Shinai or shinai not?

Taking a leaf from Jonas' book, I'm making a start on a month without beer. Not alcohol, just beer. The humble prince of beverages and friend of the poor man, for the next four weeks the amber ale is consigned to history, like Madge Bishop and Mark Latham. And hopefully, as a pleasant little side-effect, I might finally be able to kick the fags too.

So no more beer. Hmm. I've survived almost 48 hours so far, which means I have only approximately 624 to go. And I would bloody choose February too, wouldn't I? The hottest month of the Victorian year, and I spose I'll be poncing about on red wine or gin & tonics or campari or some such. How about vodka + campari + tonic, no straw? Or a nice big pitcher of Pimms? I wouldn't be unhappy if that was waiting for me when I got home each night. Yes, that's starting to sound a bit better.

And on top of this I've decided to join up at the local kendo club for a 7-week exercise in doing something other than drinking beer and watching crap telly of an evening. But then this too has backfired with the news that the intro- classes are held every Wednesday evening and every Sunday morning. Yep. Sunday bloody morning. Every Sunday morning for the next 7 weeks. That in itself requires the sort of discipline I am trying to give myself, but it also precludes going anywhere for the next 7 weekends—not down to the beach or off to the country. No sudden trips to Sydney for a party or a random overnighter on the TT line. Fuck, it means I'll barely even make it across the river for the next 2 months. God knows what St Kilda will look like by the time I'm a fully-fledged warrior of the stick!