I thought they were supposed to relieve tension

I know, I know. It’s been over a week since I blogged. Where have I been?

I have been sick, is the answer. Sick, yea, even nigh unto death. Well, not really, but definitely sick enough for it to constitute an unusual event. Sick enough to wander the house misquoting Macbeth (‘Out, out, damn snot!’ or ‘Who’d have thought the old man had so much phlegm in him?’ being favourites). Sick enough that I am officially Over being sick.

This having been the week that I started the Terrifying New Job, you can see that my continued ill health was a little inconvenient. Luckily, I’ve spent most of the week in training, so only the other two rookies and whoever was unfortunate enough to be in charge of us that day have been subjected to my coughing and spluttering. Still, it’s hardly ideal.

The other problem has been…well. I’m sure that if I were actually dying, rather than just turning to the husband and croaking melodramatically: "If I die, will you promise to be nice to the cats?" (Him: "you’re not dying". Me: “I…*coughs*…might be…". Him: "You’re not dying. Take some Panadol and have a cup of tea" Me: "I was going to, but I couldn’t…quite…make it to the kitchen". Him: "Okay, okay, I’ll be nice to the cats. Take some medication."), then I would be too sick to think about sex. As it is, I’m just too sick to do much about it, because, well, not to over-share, but I hold the firm belief that if you can't breathe through your nose, it's probably not going to be much fun for either of you. And I am totally blushing right about now, for the record, which isn't going to stop me continuing this train of thought.

The point is, now that I’m on a Shakespeare-paraphrasing roll, that for the past week or so, the spirit has been willing but the flesh has been weak. By Friday, I was climbing the fucking walls. If a delightful young page of borderline legal age had wandered my way, well, I can’t guarantee I’d still be in a job.

I spent a large part of Friday in the Hilton, attending a professional seminar. Uncharacteristically for professional seminars, the speakers were interesting. However, there was at least one speech I didn’t hear a word of, because there was this guy. Or, more precisely, there were this guy’s hands.

You lot know how it works, right? You turn up for a seminar, you get a folder containing a variety of papers and programs and the like? Well, this one included a stress ball, one of those squishy things one uses to relieve tension. Or not.

So, I’m sitting there after lunch (seared Barramundi and a dry Clare riesling, but I went into the law to fight for social justice, I swear), and I find myself mesmerised by this guy who is sitting in the row in front of me and a few seats to my left. I can’t see his face, and it doesn’t occur to me to care, because, well…

He’s holding the stress ball. And when I say holding…

(excuse the ellipses, I’m just having to take little breaks, here)

More specifically, his left hand is wrapped, fingers splayed, around the stress ball, and is gently, rhythmically, kneading it. Meanwhile, the thumb of his right hand is slowly, slowly, flicking back and forth over the surface of the ball.

Holy fucking Christ, people. I was mesmerised. There were a good ten minutes there where as far as I was concerned, nothing else existed. I think I may actually have whimpered a little. Luckily I then had a coughing fit and pulled myself back into the real world.

Jesus.