Apparently I'm a success with the in-laws, as the F-word had anticipated, by merit of not being a meth addict or a pregnant teenager. Well, good. But of course it's the difficult moments that stand out, or rather just one of them, which funnily enough came during a fit of me looking for something nice to say. That will learn me, as they say.
So now that concern has been replaced by another: I am fucking out of shape. Travelling this past month - the combination of periods of enforced inactivity, sudden bursts of activity, and mammoth binges of Italian and Asian cuisine - has conspired with my final two months in Brussels - enforced physical inactivity as I dealt with a shitload of work and organizational matters - to turn me into a fucking winded maggot who can't take a relaxed 20 minute bike ride over level ground without feeling like a fifty year old. Luckily so far that's not taking the form of becoming a fatty, because I can't imagine how lousy it would be to be a fatty in a lovely stinking hot place like Australia (even though I believe millions live it every day). But it's still no good.
The thing is we're becoming acquainted with what is unreasonably expensive here, and one of those things is gyms. If you live somewhere without a YMCA in it and you're middle class, you're looking at $1000 a year, and I'll be fucked if I pay that. At the same time I'm determined not to follow my id and set myself up with a Wii for $500, because I'm working at home, and if I'm working out at home too I'm going to turn into a shut-in. So it looks like I'm going to have to buy a lovely new kayak and join some sort of kayaking club.
Poor fucking me.