A Grand Day Off

Well...did you watch the wedding?

I'm having the day off, frankly. Not from dieting and sensible eating, of course - let's not go crazy - but a day off from the bike...possibly two.

I should say, I'm not doing this in some kind of tribute to the married couple, or the monarchy, or any of that. By discipline, my first 'career' as such was 'historian', and as such, in Britain, I learned a lot about the history of kings and queens, and make no mistake, they make great stories. From the poisonous machinations of the Angevins to the cataclysmic wars of the Plantagenets, the insane drama of the Tudors, the wars of the Stuarts, the madness of the Georgians, and the travails of the Windsors, there are fantastic stories from every era of royal history. Anyone who's watched The King's Speech can probably relate.

Having said that, there's something inherently republican (in the no-marchy sense of the word) in my nature. Something 21st century, and no-point-to-inherited-privilege, and not-getting-drawn-into-public-hysteria and generally joy-sucking about my relentless rationalism.

That said, as human beings, I have abbbbsolutely no problem with either the Duke or Duchess of Cambridge, and given the goldfish-bowl in which they live, they give the impression of being refreshingly normal and - and this is surely crucial - of being genuinely in love and optimistic and hopeful for their future. I've heard it said several times that 'in the world we live in, with everything that's going on, it's lovely to have something hopeful to all get together on, and have a moment's happy pause.'

(Shrugs) If you like. I think perhaps in the modern world, we're rather dangerously addicted to hope, sometimes at the expense of reason - and we make gods and fairytales out of ordinary human beings, because we need them to keep our addiction fed. You can see the gaps of course as far back as the 'fairytale' romance of Prince Charles and Diana Spencer - in reality a horrifying lockdown into a course of events that saw a Princess Bride already aware as she walked down the aisle that her husband loved someone else, and a couple almost guaranteed to grow strained and estranged. You can see it again in the 'Audacity of Hope' election of Barack Obama - surely one of the most rational politicians of our times, but, as comedian Dylan Moran puts it, 'his biggest problem is everybody else - is us. Cos he says sensisble things like "we've all got to work together, and we're having a tough time," and everyone else goes "No! You do it...You are SuperJesus..."'

So let's not make them into a fairytale. But let's also acknowledge that, unique in recent royal history - I think the last time this happened was with the current Queen and Prince Philip - these two have known and liked each other for a decade. They've laughed, they've rowed, they've even split up before getting to this day. As far as 'keeping it real' is concerned, I reckon this pair might well make it. So good luck to 'em, I say.

But as I say, I'm not having a day off in tribute to them. I'm having a day off because, really rather pathetically, injured myself again. Now blisters from walking too much is perfectly understandable, and not fat-fuck-specific. Today's injury though...is all me.

As I said yesterday, I've taken to doing two or even three stints on the bike per day while I'm at home, to make up for not being able to do the walking. Well last night, I developed a sort of sunburn-sensation on my right thigh, halfway through my first ten miles. I finished it off, looked down, but couldn't see anything, so carried on with my second ten miles, the pain getting higher and sharper and bitchier with every mile I cycled. Oh, I should warn you now, there's one of those raw, did-he-really-say-that moments of way-too-much-information coming up - hide your eyes or stop reading now if you don't really want to know what it's like to be a fat fuck.

Because...there was a reason I couldn't see anything on my leg.
It's called my stomach. I have a fair number of rolling pale blubber-flaps, and a procession of them had been hiding the injury I was doing to myself. Not to menation causing the injury I was doing to myself. It wasn't till I was in the shower, and I managed to pick up a couple of flab-rolls and pull them to one side that I saw it. The skin had been rubbed raw on my right thigh, to the point of breaking open in a thin needle-line of blood. And rubbed raw by what? Well, by my final belly of course, armed with salt-sweat. It had acted like sandpaper, as my legs moved to power the pedals, time after time after time, bringing the pain and concealing the injury.

So that - rather than any royalist servility - is why I'm hanging around for a couple of days with my trousers off and my knees exposed to the world, with Savlon oozing from my thighs. Sadly, this means no swimming tomorrow (Sorry Mae!), and of course the lack of exercise makes me generally worried for Tuesday, but I'm not gonna get panicky about that....yet!

In fact, d's made 'English' Muffins in celebration of the Royal Wedding, and dammit, I'm going away right now to eat one.

Well, maybe not right now, cos they're an excuse to tell you a quick story. d, as most of you know by now, is an American, living over here in London since she madly agreed to marry me. She'd been here about three years when we were wandering through the aisles of the local Sainsburys, and she turned ot me in irritated despair.
"I don't know what it is," she said, "but how come you people don't sell English Muffins anywhere?! I've been here for three years now and I can't find them anywhere!"

I pointed to a packet, staring us almost directly in the face.
"Muffins," it said. "Get your fresh muffins here."
"But..." she said. "But they're not...English Muffins...are they? I thought they were....something else..."
Bless...

Blood was 4.8 this morning. So, not too bad. Now....mufffins...(Oh and if you're reading this, Wendy Gooding, stop chortling!)