James: Missing you

We'd just finished cycling around Ireland and James had a plan. Take the pictures, collect our medals, two bottles, a slice of pizza and straight back to mine to shower. Class. One tiny setback, the great man had forgotten to pack a pair of boxers. Thankfully I'm not shy when it comes to sharing my underwear but I was slightly taken aback when James was less than impressed with the pair offered up. I'd picked them especially, definitely in my top 5. He wore them under duress.
Too baggy, too loose, too long... too blue as well probably, but I had given up entertaining his rant as we wandered gleefully back to our gang of proud cyclists. We happily chipped away at each other for the night. Him wondering if my grandad had picked them and me reminding him his fashion sense may have taken a hit but his sensitive cheeks were in a better place.

James was always correct, literally, he was always right. And so, I knew I needed new boxers. After that night I promised myself I'd phase out my tattered loin cloths in favour of something more fashion forward. You couldn't go wrong with the old pair though, they couldn't go on backwards because of the almightly draft you'd experience on your posterior. Nor inside out, as the button would wander inside and closing the fly was a nightmare.

Two years down the line and I am now the proud owner of all sorts of Calvin Klein, Lee Cooper and one or two Penney's numbers. Everytime I look down and realise I have had my boxers on inside out or back to front, all day, I think of James and smile. I needed to move on, but boy am I struggling.

I loved seeing James let loose. There was no better sight, most memorably on a football field. He was a human metronome, he kept us ticking with his 100% pass completion rate. Myself and Ferdia would stand on the sideline and compare him to Xavi and Iniesta, nothing went astray. He tracked back, he created space, he gave the ball to others in need of glory and covered their mistakes when their plans went array. He was a pleasure to play with.

Watching James score a goal was a thing of beauty, but the beauty wasn't in the goal itself. It came slightly later. He'd take up an ideal position, call for the ball until his wish was granted, with one touch he'd kill it perfectly before striking neatly into the back of the net. One for the purists.

What happens next, will stay with me. He'd wheel away and bashfully accept the praise while setting himself for kick off. Just as everyone had returned their concentration to the game he'd fire out the most perfect fist pump. Fist starting low at the hip and driving upwards towards his chest. Once I knew it existed I always looked out for it and I'm so happy I did.

"That's the job Lundy!"

I was upset for months after he stopped playing our Wednesday game in favour of running. Partially because Ferdia doesn't pass as much as James would but mostly because I loved sharing in his joy.

He seemed to think I had a burning desire to run. I'd wander through the office and he'd catch my eye, wink and beckon me towards him with his head. Like a puppy I'd wander over trying not to smile, knowing he had something up his sleeve.

He'd mention a marathon and half a dozen half marathons he was doing in preparation. "C'mon Philly, sign up. I'll pick you up in the morning, we'll head down, run the race, we'll get some lunch in (insert researched lunch destination) and we'll have a great chat!" I'd tell him I hadn't done any training and he'd tell me it'd be grand... and it was.
I'd hop into the car, he'd pretend to be annoyed because I was two minutes late, keep up the facade for a while before he'd burst into laughter, cracking himself up.

"Anyway, what do you want to listen to? I have Bruce Springsteen (insert album title) or Bruce Springsteen (insert album title)." I'd ask if the radio was working, he'd say no, I'd say I was happy to sit in silence and he'd put on Bruce. A couple of minutes of Bruce and banter later I would ask, "Is this the album with Ring of Fire or American Pie? Think they are the only Bruce songs I know."

At Clontarf and Bohermeen I made him wait but the hug at the finish line made the pain of

the last hour and fifty minutes fade away.

I used to love giving James a hug. Hugging another male colleague in the office in front of all his team was not his idea of a comfortable situation so I made sure I did it as often as possible. "On your feet!" or "Please be upstanding!" were my favourite orders before grabbing him and holding him way too long. It was especially rewarding in front of one of his new starters.

On Sunday, I took James's entry and ran the Wicklow Gaol Half Marathon. I've cycled through Wicklow plenty of times but for some reason I never thought the half marathon would be full of hills. When he listed the half marathons he wanted me to do he would always start with the flat ones. He mentioned the Wicklow one and I asked if it had hills, he said one or two and I politely declined to take part... "But you'll do the Clontarf one Philly, yeah?"

Two things stand out from Sunday... Puff Daddy and crossing the finish line.

Let's start at the end. The race finishes with a 2km downhill before you turn a corner and you're faced with a 300m uphill climb. I love to sprint the end of a race, just empty the tank and deal with the consequences later. I was doing fine for the first 150m but I was fading fast, the tank was nearing empty.

"Come on Lundy, give me something here!" I roared. Suddenly, it was as if his hand was on my back driving me forward and I flew up the hill. I reached the brow with a smile on my face and crossed the line, instantly reaching around to feel for his hand still on my back. If our traditional finish line hug is replaced with his presence driving me on, it'll have to do. 

Obviously there was only gonna be one playlist that would get me through 21km of Wicklow countryside... All Out 90's! With 13km out of the way Billie Piper, Natalie Imbruglia, B*Witched and many other "artists" had given me their all but I was beginning to fade.

Then I heard it, Puff Daddy and Faith Evans, "Missing You".

"Memories give me the strength I need to proceed, strength I need to believe"

Our chat before I decided to go back to Hays.

Dropping over a white shirt before a wedding because I'd been moaning about having to buy one.

Calling over to mine for a cup of tea that I let you make because I was too hungover to get off the couch.

Our breakfasts in Hobart's avoiding the brunch crowd.

Listening to you tell me about your family... Mam, Dad, Jacqueline, Clare, Edward, Jason, the boys, Samir, Paul, Danielle... I can hear you now "Well as I said to ..."
Wearing matching braces and dickie bow for the Christmas party.

Getting up at 7.30 on a Sunday morning to make breakfast for myself and Pippa for the Aussie Open final because you had Eurosport.

That random day drinking with myself, yourself and Darren.

Being Cookie Monsters with Mike.

Memories, that's the job Lundy!

Dreams, they can't come true...surely!

They say you should live out your dreams... I'm terrified of mine. When my head hits the pillow I have no idea where I will end up, literally sometimes.

Jimmy Carr once said, "There is only one thing more boring than listening to someone talk about their dreams, and that is listening to someone talk about their children."

If the prospect of boredom has not deterred you, join me on a weird and wonderful trip featuring cocaine, duvets, bicycles and much more besides.

To set the scene, I come from a family of "active sleepers". One of us has nearly choked on an imaginary stylus and also tried his hand at taking the curtains from their hinges, because he thought he was taking down the sails on his boat.

While sharing a bedroom with my brother we once woke up chatting away to each other, simultaneously deep in sleep and chat.

The feeling of relief that comes with waking from a particularly dastardly dream is reward for the moments lost trying to comprehend what I have just done. Recently I was wandering the streets of Dublin selling cocaine without a blind bit of interest in being discreet. I was robbed of my "snow" and woke up terrified of what my supplier would do to me.

More recently I came face to face with a US Army operative wielding an automatic weapon. He had the upper hand as I hid behind a banister, in my old apartment, and bravely avoided a hail of bullets. My survival skills, or the sound of my alarm, allowed me to come out unscathed.

That very same apartment was the stage for some memorable night time activity... no giggling.

After a charity cycle, spanning 6 days and over 700km, I took to my bed with slumber in mind. A recent spate of bike robberies in Dublin meant I kept mine beside my bed. I fell asleep and hours later I woke up, lying on my back, nothing unusual there... except I was now holding my bike by the frame above my chest.

For some unknown reason I had decided to chest press my bike while fast asleep.

"Get the bike out of your room!" I hear you cry. If I had done that, this wouldn't have happened.

The sound of my chain going around and around woke me one Sunday morning. I ignored it for a while until I could take it no longer. Eventually, I moved to the bottom of the bed and stuck my hands into the chain but the sound continued. As the aural pandemonium increased I pulled the chain off the bike. That didn't stop the assault on my eardrums.

I came to my senses when my housemate arrived to check on the commotion. There I am at the bottom of the bed covered in black chain oil. "You alright, is that your alarm making all that noise?"

One summer night, I awoke with my head and duvet hanging out the window of that very same bedroom. I was clinging to my duvet as it dangled three storeys above street level, the fresh night air woke me with a start. I thought the duvet was full of water and it made sense to empty it out the window.

Have you ever shared a room with a colleague on a trip abroad, gone to sleep in different beds and woken up on top of them?

I think I was trying to evade something on one side of my bed so I scarpered to the other. I didn't consider how close our beds were as I made my escape and next thing I knew half my body was between both beds... which probably would have been fine, if the other half of my body wasn't draped across his.

The next morning, "Should we talk about last night?", he asked. It's an awkward conversation to have with anyone, least of all a Director in the company you work for.

I'm not really sure what to do with my dreams. Some have very useful outcomes, I'm now very good friends with my Director, but how do I analyse the outcomes of my other night time narratives?

Should I sleep in a room devoid of distracting objects, complete with locked windows and doors? Do I contact as many coke dealers as possible to warn them of the perils of lacksadasical dealing? Would the Don appreciate a tweet advising him of a rogue soldier intent on, at best, destroying a staircase?

Part of me would love to wake from a sleep where my mind has completely switched off but I also have an overriding sense of intrigue to find out where I will end up next.

That intrigue will no doubt win out, which will put me in a fairly healthy position if the Corrs ever come true on their promise to start buying dreams, "Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?"

Mountains of perspective

It's the smell of urine in the laneway in town, it stays in your nostrils and sticks to your shoes. The pungent aroma follows you for the day, the bad smell you can't shake off. It ruins your morning, even when the smell is gone, your mind tricks you into thinking it is still there.

The introspection starts, do I smell? Can my colleagues smell it? Do they think it is me? Fortunately, my day takes hold, the noxious fumes fade and the torment dissipates.

I wonder is homelessness like the smell of piss that never fades?

They wake up with it, it follows them through their day, it torments the mind. Do they wonder is everyone looking at them and thinking... "Homeless"?

"They" seems so harsh, so distant, we're worlds apart. Hang on, we share the same streets, the same biology and often the same conversations.

I once worked in the type of sandwich shop the Celtic Tiger was reared on. Brioche, focaccia, ciabatta... You know the sort. At the end of each day the wastage was massive. We could take what we wanted and dump what we didn't. One evening I took a few sandwiches for the homeless fella on the way home.

"From where? No thanks!" A man of principles when it came to the kind of sandwich he would eat. Beggars can be choosers it would seem... and why the hell not?!

More recently, at lunchtime, my mood drove me to a slightly, slimmed down version of the "Fat Philly Meal Deal". The crisps and coke didn't make it but the chicken fillet roll and potato wedges did. I strolled shamefully back to work, taking a right turn down a lane I knew was a favourite of the homeless.

"Can you spare some change bud?", I was asked. I mumbled and shuffled on, mimicking the scene played out a million times a day. The weight of guilt and potato wedges consumed me and I turned on my heels. I thrust the wedges in his direction and rather embarrassingly said "You need these more than I do."

In McDonalds one evening. Two young ladies, in the throes of a Thursay night out, chatted aimlessly with another young man. "Where are you off to tonight?", the ladies were asked. "We're not sure, probably to a few bars. How about yourself?" they lofted back with interest. "Back to my dog and the street, I'm homeless."

What can we do for the beggar who chooses, the man whose chips are down, the fella who doesn't look homeless and the thousands for whom the sky is their only roof?

Next weekend, myself and 30 colleagues will attempt to climb the highest peak in each of the four provinces of Ireland, in one weekend. Our goal is to raise at least €15,000 for The Simon communities across Ireland.

Needless to say, I bought my hiking boots yesterday and am relying on my five a side football, tag and occasional gym experiences to get me through this one. This is going to be tough.

We start on Friday with Carrauntoohil, followed by Mweelrea and Slieve Donard on Saturday and the ascent of Lugnaquilla on Sunday.

I don't know what we are doing but I do know there will be aches and pains, wind and rain, cuts and blisters.

We're doing this because we want to make a difference. Hopefully this feat will inspire you to dig deep and give what you can to help solve a problem that impacts way too many people.

Any donation is big and will have a real impact. Click here to help.

We all have our mountains to climb, thankfully our four are physical.

Mind what you say

It's a Wednesday night in a Dublin suburb, cold and wet. We're on a 5 a side football field. A once competitive game has erupted into a minor kerfuffle. An opposition player is heading for the sin bin and himself and his team mates aren't happy about it.

A muster of peacocks has appeared and filled out their jerseys for a spot of posturing.

Most of the team's vitriol is directed at the referee, the goalkeeper's face is red with rage. From the other end of the field, he roars insult after insult at the whistleblower. His team mates join in, they surround the referee... I'm standing with my back to the goalkeeper enjoying the spectacle.

All of a sudden... who says "all of a sudden", outside of Leaving Cert Irish?

Anyway, as quick as the wind, the goalkeeper decides that one of our players should also leave the pitch for an as yet undisclosed indiscretion. Our combustible protagonist pierces the air with this rather compelling argument, "He needs to go too ref, he has to go, he has to go too for, for eh... for AGRRO!"

We've all been there, when the anticaption of something great doesn't quite live up to the eventual outcome. That feeling, when you know the spotlight is on you and you fail to deliver.

This brought a smile to my face. So I turned around, more to check that this lad was smiling, as much as anything. He wasn't.

Our eyes met, the world stood still for a moment, rain drops suspended in mid air, awaiting the outcome of this most unromantic of midweek encounters. I felt awkward staring into this man's soul, so I grinned.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH YOU BALDY, FAT C$NT", he exclaimed. My grin disappeared and I rather meekly whispered in reply, "I didn't open my mouth".

He wasn't about to get bogged down in semantics and I wasn't about to explain the concept.

I eventually regained my composure... Water off a duck's fat I suppose! No more foie gras for me.

It's been a rough couple of weeks now that I think about it.

I was at the supermarket checkout, there were two close together, it was the line for baskets. I was greated by a lovely lady, more senior than I. She dilligently scanned my purchases, bagged them and, as the final item fell into the bag, she sat back and waved her hands in front of her face in an effort to cool herself down.

She looked me dead in the eye, she didn't but it sounds better, and said "It's very hot in here!" Quick as a flash I smiled and said "Sorry, that's probably because of me!"

Quicker than a flash, her colleague on the next till, of similar vintage, said "No it's not you, there's really bad air circulation in here."

All of a sudden I felt it get a lot hotter!

After Africa

From 7 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon the Chifundo Campus is alive with the sound of children. Smiles, laughter, shrieks and yells pierce the air. We could be in any playground in the western world, we're not. We're in the heart of Zomba, one of the poorest places on earth. Broken hose pipes form skipping ropes one minute and impromptu telephones the next as imagination runs wild. The girls clap their hands while singing songs and the boys leave dust in their wake tearing after one another. In the classroom their desire to learn is insatiable, they devour books and do not stop until they understand words like "rustle", "smokey" and "Belfast". They hang on our every word and some now pronounce "thumb" with a strong Wexford accent.

It's winter in Malawi, the clock strikes 6pm and the sun disappears. Cold air replaces the scorching heat of two hours previous. Darkness invades every space. The houses in their villages have no electricity, no heating, no running water... the kids disappear across their threshold where they stay until light returns. Childhood should be full of stimulants and sensory activities as they explore their world, here it's not. "Go inside and read, draw a picture, learn a song" or "Play outside with your brothers and sisters"... worthless statements once the sun goes down on these villages.

There are no psychologists or child experts on hand but it's hard not to wonder what impact this has? A prisoner knows why they are locked up each day, these children suffer the same fate because of the lottery of their circumstance.

We all have potential and generally we are afforded the opportunity to fulfil a large part of it.

Go right back to your earliest memory of school, take a look around the classroom. Pick out your classmates, the uniforms, the pictures on the walls, the coats hung neatly on their pegs, the nature table... Delete everything except the students and keep adding kids until 99 surround you. Bring in a teacher, watch him trip over students, forced to sit on the floor, as he makes his way to the blackboard. He begins his lesson and you strain to see beyond the cluster of heads in front of you, your ears betray you as they ignore the teacher and pick up the constant background noise. This is your reality, day after day you come to primary school.

Secondary school is your goal, to get there you need to achieve 60% in your English exam. Good luck!

The Chifundo Foundation takes some of the poorest children out of this situation and gives them a chance. Your donations send these kids to private schools, where they are taught in smaller groups, by better teachers. Their education will lead them to a job and break the cycle of poverty.

One boy can draw a full skeleton and name all the parts. His father earns €30 a month as a tailor who's regarded as too old fashioned to require his services.

One morning we called the children to class. They came running, all except one, he lay motionless in the shade of the tree. He did not have the energy to move from his perch. No wonder, he hadn't been fed since the previous afternoon.

There were 25 girls in our group, innocent, happy and intelligent. Without education, the dark shadow of prostitution looms large.

There is a boy of 12 who lives with his brother and sister, his parents are dead. His brother and sister are 4 and 6. He missed the first two days of class and on the third turned up in a shirt, trousers and shoes, doing his best.

A wonderful Belfast man set about gathering discarded kids football jerseys. Each day we handed out a new jersey to three deserving recipients, by the end of the two weeks they all had one. Now there are kids wearing football jerseys with Gotze, Alonso, Coutinho and one poor fella with Ibe on the back, daring to dream. Their gratitude was incredible, bowing before us as they received their gift with open arms.

In the morning we taught them English, in the afternoon we played sports with them. The way they stared, they way they listened, the way they marvelled... If nothing else the children of Chifundo know there is something beyond their village and education can get them there.

They don't know your name, what you look like or where you are from but these children know you exist. One day, because of what you have done for them, they will express their gratitude to you in person.

When you strip everything away, circumstance, hardship, geography, disease... children are children. Check out these kids being kids!

Into Africa

"Why are you doing it?” he asked, his eyes burning a hole in my conscience. I held his inquisitive gaze for a moment before I asked him to repeat the question. Not because I'd forgotten the question, I was simply buying some time as I figured out how best to respond.

It appeared as though I had done or was about to do something outrageous, probably cruel and most likely illegal. "No, genuinely, I want to know why you are doing this?” my interrogator probed deeper.

I went all Billie Piper in my response, “Because I want to!" Fingers crossed the life of wild debauchery and ill informed choices will not be my lot too. Actually, wild debauchery doesn't sound too bad.

Alas, my friend's question is valid... and has stayed with me for the six weeks since he pricked my conscience. Now, with less than a week to go, I wonder, "Why am I heading off to coach the children in Malawi football for a week in July?"

Don't worry Billie, I do want to, but there must be more to it... and there is, I think.

These children are poor, but then what does poor mean? They live in houses with mud for a floor, most cannot read or write. Among these children prostitution has robbed them of a mother. Their families may earn as little as fifty euro a month, yet petrol costs the same as it does here.

Yet they play, they play with anything and everything. Bits of wood, broken glass, machetes... a ball made of elastic bands. I want to see what they can do with their ball and given the opportunity what they could do with a size 4 regulation football. Will their eyes fill with wonder as they chase not one or two, or ten, but thirty brand new balls in a field? What will happen if we give these children the opportunity to experience something kids in our neighbourhoods take for granted?

Maybe nothing. Or maybe it will light a spark, not to become a footballer, but to realise what they have is not all they must have and that with a little help and a lot of effort change is possible.

I want to go so I can spend time with my friend. Our lives are busy and time is precious. Social encounters in our world revolve around weddings, birthdays, stags, nights out and a lot gets lost in the haze. He is one of my greatest friends; he sees no boundaries, no obstacles, no impossibles. He and his family gave birth to the Chifundo Foundation!

He's a teacher in a foreign land. I want to hear his stories from that land as he teaches the children of Chifundo how to play the tin whistle or sing a Beatles song. The man is one of the most deadly five a side players I have ever seen, I want to play football with him and with every touch reminisce of college days gone by. A week of memories to last us past the next wedding or stag is what I want.

I don't have much but I have more than I need. These children don't have anything and need much more than that. I'm no mathematician but it would appear I have something to give. If I was in need would these children come to my aid? They don't know I exist nor have the means. I know they exist and I have the means.

Why am I doing it? Because I can help do something that might make a difference, because I want to do something that might make a difference and most of all, because these children want someone who wants to make a difference. Or so I have been told...

"How much money do you give to charity each year?” my friend asked his parents. They totted it up and realised if they pooled their resources they could do something together. They asked a friend in Malawi what they could do with this money and the response was simple...education. The Chifundo Foundation started by sponsoring 5 children through primary school in 2007. To date they have helped in the education of nearly 50 of the poorest children in Malawi.

Read all about it here! There's a donate button just waiting to be clicked too, it's on the right hand side on desktop and all the way down the bottom on mobile.

How you doin' sweaty pie?

My internal thermometer has a favourite song. It goes something like this, "I'm gonna make you sweat, sweat till you can sweat no more..." and when I cry out, I know it's gonna make me sweat some more. Sweating has become as much a part of me as my accent (who am I kidding, I don't have an accent), my hair (who am I kidding...) and my impeccable dress sense.

It's been embarrassing, funny, frustrating, humiliating and at times alienating (not always a bad thing). I first recall my sweat ducts making a proper impact on my life during my Leaving Cert exams and ever since then I have lived with the knowledge an unquenchable water source was ready and willing to pour forward at any moment.

Looking back, every moment is laced with humour. At the time, not so much. I have learned to laugh or pass it off with a blase comment, although try being blase when the shirt you walked into the bar in has turned to a darker shade of blue from the light blue you started off with. Sometimes, there's nothing you can do other than squirm and frantically wipe your brow while pretending to fix your hair. Although try convincing someone you're fixing your hair when there's not much to fix.

I was on work experience with a local radio station. I was working with the promotions team doing events. I was 16. I was self conscious. There were girls. I was having trouble hiding the sweat patches. These kind of conditions hone resourcefulness in young males. I decided that the best approach was to wear a t shirt over my t shirt. Genius. Until the extra layer caused my body temperature to rise, resulting in the inevitable. I couldn't take off a layer because that would leave me back at a wetter square one, so the obvious solution was to add a layer. I remember wearing eight t shirts one day. I looked like I was built like a brick shit house, with all the hygiene of one too.

Sport opens the flood gates. Two minutes into any game and I will be drenched. It just starts and doesn't stop. It could be the coldest day, lashing rain with intermittent snow storms and I will still sweat. Brilliant when you head up for a corner and the opposition defender gets a little too close and then immediately recoils in horror. "Holy f^ck, what the f&ck is wrong with you?!" is one of my favourite reactions, "Hard work, you should try it!", is my favourite response, if we're winning. That is of course if I am playing football against men.

Tag rugby against a mixture of men and women... a little different. It's generally a non-contact sport, but contact is inevitable. When my t shirt feels like it has just come out of the wash, the girl I run into will not thank me. Generally she will be polite and won't say anything... verbally that is. She will, however, communicate. Her face contorts slowly, she grimaces for about five seconds and her eyes burn through me. We're never gonna be friends, which is great because it's harder to grab my tag while avoiding droplets of projectile sweat!

The slightest changes in temperature have an astronomical impact. My previous employers had two offices. I worked in the freezing one and often made the trip over to the sauna version. One morning I arrived in the office to set up my laptop. The unthinkable happened, I couldn't find a socket for my machine. I began to panic. I was on all fours, fumbling around on the floor. I couldn't get the image of my crack on show for all to see out of my head. I got myself into a wild frenzy, imagining my emergence from the undergrowth being met by every colleague I had ever met staring at me.

Obviously this didn't happen, but I was in such a tizzy my sweat glands reacted like never before. My hair was soaked through, my shirt was stuck to my back, my crack was probably being eroded by the river of sweat pouring south. I was literally having a meltdown, when up pops the resident comic "Are you alright there, I didn't think showers were forecast?". I'd almost convinced myself it was barely noticeable.

Recently I was called to a meeting to have some new responsibilities and changes to my job explained. Nothing to worry about just a few more obligations. This is how it panned out:

Manager: How is your current workload?
Me: Fine, manageable, I'm not under too much stress.
My thoughts: Wow, it's warmer in here than I thought.
Manager: Obviously with the recent changes you will need to take on extra workload.
Me: That's no bother
My thoughts: Am I sweating? Ah for f*ck sake, this is awkward
Manager: So we will need you to blah... blah..
Me: ....
My thoughts: What is going on?! I'm not even listening, a drop of sweat just jumped from my forehead onto the desk.
Manager: Is that going to be a problem?
Me: I can't think why it would be
My thoughts: Is what going to be a problem?! Oh shit I haven't been listening!
My thoughts: Of course you haven't been, you're covered in sweat and probably turning pale, stop wiping your face! Wipe your face for God's sake! Don't make eye contact.
My thoughts: Just make reference to it with a joke and be done with it
Manager: So are you happy with all those changes?
Me: Yeah, sounds good.
My thoughts: She better send a mail detailing what we have just been talking about because I have been fighting an internal tsunami.

Mass... I used to dread the sign of the peace. A teenagers limp handshake is made all the more pathetic when a good grip is nigh impossible.

I once had to leave an interview I was sweating that much. I wasn't being interviewed, I wasn't even the one leading the interview. I dropped out for a glass of water and spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom with my shirt under the hand dryer!

So next time I walk into a room, subtly ratch up the radiator a couple of notches, sit back and enjoy the show. Shamu ain't got nothing on this splash zone! Just make sure you have enough of those yellow "slippery when wet" signs at the ready.