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As you might already have guessed from the subject line, the boss is back. He must be incredibly tired -- from the fact that he read his emails today at 5.45 a.m. I deduce that he drove all night and dropped by at the office before going home. But he showed up at work at 10.30, which means he can't have got more than 4 hrs sleep at the most, and that's calculating generously. He's looking rather chipper, though. And it's good to have him back.
Re. the arses, it's more one arse in particular which inspired the following observations, and to be scrupulously correct, it's not just the arse but the whole rather impressive man attached to it.
So, we were at the ceremony on Saturday in the KFOR camp at Suva Reka. It started around 7 p.m., which means the sun was setting, and they'd had the romantic but not overly effective idea of lighting the premises (a court of maybe 50m x 50m) by means of fire, i.e. logs burning in metal crates. When it all started, it was still hot, so everybody was sweating, and when it got cool the logs had burned down to cinders, so everybody was cold.
As you may have surmised already, the lighting wasn't perfect (Stefan said the soldiers looked like Mordor's army of darkness). It was sufficient, though, to induce heavy drooling at one soldier in particular, who turned out to be the commander of the Austrian soldiers at the camp. Imagine this: about 1,95 tall, and a perfect body. And if I say perfect I mean perfect, as in godlike. Incredibly broad shoulders (think brick shithouse), massive ribcage tapering down towards narrow waist and hips, picture-book-perfect arse, long, perfectly proportioned legs. The whole in camouflage fatigues, red beret and boots. For the whole duration of the ceremony he was standing with his back towards us, or the light was so bad one couldn't make out his facial features.
The occasion presented itself during dinner, and I wish I hadn't seen the front side that is inexorably attached to that marvellous flip side. I suppose you could call him good-looking, but if I needed a cliché image for "mean soldier" it would be him. A face like granite, eyes so cold they give you the shivers, and the facial expression a complete non-expression. Brrrr. I'm not easily afraid of people, but of this guy I would be afraid.
Which goes to show that a perfect arse doth not a perfect man make...
In other news, tennis and running went surprisingly well yesterday, in spite of the meagre 4 hrs of sleep I'd had.
I have, however, decided not to participate in the diplomatic tennis tournament. In my almost 46 years of life I've managed to tone down my competitiveness to tolerable levels, but I'm still competitive. The problem is that, while my mind performs extremely well under pressure, my body doesn't. Whatever anybody, including myself, may have to say about the tournament, it's a tournament, and this implies pressure, if you're a competitive person. Not a good kind of pressure, either, and when I realized it was beginning to spoil the sheer pleasure that tennis is for me, I decided to abandon the idea of the tournament. I love playing, and I won't have that enjoyment tainted by anything, if I can avoid it.
Today has largely been dedicated to the quarterly report, which is now as good as finished. I already confessed to boss that I hadn't done it last week, and he merely shrugged and said that was ok, so long as we could send it off by the end of this week. *adores boss*
This week is shaping up to be rather busy, mostly in a good way. Lunches and dinners are distributed a little better than last week; tomorrow there'll be both, though.
[...] briefing this morning revealed non-presence of Mr H -- great relief, because I'd toyed with the idea of not attending but finally admonished myself that professional standards have to be upheld, no matter what. Status of immunity largely restored, BTW. It seems I'm growing into something like a mature human being. A bit late maybe, and not without difficulties. And probably without getting a reward, unless one considers maturity to be a reward unto itself, which is what one always says when one would like a reward but doesn't get one.
Re. the arses, it's more one arse in particular which inspired the following observations, and to be scrupulously correct, it's not just the arse but the whole rather impressive man attached to it.
So, we were at the ceremony on Saturday in the KFOR camp at Suva Reka. It started around 7 p.m., which means the sun was setting, and they'd had the romantic but not overly effective idea of lighting the premises (a court of maybe 50m x 50m) by means of fire, i.e. logs burning in metal crates. When it all started, it was still hot, so everybody was sweating, and when it got cool the logs had burned down to cinders, so everybody was cold.
As you may have surmised already, the lighting wasn't perfect (Stefan said the soldiers looked like Mordor's army of darkness). It was sufficient, though, to induce heavy drooling at one soldier in particular, who turned out to be the commander of the Austrian soldiers at the camp. Imagine this: about 1,95 tall, and a perfect body. And if I say perfect I mean perfect, as in godlike. Incredibly broad shoulders (think brick shithouse), massive ribcage tapering down towards narrow waist and hips, picture-book-perfect arse, long, perfectly proportioned legs. The whole in camouflage fatigues, red beret and boots. For the whole duration of the ceremony he was standing with his back towards us, or the light was so bad one couldn't make out his facial features.
The occasion presented itself during dinner, and I wish I hadn't seen the front side that is inexorably attached to that marvellous flip side. I suppose you could call him good-looking, but if I needed a cliché image for "mean soldier" it would be him. A face like granite, eyes so cold they give you the shivers, and the facial expression a complete non-expression. Brrrr. I'm not easily afraid of people, but of this guy I would be afraid.
Which goes to show that a perfect arse doth not a perfect man make...
In other news, tennis and running went surprisingly well yesterday, in spite of the meagre 4 hrs of sleep I'd had.
I have, however, decided not to participate in the diplomatic tennis tournament. In my almost 46 years of life I've managed to tone down my competitiveness to tolerable levels, but I'm still competitive. The problem is that, while my mind performs extremely well under pressure, my body doesn't. Whatever anybody, including myself, may have to say about the tournament, it's a tournament, and this implies pressure, if you're a competitive person. Not a good kind of pressure, either, and when I realized it was beginning to spoil the sheer pleasure that tennis is for me, I decided to abandon the idea of the tournament. I love playing, and I won't have that enjoyment tainted by anything, if I can avoid it.
Today has largely been dedicated to the quarterly report, which is now as good as finished. I already confessed to boss that I hadn't done it last week, and he merely shrugged and said that was ok, so long as we could send it off by the end of this week. *adores boss*
This week is shaping up to be rather busy, mostly in a good way. Lunches and dinners are distributed a little better than last week; tomorrow there'll be both, though.
[...] briefing this morning revealed non-presence of Mr H -- great relief, because I'd toyed with the idea of not attending but finally admonished myself that professional standards have to be upheld, no matter what. Status of immunity largely restored, BTW. It seems I'm growing into something like a mature human being. A bit late maybe, and not without difficulties. And probably without getting a reward, unless one considers maturity to be a reward unto itself, which is what one always says when one would like a reward but doesn't get one.
