'd listened to on the radio so many times I was curious to hear what other stuff the artist had come out with and others still beyond that simply just because I was curious.

I wouldn't say that as far as popular music goes I'm particularly "well-read" or whatever the popular music equivalent is. But my CD collection demonstrates an interesting cross-section of mid to late 90s music coupled with a few bits and pieces from the early 21st century — though around this point is when iTunes started to take over, leading to a decline in the number of physical products on the shelf.

In some ways, I can see the point that those people who prefer to still buy CDs have. The digitalisation of music has given it a more "disposable" quality, leading to people putting it on just so they have some noise in the background, not necessarily to appreciate what it is. Putting on a CD, though, kind of implies that you're going to invest some time into listening to the whole thing — even if you're doing something else at the time. This is because, as everyone knows, changing CDs is a massive faff to the lazy person of the 21st century, who wants everything at their fingertips and, preferably, controlled by their mobile phone.

If you've still got a CD collection, though, it's worth taking a moment to dig it out and investigate the treasures it holds within. Sure, there may be some embarrassing things in there, but even those had a part to play in your past. Take a moment, dig out a random pick from your collection, sit down and listen to it. All of it. You might just be surprised at the complexity and thinking that goes into a complete album — or, then again, you might just find yourself wondering why on Earth you own two Spice Girls albums.

#oneaday Day 605: Finish What You... You Know

Certain projects are easy to finish. Start building an Ikea bookcase and chances are you'll finish it within an hour or two. Sure, there may be some swearing, splinters, cuts and/or bruises along the way, but at least you'll get it done, and when you're finished, you'll end up with a (hopefully) stable bookcase, and possibly one or two leftover screws that you really think should go somewhere.

Creative projects are a little different. It's easy enough to start them, but it's finishing them that is the tricky bit. The challenging part is that, unlike our friend Billy the bookcase, creative projects don't necessarily have an obvious "end" in sight. Sure, you might have some sort of amorphous final goal in mind ("write a novel", "record an album", "paint a picture") but the exact steps along the way that will lead you to that final conclusion are sometimes obscured by your own ambition.

I've come a cropper on this a few times. I've had a story in my head since I was about 15 years old. I've started trying to write it at least 5 or 6 times across several different media — traditional writing (from various perspectives), blog-based writing, as a video game, as a visual novel — and somehow, despite the fact I'm in love with my characters and I want to tell this story — somehow it never quite gets there.

It's not a matter of motivation — I do want this story to get out of my head and onto some form of "paper" (be it literal or metaphorical) but — thinking about it right now, I'm struggling to come up with valid excuses that aren't simple procrastination. Perhaps it's the fact that I write for a living every day and do this blog. Perhaps it's the fact I have other interests besides writing preventing me from being completely committed to the project. Perhaps I have doubts that I can really bring the story — the opening of which I am intimately familiar with now I've composed it so many times across so many different forms of media — to a satisfactory conclusion.

I'm not sure what it is. Last time I started on it, I got into a good rhythm and started writing at a good rate. Then various life events got in the way and for one reason or another, I got out of the habit of writing it.

Perhaps I should take a more structured approach to it — set aside a specific time on certain days to do some writing. Although schedules are inherently limiting and repetitive, they can be great for self-discipline. Take a couple of years back when I got into a good habit of going to the gym and/or the swimming pool after work every day. Sure, it was on the way home, but I specifically "scheduled" my time so that I got into those good habits. It's working for me again with the EA Sports Active stuff at the moment, which sets up a schedule for you day-wise, but leaves timing up to you. I'm structuring my day so that I can get up, have some breakfast, bum around for an hour or so, do my workout and then be ready in time to start actual proper work.

Perhaps I should take this approach — set a schedule, get some self-discipline going. Perhaps then one day this story might get finished. And then everyone can enjoy it.

Or possibly hate it. I don't know. Only one way to find out, though.

#oneaday, Day 603: Midnight

The night-time was always the most difficult. It was in the dark of the night that the pain worsened, mentally and physically. Often she chose to forgo sleep in the twilight hours and rest during the daytime — it was not as if she led an especially active, social life, after all, and the sunlight kept the demons at bay.

Tonight was bad. Her whole body ached, and her mind throbbed with panic, frustration and fear. The worst part of it was that she couldn't reach the bottom of it — every time she felt like getting closer to some sort of explanation, it darted out of reach, just around a corner, like a mischievous gremlin determined to prolong her suffering for as long as possible.

While her body was old and broken and her waking mind often clouded with thoughts that should not be, her imagination was still as lithe and agile as a gymnast, and it was with this she often kept the pain away long enough to see the sun rise from behind the houses across the way.

So it was once again tonight. She sat in the chair she always took, positioned next to the window, at a slight angle so she could lean her elbow on the windowsill and look out without putting too much strain on her frail bones. The light of the moon was bright tonight, and illuminated the garden with an eerie glow that brought to mind images of ethereal spirits darting around, just out of eyeshot, constantly avoiding the curious gazes of those few who did not succumb to sleep during these peaceful hours.

She knew this was not really the case, of course, but for the majority of the time, the fantasy was far more appealing than the reality. Rather than picturing sinister, malevolent spirits, to her these were peaceful, tranquil spirits of nature, keeping a watchful eye on the world as its supposed masters slumbered. They knew that their job was futile, that mankind had already changed the world beyond recognition, but still they flitted to and fro, making their adjustments here and there. She stared through the window, picturing their machinations in her mind's eye, not even blinking.

As she gazed into the garden, the images became more vivid, and suddenly she was among them. She couldn't tell if she was still in her body or if she had taken on the translucent, ethereal, almost-invisible form of the spirits, and she didn't care. She flitted around the garden as delicately as a fairy, glancing at the leaves on a bush here, the petals on a flower there. The freedom of flight was liberating, exhilarating, and soon enough she shot up into the air, leaving her erstwhile companions below in the garden.

From high in the sky, the rows of tiny houses all looked identical. She was hard-pushed to identify her own, but she felt she had it, and swooped down towards the ground in a vertical dive to prove herself right. She giggled in delight at the feeling of the air sweeping past her face, something — her hair? Her clothes? It didn't matter — billowing out behind her. She pulled herself up sharply just before hitting the ground and looked up to see the familiar sight of her own back garden — the wobbly clothesline pole, the unkempt bushes, the lawn that was several inches too long (when was that nice boy coming back to fix it again?) and the solitary light in the upstairs window.

She gazed up at the window where she had left herself, a low light glowing providing just the faint indication of a presence, but not enough to see the figure she thought she would see gazing into the garden.

Then she was flying again, forward this time, at incredible speed. She skimmed the rooftops of she didn't know how many houses — one, two, a thousand? — until civilisation stopped and the rolling hills of the countryside began.

Out here was peace and quiet and solitude, but not the lonely kind. The full moon bathed the landscape in its soft, cold light and she felt that she was alone, but for once she was at peace. She came to rest atop a small, natural but aesthetically pleasing arrangement of rocks, and sat. The longer she sat, the more she felt a growing number of presences surrounding her. But this was not threatening — there was nothing in the hearts of these spirits but peace and love, and they were accepting her as one of their own. She felt ethereal hands reach out and touch her, so soft and delicate that they might have been made of gossamer. And she let them envelop her with their feelings of peace and love, because here there was no pain in body or mind, only the soft, cool glow of the moon.

When morning came she watched from a distance as the men in the bright coats carried her out under a blanket and placed her in the back of the ambulance. On her doorstep was the kindly nurse who had been so good to her, shedding a few tears. She was sorry she hadn't got to say goodbye to the few people left who cared, but that didn't matter now. She was free, and no longer did the night hold anything to fear.

She was free.

#oneaday Day 600: Childish Fancies and The Faces Traffic Lights Pull

When you're a kid — or, more specifically, if you're me as a kid, your imagination sometimes likes to play tricks on you. Or perhaps it's not "tricks" as such, but more a sense of artistic verisimilitude, or other such pretentious-sounding words. In simple terms, my mind liked to imagine that mundane things looked like other things.

Electricity pylons, for example, looked like an angry moustachio'd man. They stood there in the fields and meadows of the English countryside, glowering down at me as I sat in the back seat of my parents' car on the way somewhere. I was always most keenly aware of them on long journeys, particularly the ride from Cambridgeshire to my grandparents' home in the West Midlands. This was a journey of about two hours or so which was largely motorway based, and so there was relatively little to look at save electricity pylons for the majority of the route. (There was also the mass of TV and radio aerials near the town of Daventry, which our whole family knew was where King Graham was from, even though said farm of masts didn't appeal in the King's Quest series even once, disappointingly.)

I don't feel such a strong sense of "alternate identity" with electricity pylons any more. That side of my childish imagination has gone the way of my childhood. But certain things have stuck with me — chief among which is the fact that I genuinely believe that traffic lights look like faces.

No, wait, stay with me. Let me describe it first and if you're still not convinced I'll draw you a picture.

Red lights are looking somewhat surprised, wide-eyed and open mouthed. Red and amber together are still eyebrows raised, but pleasantly surprised — a smile is creeping onto their lips. A green light is grinning with eyes closed — the facial expression most commonly associated with the obnoxiously overused emoticon "XD" nowadays — and an amber light, preparing to return to red, is eyes closed, looking worried — the kind of expression you might pull before driving your pedal car into an expensive plant pot, or something like that.

No? I can see I'm going to have to demonstrate this in a visual manner.

[Pause, while Pete fumbles with Paint.net]

All right. You want proof? Here it is. Traffic lights pull faces. And if I don't convince you after this, then your sense of childish imagination is disappointingly withered, possibly dead. So there.

All right. That may not be the most compelling evidence ever put down on paper (real or virtual) but it's what I saw as a kid and it's what I still see now. I bet there's something weird you look at in the same way. It may not be traffic lights, but I bet there's something.

#oneaday Day 599: Black Dog

The fragility of my own emotions infuriates me sometimes. I know it's partly just who I am — I've always been on the sensitive side — and partly to do with our old friend Des, the Black Dog, whatever you want to call it. But it doesn't stop it being any less irritating when what was a perfectly good day can be spoiled by something as simple as an unkind word from a stranger.

Such as it was today. I'm not going to go into too specific detail because there's really no need to. Suffice to say, I got up feeling reasonably positive, did my EA Sports Active workout an appropriate amount of time after breakfast (OatSoSimple, aka oatmeal, aka porridge) and despite knackering my whole body (yet never creeping into the "zone 5" on the heart rate graph which either means "you're working super-crazy pro athlete hard" or "you're about to die") I came out of the experience feeling refreshed, positive and ready to tackle the day.

And the day went pretty well, too. I decided to experiment with the nice EA lady's suggestion of 5-6 small "meals" per day (basically an invitation to snack every couple of hours, albeit on healthy foods) and see how that worked. That seemed to go well too — when I got to lunchtime I didn't feel the need to stuff myself on crisps and whatnot as well as my sammich because I'd already had some fruit a couple of hours previously. I see how this works.

The day continued to go reasonably well until our old friend, the Internet, dredges up its favourite way of flooring those who lack self-confidence — trolling from strangers. I know it's really not worth getting wound up over the opinions of people I will possibly never meet, ever. But I can't help it. As I outlined above, it's the kind of person I am. I need to develop a thicker skin against this sort of thing — but old habits die hard and all that.

It infuriates me how a few simple hurtful comments can turn an otherwise positive day into one which reminds me that the Black Dog is still very much at my gate, ready to sneak in at any opportunity. He can usually be dispatched with a good rant at someone or an hour or two on Xenoblade Chronicles, but he'll be back. He always is.

One day he might leave me be, but sadly that day is not today.

#oneaday Day 598: Activity, Ho!

My copy of EA Sports Active 2 showed up today. I went for the PS3 version as it seemed the most practical option thanks to its wireless motion sensing armbands. I don't have a Kinect and the Wii version sees you constantly getting tangled up in the Nunchuk cable, which isn't ideal. The motion sensing on the Wii version is a bit dodgy at times, too. (It is a little on the PS3 version, as it happens, but that may just be my appalling posture.)

So, how was it? It's good. While the graphics are functional at best even in glorious HD, the game, like its predecessor, puts up a good fight. By the end of your 30-ish minute workout you'll likely be sweating. The addition of a heart rate monitor to the mix also lets you see how hard you're working yourself, which is pretty neat.

There's a good broad range of exercises on offer, too, and not all of them are straight muscle workouts. There's a nice mix of simple motion games that require "proper" exercise moves to complete alongside more traditional stretches and resistance exercises. And the warmups and cooldown stretches are much better integrated than in the previous version — rather than simply doing low intensity versions of other exercises, there are now dedicated warmup and cooldown stretches to complete, which bookend your workout nicely.

The resistance band is, once again, rather flimsy and doesn't offer very much resistance. With the wireless armbands, however, you're free to use your own weights and can even tell the game what you're using for it to more accurately calculate your calorie usage. This is neat — I may look into acquiring some weights for use alongside the programme, if only to avoid being constantly outwitted by that stupid elastic band.

After one workout, it seems good. There's a nice range of "gamey" features to encourage motivation — there's a "gauge" to fill each day, for example, encouraging you to complete exercises and the game's surveys, and a wide range of trophies to unlock and publicly brag to your friends about.

There's also some online functionality that I'd be keen to try out once we get Internetz here. I'm not sure what it offers but it appears there's some sort of "group" system, presumably allowing friends to motivate each other. If anyone else out there has a copy and wants to group up once I get Internet next Tuesday, just let me know.

And so it's time for a rest now. 'Cause I'm bloody knackered.

#oneaday Day 597: An Open Letter to That Guy Driving Up My Arse with His Lights on Full

Dear Sir,

I have not bothered to address this post "Dear Sir/Madam" because you and I both know that if there's someone on the road driving like a dicktwat, it's inevitably a person of the penis-sporting bloke persuasion, and often sporting a small penis at that. (I have no actual empirical or scientific evidence for this, but it is a fact.)

I write with regard to your driving this evening, when you drove up our arse (not literally) with your lights on full (literally) in an attempt to overtake by any means necessary. I can only assume that you were either on some sort of secret mission and being pursued by Polish mobsters or that you were Polish mobsters pursuing someone on a secret mission. Otherwise I can't possibly imagine what would require you to get past quite so urgently on a relatively quiet Wiltshire road at about 7.30 in the evening.

I do hope you didn't find the fact that we were driving relatively slowly to be too much of an inconvenience. Obviously being in our own car we were unable to hear what you were saying, but doubtless you were encouraging us to drive faster. However, as you undoubtedly discovered when you did eventually get past, we were ourselves driving behind a large milk lorry which felt the need to brake for every slight corner, however shallow it might have been.

I trust that nothing in your car's interior or about your person was on fire at the time of you requiring to get past with such urgency. As I have already intimated, I am somewhat at a loss as to exactly why you would need to be in front of us quite so urgently. Perhaps your scrotum was being eaten by a flesh-eating bacteria and you were on the way to receive treatment at a hospital. However, if this was indeed the case and you find yourself the unfortunate victim of scrotal flesh-eating bacteria again in the near future, I would encourage you to call for an ambulance rather than attempting to drive there yourself. Having your scrotum eaten by flesh-eating bacteria is doubtless somewhat painful, or at the least somewhat irritating, which would take your attention off the road to an arguably dangerous degree. While it may be embarrassing to explain to the nice ladies and gentlemen on the 999 line that your scrotum is being slowly ingested by said flesh-eating bacteria, you'll only have to explain yourself in person when you eventually arrive at the hospital clutching your ballsack to yourself like a bag of marbles with a hole in it.

Perhaps I have misjudged you. Perhaps you were, in fact, on a humanitarian mission to deliver food to poverty-stricken families in a Third World country. If this was indeed the case, however, you are a long way from the nearest airport, being in deepest darkest Wiltshire as you were. And although there are plenty of hills here, I doubt very much that parking atop one of them and throwing the food off would carry it far enough to reach its intended recipients.

Or perhaps I was correct in my initial snap judgement of you in that I believe you are a bellend. The fact you overtook first us and then the milk lorry on a dark road with little regard for whether or not anything was coming the other way suggests something of a devil-may-care attitude towards life which some people may find laudable but others may find to be the mark of a tit-faced wanksplat. I am, as you may have guessed, in the latter category.

I remain, sir,

Yours,

Pete Davison

#oneaday Day 596: Back in the Saddle

(As an aside, I heard the song "Back in the Saddle Again" the other day for the first time and I thought it was incredibly dull. This means nothing to the following blog post, I just thought I'd share it.)

In the next few days/weeks/months I will be resuming some sort of fitness plan. I went out and investigated local gyms the other day — there are two nearby, one of which has a slightly inferior gym but also has a swimming pool, jacuzzi and sauna, while the other has a much larger, superior gym and a significantly more "hardcore" attitude, from the looks of things.

Hopefully after payday Andie and I will be joining one of the two (likely the former, as we both like swimming) and torturing ourselves into something resembling shape. Or at least slightly more fit. We shall see.

In the meantime, I found a cheap copy of EA Sports Active 2 for PS3 on Amazon, so I snapped it up while I had the chance. The original for Wii was very good (though I must confess to never having finished the "30 day challenge" mode) but slightly marred by a resistance band which offered very little in the way of resistance and a leg strap which repeatedly fell off. Having a Nunchuk and Wii Remote wired around your hands while faffing around with the resistance band was a bit of a pain, too. The PS3 version comes with its own arm and leg bands that can't get tangled up in anything — apparently the leg strap is still a little prone to slipping off but I can live with that — and also doesn't require any additional hardware, unlike the Xbox version, which requires Kinect.

I enjoy exercising with games and have done ever since EyeToy Kinetic brought the idea to my attention. EyeToy Kinetic wasn't perfect by any means — though this was more down to the limitations of EyeToy than anything else — but it was proof that video games can get you up off the couch and moving around. That's not to say (as some people assume) that all games must get you up off the couch and moving around. But if a few can, that's good for everyone, surely.

Wii Fit was similarly good, though disappointingly lacking in structure and challenge — before I came across the first EA Sports Active title I took to doing the 30 minute stepping programme with my own music on (a combination of Space Channel 5 and Persona if I remember correctly) in order to up the challenge factor a bit. The muscle exercises were good but without the game forcing you to do specific ones it was easy to fall into the habit of avoiding the "painful" ones and doing the "easy" ones all the time. EA Sports Active, on the other hand, puts together a programme for you each day and you follow it. Sure, you can build your own to avoid the difficult ones again, but since the structure is there in the first place you feel more inclined to follow it.

I'm looking forward to trying it, anyway. It should be here in the next couple of days, and then I can support any work I do at the gym with EA Sports Active days. If the pre-made programmes work anything like the original, there'll be "rest" days which I fully intend on using the gym on so the two things will hopefully complement each other nicely.

We'll see. Good intentions and all that.

#oneaday Day 595: Life Expectancy

I forgot to blog about a book I read while I was away in Germany, and that is Life Expectancy by Dean Koontz, recommended to me by one Jeff "Feenwager" Parsons. Such was the impact that said book clearly had on our Jeff, if you happen to have him on your Xbox Live friends list and then start reading this book, you'll likely have the same reaction as I did.

But anyway. Enough about Jeff and his Gamertag — what about the book?

It was a great read. It helped a great deal that the book was narrated by a likeable character who was honest about when narrating things which took place at different times didn't quite make sense — how could he possibly remember what was happening when he was born, for example? In fact, the whole cast of the book was made up of strong characters, from our protagonists to some of the more minor people who had a role to play in the story.

The structure was interesting, too — for those unfamiliar with the novel, it's centred around one Jimmy Tock, who entered the world just as his grandfather departed it. Said grandfather came out with a series of chilling predictions on his deathbed, which Jimmy's life then begins to revolve around. We join the tale after four out of the "five terrible days" have already taken place, so there's some tension as Jimmy narrates the events, but we at least know that he's going to be all right — until we reach the last one, that is.

Jimmy, it has to be said, is a bit of a joker and there are at least two occasions in the novel where he outright lies to the reader only to come back with the literary equivalent of "lol jk" at the start of the next chapter. Unreliable narrators are one thing, but having a narrator who outright lies to you is a new one on me. It elevated the prose somewhat above the usual fare you get with first-person narration — it was more like someone actually talking to you. Pretty cool.

I enjoyed the novel a great deal, in other words — and I'm consciously trying not to give away any spoilers here. It was a thrill ride that kept me interested from start to finish. I'd never read anything by Koontz before, but my good experience with this piece is enough to make me interested to try some of his other stuff.

As always, if anyone has any recommendations along those lines, do feel free to let me know.