Of course, there's more to it than that. Softball was invented as a variant of baseball that could be played indoors over winter, but it was popularised amongst girls — who are clearly not good enough to play a real sport — who wanted something to do in the summertime. The ball is larger, the field is significantly smaller, the games are faster, and the pitcher is required to throw underarm. Most of the differences lead softball — when played well, and it usually is, by both men and women — to be a much quicker, more exciting game. Softball is Twenty/20 to baseball's One-Day game.

I occasionally wander down to my local ballpark to watch Canberra's A-grade baseball league games. The standard is much lower than the equivalent men's softball league, but the games are still quite engaging. One of the things I found most striking, after watching a couple of games, was the easy masculinity of the players. Baseball — at least, the games I have watched — seems to be very much a man's game. The players are men the way your father is a man — that simple, confident masculinity that says "Sure, I'm male; I have broad shoulders, I can do stuff with power tools, and I keep losing my keys. So what?" The women — when there were any — were there to help their sons or brothers or boyfriends. As a bloke, I find this fascinating, and somewhat thrilling — in a don't-tell-the-feminists-I'm-not-so-enlightened kind of way.

By contrast, male softball is aggressively macho. The players grunt and groan and scream like That Guy down the gym. When some misfortune befalls them they react like their very manhood is at stake: "That fucktard umpire called me out, so I'm going to spend the rest of the game swaggering around, talking in a deep voice, and loudly announcing my intention to pee standing up next time I need to go potty." Elite softball men act as if they're forever in fear of being called on for playing a girl's game, and so they do everything in their power — short of actually dropping trou — to remind you that they do, in fact, have a penis.

It must be said, this sort of behaviour does not occur at the level I play. Perhaps it's because for my colleagues, softball is a game for the older gentleman, many of whom literally are your father (well, maybe not your father, although there have been rumours ...) — and can therefore be expected to bring your father's easy, responsibility-accepting masculinity to everything they do. Or perhaps — and I prefer this explanation — it's because we suck. If you're an elite player, you will be forgiven for throwing all sorts of tantrums because, it seems, once you have a certain level of talent, you've earned the right to act like a spoiled brat with control issues and some nervousness about his sexuality. If a D-grade player, on the other hand, apes the behaviour of his more elite brethren, the most common response from his team-mates is likely to be, "Who the heck do you think you are? Why don't you shut that foul mouth, zip up your pants, and go back to dropping easy catches like the rest of us?"

And now I'm rather taken with the idea that male softballers who arc up are worried about threats to their manhood. I wonder how successfully I could soothe the savage breast if, next time I'm confronted with a raging ballplayer, I were to remind him that, yes, I'm sure his equipment is still "all there" and he has nothing to prove?

2007 could be described as The Year Of Growing Up. I took a good, long, hard look at myself, and made some hard decisions about where I wanted my life to go, and what sort of person I wanted to be. I left my job and joined the company, on track to become a project manager. I finally knuckled down and finished my university degree. I started looking in earnest for a new place to live.

And — most significantly — I joined a gym and started my diet. For years I had been telling myself that, because I was extremely active in sports, I didn't need to exercise any more, and my diet was just fine. It wasn't. I dieted for three months before I even got up the courage to weigh myself or set foot in a gym; when I finally did step on the scales, I weighed 136kg. Human beings have no business weighing 136 kilos, and human beings who are only 170cm tall ought to be ashamed of themselves. I finally admitted I was ashamed, and started to do something about it. I don't know how big I got — I estimate at least 140 kilos — but I was still growing in early 2007, and I finally did something about it. I've probably lost about 40 kilograms since then. I guess you could say I looked at the scales, and they fell from my eyes. (boom, tish)

2008 was The Year Of Results. The groundwork I'd laid in 2007 started to bear fruit: I got more responsibility and more interesting tasks at work; I was promoted to National level as an umpire; my weight continued to fall sharply; I found myself a lovely apartment not far from City; I took up hiking and found it a deeply enjoyable — in fact spiritual — experience; I started, finally, to feel happy with who I was.

2009 was, uh, not quite so nice. Actually, it was a shit of a year. When it was over I seriously considered grabbing every calendar I could get my grubby little hands on and burning them in a giant funeral pyre while dancing around them naked and yelling for joy. It's true that I brought it on myself: on Near Year's Eve 2008 I managed to get plastered, and spent much of the evening post-midnight baring my soul to a mate, explaining why 2008 was so awesome, and that I expected 2009 to be better. That's right. I said I expected 2009 to be better. I also may have mentioned something about letting myself fall in love. I'm calling 2009 The Year I Went Off The Rails, but probably a better name would be The Year I Should Have Seen Coming.

So, yeah, 2009 really kicked off a couple weeks later, when my girlfriend dumped me. I was still reeling from this — being a big baby with no sense of proportion — when work dumped the Project From Hell in my lap. This and a couple of other extremely difficult projects saw me spending most of 2009 in the office. I stopped going to the gym. I stopped cooking for myself. I only barely managed to eat healthy by extending the definition of "healthy" to include anything reasonably low-calorie, so that at least I did not put on weight. But I've been pretty well stable for most of the last year, even despite some early-year hiking. I know exactly what I need to do to start losing those kilos again, to get into double figures — maybe even reach my goal weight this year. I just haven't been doing it.

But this isn't 2007, 2008, or 2009. It's 2010, baby. What is this year going to be? I'd like to proffer: The Year I Took Back What Was Mine. Or at least, The Year I Got Back On Track. I've already been promoted, and moved to a different location. Ironically, the work I'm getting now is more appropriate to my new position: so I have less work to do, because in my old job I was being given projects so far above my job description I'd get nose bleeds just reading my to-do list. I'm getting home from work around six, six-thirty each day, and have plenty of time to cook myself something healthy. I need to get back to the gym soon. I need to start going to bed earlier and getting up earlier. These are all small, achievable things, and they will all do wonders for my life. I've already started: I can't wait to go further.

• What if the new Doctor Who series used the Orbital mix as its theme? I really think this could have worked, and — as awesome as the real theme undeniably is — it would've meant we continued the tradition of the Doctor Who theme being electronic.
• Comparing Rowling's Snape with the one the fans have invented — where a repulsive villain is turned into a sex bomb by inattentive readers because Evil Is Sexy (TV Tropers call this phenomenon Draco in Leather Pants).
• Ralph Lauren caught photoshopping model to make her thinner — drop-dead gorgeous model Filippa Hamilton is considered "too fat" by Ralph Lauren management, who insist that her photos be altered to make her look thinner ... so thin, in fact, that her head is larger than her pelvis. She is later fired for being too attractive. I Am Not Making This Up.
• Speaking of being thought "too fat", here's an illustrated guide to the Body Mass Index. Some of the women pictured are skinny, some are ... not; but you'd have a hard time working out what the BMI scale would have to say about each woman just by looking at her. Also, unless I'm very much mistaken, one of the beautiful ladies pictured is none other than Shauny, whose 'blog I assume you're reading, because you're too smart not to.
• The geekiest tattoo ever seen. 'Tis awesome. (via that drew).

My first stop was at the Royal Australian Mint in Deakin; more to play around on the oval there than anything else, if only because the Mint itself is being refurbished and not looking its best at the moment.

I started by taking a photo of my tormentor.

I spent a lot of time taking photos of signs (some of the ones not attached today might make their way into a "form one lane"-themed site design). I like signs.

I do agree with the view put forth by the likes of Tom Vanderbilt and Hans Monderman, that most road signs are unnecessary, at worst a distraction and at best a crutch for poor drivers. However, I find there's something oddly charming about the combination of officiousness and helpfulness in so many of our signs. This is not to say that every sign holds that same charm.

The Mint oval is in very good condition and has some nice toys, such as a fake-turf cricket pitch (most Government playing fields use concrete), some very well-maintained practise nets, and lush, verdant grass. I got some quite attractive photos of these two argumentative peewees enjoying the grass, but I repeatedly failed to catch them in action as they head-butted each other. I don't think they were friends.

I walked a little further on. You can always tell you're in Australia because if you take a stroll around the edges of a popular sporting oval you will find at least one discarded beer bottle. I found two.

I had intended to continue on through North Deakin, but chickened out and took the easier ride on Cotter Road along the outskirts of Yarralumla. That's where the Governor-General lives. I don't know why they advertise it; actually approaching Government House along this route is frowned on by the AFP, although the rich are permitted to play golf nearby.

This part of Cotter Road provides a good view of the Woden skyline, and by "Woden skyline" I mean Lovett Tower and Scarborough House. Lovett Tower is the big white building in the centre of shot. Were I a little closer, it would appear as 26 storeys of ugly (though from a distance, I admit it's quite lovely). Lovett Tower is the tallest building in Canberra by some margin, and nearly twice the height of any other commercial building. It's visible from as far away as Belconnen, and local lore has it that the reason it's so large in the face of strict Canberra planning rules is that, on the day in 1972 (or whenever) it was approved, the height restrictions had expired — and although the Government rushed to fix this oversight, it was too, too late. I've always loved this story, but I was unable to find any evidence for it with my trusty friend Google.

I became fascinated with some of the shots my camera was able to achieve with my stronger zoom lens attached. Even roadside dirt, weeds and flowers arrested my attention.

If the Americans ever decide to do a fake landing on Mars, the Australian landscape would be quite a suitable source for any photographic evidence required.

Shamed by my laziness in Deakin, I decided to take a detour across to Scrivener Dam. The bike paths from Cotter Road past Scrivener Dam into North Canberra are supposed to be the most well-maintained in the Territory, and provide the most enjoyable ride. I wouldn't know: this day's ride was the furthest I've ever travelled along them. It was rather nice, though. I was more interested in the bubbler that had thoughtfully been provided for thirsty riders at the Dam itself. I'd have fallen to my knees and given thanks, if I'd had the slightest trust in my ability to stand again afterwards.

Don't get me wrong, the Dam itself was quite nice, too.

They don't like you getting too close, though, and there are many signs and stickers — not all of them in good repair — advising that we're being watched. Out of deference to the poor men manning the cameras, and despite the heat, I decided to leave my shirt on.

Something tells me, however, that I needn't have worried about the cameras.

The water-side of the Dam is very pretty indeed, and is at the highest level I've seen it in years. I was struck by how little graffiti and damage had been done; maybe it's because the only nearby residential area is hoity-toity Yarralumla, or maybe the region's youths are taking the camera threats seriously.

There is a viewing platform on the (less picturesque) river-side of the Dam, from which one can see the National Zoo and Acquarium and the growth of the new Arboretum. (Why is it called the Canberra International Arboretum?).

On the way to (and, well, from) Scrivener Dam is a lookout, from which one can see Government House without attracting police attention.

They still don't like you to get too close, however. I like that the "no-tresspassing" sign nearest the Lookout also advises that the House grounds use water drawn from Scrivener Dam; it invites the visitor to assume that one is the result of the other. "Don't jump the fence!", it warns, "You may come into contact with lake water!"

There is a display ring around the lookout with some interesting information. About a third of the display is dedicated to the dispossession of the Ngunnawal tribe, and invites the white visitor to try to imagine the humiliation the local Aborigines must have felt, being forced to rely on rich whites for their livelihood — even as the theft of their old way of life remained in living memory. A few signs and display boards are very poor compensation, but it's surprisingly classy, just the same. My photos, naturally, came out poorly. The boards also mentioned that the cedar tree in front of Government House was planted in 1840.

The Government House Lookout also provided a nice view of the bikepath, as six identically-clad riders passed by. They seemed to be enjoying themselves more than I had been.

Government House was built opposite the Molonglo River, which is still quite pretty, despite the presence of Scrivener. I'm trying to work in the phrase "damming with faint praise" but it's not working out well.

The Molonglo is surrounded by introduced Willow trees, which look pretty enough but are actually quite a pest, an ecological annoyance on the scale of blackberries or foxes or Conservatives.

Most of the area around the Molonglo has been claimed by an equestrian club, and I have too many friends who love horse-riding to make any comment there. Somewhere in the middle of the big field where horses gad about gaily is the Yarralumla Woolshed, which is famous for being built in 1904. Now, don't get me wrong, I like woolsheds as much as the next fellow, and have spent many a diverting hour (well, maybe two or three at most) exploring old farm buildings out west. However, it must be said that if there were a monument to Canberrans' inability to properly understand the scale of a timeline, this is it.

I rode back up through Curtin and stopped at the servo there for an ice cream and a cold softie. It turns out that Paddle Pops are only 84 calories; I doubt I could be trusted to use this information for good and not evil. I sat behind the servo (great view of the dumpster, aircon unit and toilets) and enjoyed my Paddle Pop until I noticed the lot behind me. It's an old carpark that is occasionally used by a local detailing company as a workshop and scrap-heap; I thought the bright midday sun and deep shadows would present an interesting challenge (it didn't; my camera is too good) and snapped away.

It's probably the ugliest part of Curtin, and I'm including the govvie flats in my estimate. After I'd taken a few shots a burly fellow introduced himself as the manager of the servo and asked me to piss off. Politely. Seems the company doesn't take kindly to people taking photos on Shell land. My argument that I wasn't actually taking photos of Shell land didn't hold much weight with him; I gather that he didn't consider it his job to care what sort of arguments anyone made against company regulations, and fair enough too: it isn't. So I finished my drink and scampered on home, where I collapsed, exhausted, sore, and sunburned to all buggery.

There is a bug with it: if I've used any special characters in a main entry (e.g. e acute) some aggregators will throw a tanty. That hasn't happened in the last ten posts, but may at some point in the future. I supposed I could solve the problem with regex, but you know what they say about regex. Isn't that some kind of Happier Living tip — always leave yourself something to do?

It's hard to recognise myself in the photo, partly because I'm not wearing glasses (or pants), and partly because I look a lot thinner than I'm used to. I've now lost 40kg since I started my diet and exercise programme two years ago; the last 10, however, is proving stubbornly, frustratingly difficult to shift. A part of my plan for kick-starting the weight loss again and shedding the last of my TSA image is to start riding my childhood mountain bike around the place.

This arvo I rode down to my gym (3km away, mostly downhill) then veered off through South Canberra for an extended detour (mostly gentle uphill). So in all I rode about 10 kilometres, mostly uphill. Which, y'know, nearly killed me. Hiking caused me to re-evaluate my idea of what a "steep uphill slope" meant; cycling, however, is causing me to backslide. I gather 10 kilometres isn't very far by cycling standards, so I guess I've a ways to go on the whole "fitness" thing. Oh, well, no doubt it'll be worth it.

I'm playing around with one of the photos a little later and decide it would probably look pretty cool as part of a website design. Back In The Day I used to re-design websites at the drop of a nerd's beanie, but I'd barely touched this site since I first wrote the design — and the CMS — over two years ago. So while I was re-doing the design, I took the opportunity to re-write the backend as well: back in '07 I was sort of learning as I went with the CMS, so the code was in serious need of re-factoring. And because I become obsessed easily, that's pretty much all I've been doing (apart from visiting dad and breaking my own spirit on my mountain bike, of course) since Christmas.

So the site's been re-designed, and the post-and-archive delivery thing's had a complete overhaul. The code's almost pretty in places (operative word: almost). I'm very pleased with how the design turned out: clean and simple, and looking like it took hardly any work (ha!). The only downside is I can't really test it: I have Windows running IE8, Google Chrome, and FireFox 3.5.5. Safari is choosing not to run for reasons of its own. I'm particularly curious about IE6.

If anyone reads this, mind giving us a little hint about how it looks on your system?

• A Pictorial Guide to Avoiding Camera Loss, which outlines a great technique for getting your camera back after you've mislaid it. It's ... it's very funny. Trust me.
• Doom II on a Doom 3 engine, which demonstrates some classic maps for DooM II as they would look if they were written for Doom 3 — and, therefore, what DooM II would look like if made today, and by extension, just how much more exciting DooM II was compared to its sequel. Made Of Win. Speaking of which, here's some rendered top-down DooM II maps, which are surprisingly engrossing.
• And finally, speaking of "Made Of Win", we have Average Cats, which seeks to re-introduce sanity and intelligence to the LOLcat phenomenon. Because, you know, it can.

I mentioned back in May that I was just one repaired inner tube away from finding out if I could still ride a bicycle with the same gay abandon I did as a little tacker (incidentally, I love that post; I'll likely never make it as a writer, but I can at least make myself chuckle). The variables are actually quite well-controlled here, since the bike is the same one I rode as an 11-year-old.

It was only on Tuesday that I finally got around to repairing the bike, and I discovered that in the meantime I had managed to lose my bike lock, which fact may not prevent me from going anywhere, but which certainly keeps me from staying there once I arrive. I rode down to Phillip to get myself a new bike lock, figuring that I could just carry the bike around with me inside the bike shop. Phillip's a little over 2km away. Should be easy.

Well, I thought it would be easy. Turns out I'm less fit than I thought. I rolled into the shop on legs that weren't entirely sure what dimension they ought to occupy, but which were sure they were still meant to be peddling. This was pretty much the point the nice young men (and nice and hot young lady) pointed out that my bike seat hadn't been adjusted in, like, ever, and that this probably explained why my knees met my ears with every revolution. I had been pondering that very problem.

The ride home was much easier — easier like whoa, as the young'uns do say. Nonetheless, my legs were on fire, and remained on fire until about five minutes ago. One thing that really struck me is that, unlike other punishing activities like hiking and jogging, I don't actually enjoy cycling that much. Maybe my opinion will change as I get better at it. Maybe I need to try riding a real road bicycle instead of a kid's mountain bike.

My time hiking (which, I believe, I've never 'blogged about) introduced me to the concept that, with enough patience and preparation I can go anywhere. This is an incredibly empowering and liberating thought, and something I'll probably expand on later if I ever regain any semblance of my former self-discipline. But it does require patience, and since any round trip over 10km will take more time than I usually have to spare, I need to find some way to get around faster — some way that still affords me a spot of exercise. I think cycling regularly is the single most effective thing I could do to push me down to my weight-loss goal ... so I'd better bloody get to it.

So, yeah. I think they're pretty sweet t-shirts, and they have one virtue over my usual ill-advised Internet purchases: they're size "L". I don't think I've ever worn a large-sized t-shirt; right around puberty I went from being a tiny skinny kid who swam in "XS" to someone who needed his own pew in Mass.

I once thought that the end result of all my weight-loss labours would be a big label marked "L"; I warned myself that, being stocky and broad-shouldered, I could never expect to be skinny, and would have to make do with the lot of stocky and broad-shouldered men everywhere. However, I'm wearing one of those Large shirts now, and while it's a little too tight to be risked in public as yet, it does promise a future where one day even it will be too big for me. So this evening's trip to the post office has granted me two goals: fit into a Large t-shirt by my twenty-fifth birthday; and one day wear, with a little pride and a lot of self-satisfied smirking, a Medium Threadless tee. I'd better get back to ye olde gym.