Holy cramp

On Saturday I got frigging cramp in my calf (that’s muscle in the leg by the way, not a baby cow) and it was uber-painful. Plainly I’ve annoyed the Gods somehow but am at a loss as to how. And, naturally, my leg is still extremely painful at the moment. Still, gives me an excuse to sit about rather than do other stuff.

Although, this also puts paid to my plans of being out on the noo bike on Sunday. Instead I ended up watching Constantine on DVD which I should really do a review of, since my review section is looking a little empty. So hopefully the ole leg will be better by the weekend so I can be out and about.

And while I’m not on the subject even remotley, I was coming back up the motorway at the weekend from doon soof. I stopped at a service station to get robbed of huge amounts of moolah for some more car-juice (that’s petrol BTW). So … I’m about 30 miles south of the Scottish border, on the northbound services. I enter da petrol place to pay for the petrol and greet the pimply faced youth behind the counter in my user manner, to which he mumbles some reply.

Now … I don’t sound like Sean Connery, granted. But to anyone who lives that close to the border (which I am assuming the pimply face youth does) then I am obviously from the north of it.

So .. we’ve established I’m heading north to Scotland, and am Scottish. And to re-enforce the fact I hand over a nice Scottish £20 note to pay for the petrol (£15 quids worth BTW). So .. using all his o-level knowledge and racking his brains, he managed to enter the details into the till and it proclaimed I was to get five quid back. So he removed a crisp Scottish fiver from the till and started to hand it to me. Then stopped, looked at it, put it back into the till and said I’ll just get an English note for you.

Um .. why? No, but really …. why? W? H? Y? I should’ve asked, but I was tired and had a sore leg, so just left it. But I’m still confused. Maybe he thought I was English and heading south … but … gah. Who knows. Moo.