The Scribe.

We've been bopping along at the gym at a spritely rate recently, only to find out on Sunday that rival chains have forced its closure. That leaves us with Humourless Evangelical Sportbot Gym or Neckless Primping Mirrorhog Gym. I don't relish the thought of starting over and learning the machines in a new environment, but I'm willing to pretend that this change is for the better.

We've another fortnight at Bayswater before total closure and it's already like a ghost town there. Empty protein shakes, tumbleweeds and health bar wrappers all roll past in drifts, punctuating in no uncertain manner that everybody has departed.

I've only known about this for two days and I feel suspiciously like the old man in the shack on the exploding mountain who is last to hear word that there's an evacuation going on.




I've been sketching a lot lately. Lots. I've felt really out of touch with my inner analog illustrator, so I've endeavoured to put aside time each evening for doing some scribbles. The first few nights were disheartening as it felt like the pencil was maliciously working against me and making me draw the wrong thing. We wrestled with each other for sometime until the eraser would come in and break us up and mediate a solution.

I'm hitting a groove now and feel more confident this unfamiliar scribing tool.