Beautiful breakfast with d and Ma and some of Wendy's family. Home from Kilworth House via a quaint Tudor village called Ledbury, where we stopped for the kind of lunch you can only do when you're in a whirlwind of hedonism, promising to reform in the morning. Butternut squash soup, and a cream tea. Yep, cream. Yep, tea. Yep, get over it.
Got home, chilled out for a ridiculously short amount of time, and then got dressed for a choir performance. Ma turned up in her car to drive me up to the chapel in one of the higher bits of the town.
"How you doin'?" I asked.
"I'm dead," she said. I sniffed.
"Looking good on it," I decided.
Turned out she'd had a letter from the Department of Work and Pensions - which she'd had to contact following the death of my Dad. "Thank you," it said, "for the information regarding the death of..."
Then it printed my mother's name.
My mother's name.
She smiled. Sweetly.
"I'm going to talk to them Monday," she promised, with the kind of annunciation that makes kings and presidents shudder.
"Zombie apocalypse," I muttered to myself.
"Hmm?"
"You're going to insist on a resurrection, I'm assuming?"
She looked at me, smiling horribly.
"Y'know, I just might..." she said.
"So," she asked. "Back to perspex boxes tomorrow then?"
"Back to perspex boxes in the morning," I confirmed.
"Me too," she agreed, encapsulating a sense of resurrection and new beginnings that's left over from the wedding.
So here's to tomorrow.
Friday 30 November 2012
29th November - The Wedding Hedonism
So there you have it. My mate Wendy walked down an aisle,
actually hand in hand with her beloved, Maria, today, and everybody clapped and
almost-cried, and burst their hearts with gladness for them both.
Of course, it is true that everybody also nearly pissed
themselves, somewhat cruelly but equally unavoidably, at the registrar, who had
a most unfortunate lithp when it came to pronouncing words like “Regithrar”…and
“Leithterthire”, and perhaps most unavoidably hilarious of all, “Thivil
Partnerthipth”. Bless her, she meant well, and was perfectly within the law,
but really, I think if you’re going to have a heavy lithp, you might be just as
well to stick to marriageth…
But generally, the day went beautifully well – starting with
breakfatht…oh stoppit!...breakfast, which was highly professional and, once
again, taken in the Orangery, this time by daylight and white and bright and
like eating in a beautiful long conservatory.
What is it about hotel breakfasts that turns perfectly
rational human beings into the Emperor Caligula on a bender? I ordered the Full
English, and that – bar the black pudding, of which I’m not notably a fan – was
what arrived: sausage, bacon, egg, tomato, fried bread, so far, so tasty. Then
a couple of holderfuls of toast arrived, and I figured “fuck it, I’m on
holiday,” so I got stuck into that too. Enough to satisfy the hungriest bloke
who ate, all in all, about eight hours before, right?
Yeah, but there was other stuff there. So I gamely tucked into plain yogurt with fruit compote, and
fruit juice – which incidentally is by no means the innocent choice people
think it is, and more than calorifically deserves the kudos given to it in the
70s as a course of its own. Then I did a hit and run of the cereal bar,
scooping spoonful after spoonful of various different breakfasts into the same
bowl. Because ti was there, and technically, it was included in the price of
the room. Did I want it? Probably not. Did I need it? Certainly not. But yes, I
ate it because it was there.
What? It’s a perfectly valid reason when applied to walking
up mountains, but not when chowing them down?
Anyhow – the ceremony went off perfectly, lithp
notwithstanding, and we thankfully didn’t eat again until about 5ish. Three
full courses – soup, steak/chicken and chocolate tart in my case. Then coffee
and petit fours. Because they were there, shut up. Then they brought round
wedding cakes – generous cup cakes made, I strongly suspect, of chocolate
brownie, then iced. I didn’t eat that. I couldn’t. We brought it upstairs and
have packed it away…for tomorrow. Fuck you, technically I’m still on my
holidays tomorrow – there’s another breakfast in about 9 hours, to which I’m
perversely looking forward. I did
however have another nightful of cider, and even though technically I didn’t
need it, I just ate a chocolate tart from Costa while writing this blog entry.
This, incidentally, is how you end up being 20 stone and 5 feet 6. I would have not the slightest
hesitation in guessing that at this moment as I sit here, I weigh more than 18
stone again. And yes, this is the kind of eating and living that got me to my
crisis point in the first place – this is what it looks like when you’re almost intentionally self-harming through
food.
Except this, I am actively, painfully aware, is on longer a
way of life. It’s an aberration, a time of pure hedonistic celebration and
involvement with the joy of my friends. It’s the same impulse that has seen me,
tonight, get up and boogie. To quote Mitch Benn, “I have plenty of natural
rhythm, but it’s all above the waist”, but still, the night was made for
dancing, so on and off, here and there, the Disappearing Man…danced.
Once tomorrow has come and gone, and the sun has set on this
wonderful holiday, and Wendy and Maria have buggered off to Lapland – gotta
love that for a December honeymoon, no? – I will be coming down to the Earth on
which I must now live with a bump. I know this, and accept it, and am to some
extent looking forward to the rigors of pain and exercise and hard bloody work
all over again.
Oh, two nice things as side—notes. I gave a speech as part
of the after-dinner celebrations. Went down very well. Made people laugh, made
people cry (even a couple of hard nuts, I gather), made people go “Oh wow” a
bit, and made a parade of people whose names I couldn’t tell you if you
tortured me come up and shake my hand or hug me and tell me I was fab.
Which could be a dangerous association, were my mind
connectively inclined – wild calorific hedonism=people telling me I’m fab. But
such thoughts must of course be cast out…largely in an abject fear they may be
valid.
And I was given a gift, for doing my bit as a witness to the
ceremony. A kickass new pen, from Wendy and Maria. There’s a crazy bit of
connectivity there too – I always love getting new pens, they inspire me to
write new stories. I can’t wait to see what stories this new one has in it.
But whatever they are, I’ll find them out in a world of
discipline and exercise, not this world of chocolate-tasting madness. Nehh. I
have spoken…
Mmm…breakfast in nine hours…
Thursday 29 November 2012
The Kilworth Infatuation
That's it. We're not coming back.
Like...ever.
Arrived at Kilworth House in Leicestershire at lunchtime, annnnd I'm simply not leaving. It's glorious in a way that goes beyond comfort, and beyond ostentation. It's beautiful in a highly practical manner...and then it has some extra beautiful dumped on top just for swank.
I'm writing this in the Kipling Suite (stoking one's literary pretensions, anyone?), with a four poster bed in the other room, and more space than the whole downstairs of our maisonette. Had a great time with Wendy and Maria and friends, then went down to the magnificent Orangery (a real one, apparently, originally developed for the Lord Sheriff of Leicestershire) for dinner. Had dessert - a knickerbocker glory of some style, yep, shoot me, I'm on my holidays - and three cans of cider. So, Disappearingly, a write-off, but this is what I mean by "once the speed-bump of the wedding's over, I'll get back to normal..."
Tomorrow, one of my best friends gets married to the woman of her dreams. Or, if you want to be prosaic about the whole thing...I'm going away now to digest a huge dinner...ready for more eating in just about seven hours' time.
Hard life, right enough...Hard recovery coming at the end of it all of course, but for now, arrivederci Disappearing World...
I'm so not leaving...you'll get my keycard when you pry it out of my cold, dead hands, ya hear me...!
Like...ever.
Arrived at Kilworth House in Leicestershire at lunchtime, annnnd I'm simply not leaving. It's glorious in a way that goes beyond comfort, and beyond ostentation. It's beautiful in a highly practical manner...and then it has some extra beautiful dumped on top just for swank.
I'm writing this in the Kipling Suite (stoking one's literary pretensions, anyone?), with a four poster bed in the other room, and more space than the whole downstairs of our maisonette. Had a great time with Wendy and Maria and friends, then went down to the magnificent Orangery (a real one, apparently, originally developed for the Lord Sheriff of Leicestershire) for dinner. Had dessert - a knickerbocker glory of some style, yep, shoot me, I'm on my holidays - and three cans of cider. So, Disappearingly, a write-off, but this is what I mean by "once the speed-bump of the wedding's over, I'll get back to normal..."
Tomorrow, one of my best friends gets married to the woman of her dreams. Or, if you want to be prosaic about the whole thing...I'm going away now to digest a huge dinner...ready for more eating in just about seven hours' time.
Hard life, right enough...Hard recovery coming at the end of it all of course, but for now, arrivederci Disappearing World...
I'm so not leaving...you'll get my keycard when you pry it out of my cold, dead hands, ya hear me...!
Tuesday 27 November 2012
The Visionary Dichotomy
The nature of today depends entirely on the direction in which I look. In one direction, we're off to Kilworth House tomorrow for three days of wedding joy with Wendy and her wife-to-be, Maria. Sooo looking forward to that, they're a fab couple.
Then, looking up to Ma's place, there's greyness and rain and the perpetual March of the Asshats - insurance companies, mainly. Plus her freezer, which is relatively new (as in this year), died in the night, meaning another miniature flood and a bunch of spoiled food. She's still waiting for the freezer company to come back to her.
Greyness and grimness continues if I turn to look at another pal, who's really going through some stuff at the moment.
Then looking back at my own life, I'm probably out of control at this precise moment, but am determined to regain focus when we return from the wedding.
Wherever we look of course, there are always stories - dramas, comedies, tragedies and more usually lives, which are at least a little of all three and more. It's just rare in one day to see different directional facets in just turning one's head a couple of degrees. BUT - tomorrow, nothing else matters for three days but Wendy and Maria. The flatline beep you hear is the Disappearing Man...Disappearing. Please leave your name and trauma after the beep, and I'll return your call come Friday.
Then, looking up to Ma's place, there's greyness and rain and the perpetual March of the Asshats - insurance companies, mainly. Plus her freezer, which is relatively new (as in this year), died in the night, meaning another miniature flood and a bunch of spoiled food. She's still waiting for the freezer company to come back to her.
Greyness and grimness continues if I turn to look at another pal, who's really going through some stuff at the moment.
Then looking back at my own life, I'm probably out of control at this precise moment, but am determined to regain focus when we return from the wedding.
Wherever we look of course, there are always stories - dramas, comedies, tragedies and more usually lives, which are at least a little of all three and more. It's just rare in one day to see different directional facets in just turning one's head a couple of degrees. BUT - tomorrow, nothing else matters for three days but Wendy and Maria. The flatline beep you hear is the Disappearing Man...Disappearing. Please leave your name and trauma after the beep, and I'll return your call come Friday.
Monday 26 November 2012
The Disciplinary Boomerang
Life is a very odd way of learning lessons. Still, given that there's
no concrete evidence that death can teach us anything - leastways not
our own - I suppose we're stuck with the lessons we can pick from the
flotsam of our days on this planet, even when those lessons are not
terribly flattering.
I am done with things not fitting - I find it boring, and I find myself not the person I want to be, or indeed the person I feel I am. It's borderline insane of course that weight - that body fat, essentially - should have this kind of impact on one's self-image, but there it is; call me a fallible old sentimentalist if you will. As soon as Wendy's wedding is done this week,though, I want to start getting back into the clothes I bought (or - and here's another of those stabs of self-knowledge - in some cases were bought for me) when I was a few stones lighter and thinner and generally more Disappeared than I am right now. I am done with this bullshit.
Another irritating home truth is that this may well become an easier thing to achieve once this week is done. Why?
Because I go back to work then, essentially.
But surely, having November off was supposed to free me up to do more exercise?
Yes, but clearly, I need an aide de discipline. Clearly, left to my own devices, I can find innumerable better things to do. Clearly, in fact, I need a routine into which to fit my exercise, almost to get away with exercise, as though it is something almost of which to be ashamed. And no, in case you're wondering, I don't really like what this says about my psychology. But if there is one thing demanded of us by the necessity to learn our life lessons, it is that not liking a thing does not make it untrue. So: there is a kind of angry steel feeling in the back of my throat that accepts these things about myself, and will begin to put them to work for me, in the pursuit of further Disappearance. Soon, I will be back at work, with far, far too much to do. Somehow, the perversity of my psychology relishes this fact, and the challenge of fitting exercise into the schedule as well, and somehow making it work for me. Work equals routine. Routine equals discipline. Discipline - perversely, as I seem to keep saying - equals a need to kick against it and still make my desires work for me, ergo it equals a greater determination to fit the exercise I need to do into my days.
All of which adds up to fitting into shirts that fit a 15 stone man and not a 17 and a half stone man, and buttoning up my Disappearing Coat for the winter.
So let's get started, shall we?
I am done with things not fitting - I find it boring, and I find myself not the person I want to be, or indeed the person I feel I am. It's borderline insane of course that weight - that body fat, essentially - should have this kind of impact on one's self-image, but there it is; call me a fallible old sentimentalist if you will. As soon as Wendy's wedding is done this week,though, I want to start getting back into the clothes I bought (or - and here's another of those stabs of self-knowledge - in some cases were bought for me) when I was a few stones lighter and thinner and generally more Disappeared than I am right now. I am done with this bullshit.
Another irritating home truth is that this may well become an easier thing to achieve once this week is done. Why?
Because I go back to work then, essentially.
But surely, having November off was supposed to free me up to do more exercise?
Yes, but clearly, I need an aide de discipline. Clearly, left to my own devices, I can find innumerable better things to do. Clearly, in fact, I need a routine into which to fit my exercise, almost to get away with exercise, as though it is something almost of which to be ashamed. And no, in case you're wondering, I don't really like what this says about my psychology. But if there is one thing demanded of us by the necessity to learn our life lessons, it is that not liking a thing does not make it untrue. So: there is a kind of angry steel feeling in the back of my throat that accepts these things about myself, and will begin to put them to work for me, in the pursuit of further Disappearance. Soon, I will be back at work, with far, far too much to do. Somehow, the perversity of my psychology relishes this fact, and the challenge of fitting exercise into the schedule as well, and somehow making it work for me. Work equals routine. Routine equals discipline. Discipline - perversely, as I seem to keep saying - equals a need to kick against it and still make my desires work for me, ergo it equals a greater determination to fit the exercise I need to do into my days.
All of which adds up to fitting into shirts that fit a 15 stone man and not a 17 and a half stone man, and buttoning up my Disappearing Coat for the winter.
So let's get started, shall we?
Sunday 25 November 2012
Thankfulness II - The Revenge
Oh...my...stomach...
Today we had proper Thanksgiving dinner - or the nearest thing the UK can achieve within a budget. Started eating at about 4pm. Just about 7 we were collapsing onto couches, groaning. Then I had to roll myself off the couch again and go sing. Think I went from a top tenor to a bottom bass tonight!
Did I mention that thing about days when I was gonna celebrate as a proper celebrant, and then have days of proper Disappearing? Yyyyeah, this would be one of the first kind of days.
One of my pals, who's doing their own Disappearing at the minute and who's close to where I am at the minute, texted me yesterday to say "Bum...have gone up a couple of pounds...Did I say? Bum..."
I have a feeling I may well be catching up with them this week, or even overshooting them. On the upside, this Wednesday we leave for three days of wedding fun for my pal Wendy, which means there will be no weigh-in this week. This is gonna be a case of Ninja Disappearing...need to creep my fat ass by this week, and turn up next week having kicked said ass into gear and burned, baby - burned!
For now...sssshhh...trying not to steal another slice of pumpkin pie before bed...
Today we had proper Thanksgiving dinner - or the nearest thing the UK can achieve within a budget. Started eating at about 4pm. Just about 7 we were collapsing onto couches, groaning. Then I had to roll myself off the couch again and go sing. Think I went from a top tenor to a bottom bass tonight!
Did I mention that thing about days when I was gonna celebrate as a proper celebrant, and then have days of proper Disappearing? Yyyyeah, this would be one of the first kind of days.
One of my pals, who's doing their own Disappearing at the minute and who's close to where I am at the minute, texted me yesterday to say "Bum...have gone up a couple of pounds...Did I say? Bum..."
I have a feeling I may well be catching up with them this week, or even overshooting them. On the upside, this Wednesday we leave for three days of wedding fun for my pal Wendy, which means there will be no weigh-in this week. This is gonna be a case of Ninja Disappearing...need to creep my fat ass by this week, and turn up next week having kicked said ass into gear and burned, baby - burned!
For now...sssshhh...trying not to steal another slice of pumpkin pie before bed...
Saturday 24 November 2012
The Thankfulness Expansion
A belated happy Thanksgiving to one and all.
I'm very keen on Thanksgiving, truth be told. Seems to me to be a celebration deeply rooted in dead birdflesh and the candying or roasting of every conceivable carbohydrate known to man. So hey - where's the bad?
I'm also quite keen on what might be considered the other point of Thanksgiving - y'know, the taking of a day to look around and think "Wow...dude, this Being Alive gig pretty much kicks ass!"
That it does this is of course a somewhat boyscout assertion, under constant threat of revision by, when all is said and done, the asshattery of other people. Other people should not, I feel, on the whole, be allowed. Other people frequently go staggeringly far out of their way, apparently with the sole determination in life to be asshats and increase the general - or indeed, sometimes the specific - level of misery in the lives of everyone else they encounter, and most particularly, me.
Sometimes, I will happily grant you, this makes it something of a challenge to look around and see the reasons in your life to be thankful, cheerful and generally upbeat. Or even, if we're honest, not to smash an asshat in the face with a baseball bat.
Life itself, too, sometimes seems to go out of its way to be a kind of cosmological Asshat (it earns the capitalisation due to its majestic and natural bigness). The propensity of people to just die and leave us alone, the surge of wind or water that wipes out lives and memories, the famine, the war, the specific shittinesses of life, tend to make it harder to be upbeat and boyscout about the whole "Being Alive" schtick.
But then, we're not talking about a permanent effort. Just a day. A single day to quote the Rainmakers in my favourite song of theirs - "In spite of everything, it's pretty good to be alive."
I think Thanksgiving would pretty much rock were it not to be so limited a notion. Worldwide Thanksgiving Day would be kinda cool. Couldn't be mandatory of course - the freedom of thankless Scroogey bastards to remain thankless Scroogey bastards should always be maintained. But maybe we should be allowed on that one day to annoy the piss out of them with random and spontaneous acts of kindness. Flashmob kindness in fact - hell, we can organise riots that way, why not kindnesses?
Twitter campaign, anyone?
I'm very keen on Thanksgiving, truth be told. Seems to me to be a celebration deeply rooted in dead birdflesh and the candying or roasting of every conceivable carbohydrate known to man. So hey - where's the bad?
I'm also quite keen on what might be considered the other point of Thanksgiving - y'know, the taking of a day to look around and think "Wow...dude, this Being Alive gig pretty much kicks ass!"
That it does this is of course a somewhat boyscout assertion, under constant threat of revision by, when all is said and done, the asshattery of other people. Other people should not, I feel, on the whole, be allowed. Other people frequently go staggeringly far out of their way, apparently with the sole determination in life to be asshats and increase the general - or indeed, sometimes the specific - level of misery in the lives of everyone else they encounter, and most particularly, me.
Sometimes, I will happily grant you, this makes it something of a challenge to look around and see the reasons in your life to be thankful, cheerful and generally upbeat. Or even, if we're honest, not to smash an asshat in the face with a baseball bat.
Life itself, too, sometimes seems to go out of its way to be a kind of cosmological Asshat (it earns the capitalisation due to its majestic and natural bigness). The propensity of people to just die and leave us alone, the surge of wind or water that wipes out lives and memories, the famine, the war, the specific shittinesses of life, tend to make it harder to be upbeat and boyscout about the whole "Being Alive" schtick.
But then, we're not talking about a permanent effort. Just a day. A single day to quote the Rainmakers in my favourite song of theirs - "In spite of everything, it's pretty good to be alive."
I think Thanksgiving would pretty much rock were it not to be so limited a notion. Worldwide Thanksgiving Day would be kinda cool. Couldn't be mandatory of course - the freedom of thankless Scroogey bastards to remain thankless Scroogey bastards should always be maintained. But maybe we should be allowed on that one day to annoy the piss out of them with random and spontaneous acts of kindness. Flashmob kindness in fact - hell, we can organise riots that way, why not kindnesses?
Twitter campaign, anyone?
The Black Forest Diversion
So...a funny thing happened to me on the way to midnight...
You remember I said that I was gonna work and be full of discipline on days when I didn't have a calorific speed-bump, and then all kinda cool and chilled out when I did?
Well here's the thing about speed-bump days.
I know they're coming now.
Which means when I went for a coffee with my pal Rebecca this morning, it turned into one Gingerbread Latte, and one...erm...Black Forest Hot Chocolate, thanks to the nearest thing we have to a Starbucks in this town, which is the Costa on the Retail Park...
This evening was the speed-bump proper - an annual dinner with the choir. The food was good enough, and when desserts were offered, before I could even particularly think about it, I stuck my hand in the air. Of the desserts available, what landed in front of me couldn't have been more appropriate - Black Forest Gateau.
And reader, I ate it.
Yes I did, and I'm frankly unapologetic about it. Y'know why? Because part of my duty for the night was to take pictures, and that meant digging out the camera, and that in turn meant - holy fuck! Finding the pictures of myself when I started this whole thing. And yeah, sure, the margin's fairly narrow - it's about three stone, give or take a pound and a fart, from when I started to where I am now. But...damn! All I can tell you is that's three important stone! So I'm gonna not stress out. I'm gonna work hard when I can, and have fun when I can, and pound by bloody pound, overall and on balance, I'm gonna push on down. But I'm gonna be fine, and I'm still a lot better than I was when I began this quest. Downward, yes, by all means. Downhearted? No.
You remember I said that I was gonna work and be full of discipline on days when I didn't have a calorific speed-bump, and then all kinda cool and chilled out when I did?
Well here's the thing about speed-bump days.
I know they're coming now.
Which means when I went for a coffee with my pal Rebecca this morning, it turned into one Gingerbread Latte, and one...erm...Black Forest Hot Chocolate, thanks to the nearest thing we have to a Starbucks in this town, which is the Costa on the Retail Park...
This evening was the speed-bump proper - an annual dinner with the choir. The food was good enough, and when desserts were offered, before I could even particularly think about it, I stuck my hand in the air. Of the desserts available, what landed in front of me couldn't have been more appropriate - Black Forest Gateau.
And reader, I ate it.
Yes I did, and I'm frankly unapologetic about it. Y'know why? Because part of my duty for the night was to take pictures, and that meant digging out the camera, and that in turn meant - holy fuck! Finding the pictures of myself when I started this whole thing. And yeah, sure, the margin's fairly narrow - it's about three stone, give or take a pound and a fart, from when I started to where I am now. But...damn! All I can tell you is that's three important stone! So I'm gonna not stress out. I'm gonna work hard when I can, and have fun when I can, and pound by bloody pound, overall and on balance, I'm gonna push on down. But I'm gonna be fine, and I'm still a lot better than I was when I began this quest. Downward, yes, by all means. Downhearted? No.
Thursday 22 November 2012
The Snapped Elastic Abyss
Before we start, no I'm not referring in this blog to actual snapped elastic. There will be no retrospectively hilarious tales of me schlepping round a city, holding up my drawers with both hands, having ballooned beyond their tolerance levels.
Got a slightly false, pre-morning-bathroom result for today's weigh-in, as had to go walk with Ma and from there straight to her place. But it wasn't great - 17stone 8 pounds.
In a way though, this is the point - I'm at a point right now where I need to pull things significantly back, push the discipline pedal to the metal and push on down from here. However, tomorrow, there's a formal dinner we'll be attending. Next week, we have three glorious days of hotellish calorific intensity at my pal Wendy's wedding - awoohoo! And in December, we're away for another three days of hotelling over Christmas itself. So what we have is a range of joyful, delicious, and generally celebratory speed-bumps in the pathway of my Disappearing journey.
Of course, this is nothing but copping-out. I'll be in charge of my own destiny going forward. What will be important is not snapping my elastic. Not giving into the inevitability of the speed-bumps (feels really weird of course, describing one of my best friends' wedding as a speed-bump - not what I mean, of course!) and saying "To Hell with it, let's eeeeeeaaaaaat!!" on all the days inbetween the bumps. Time, clearly , to exercise restraint on days when I can, and celebrate with friends and family on the days when those celebrations happen. To do anything else will plunge me into an abyss of excess that will rocket me back up the increasingly small distance back to where I started this journey. The margin between where I am now and where I started out is now too small to allow me any elastic-complacency about this. Eyes down, arse up and let's get focussing...
Got a slightly false, pre-morning-bathroom result for today's weigh-in, as had to go walk with Ma and from there straight to her place. But it wasn't great - 17stone 8 pounds.
In a way though, this is the point - I'm at a point right now where I need to pull things significantly back, push the discipline pedal to the metal and push on down from here. However, tomorrow, there's a formal dinner we'll be attending. Next week, we have three glorious days of hotellish calorific intensity at my pal Wendy's wedding - awoohoo! And in December, we're away for another three days of hotelling over Christmas itself. So what we have is a range of joyful, delicious, and generally celebratory speed-bumps in the pathway of my Disappearing journey.
Of course, this is nothing but copping-out. I'll be in charge of my own destiny going forward. What will be important is not snapping my elastic. Not giving into the inevitability of the speed-bumps (feels really weird of course, describing one of my best friends' wedding as a speed-bump - not what I mean, of course!) and saying "To Hell with it, let's eeeeeeaaaaaat!!" on all the days inbetween the bumps. Time, clearly , to exercise restraint on days when I can, and celebrate with friends and family on the days when those celebrations happen. To do anything else will plunge me into an abyss of excess that will rocket me back up the increasingly small distance back to where I started this journey. The margin between where I am now and where I started out is now too small to allow me any elastic-complacency about this. Eyes down, arse up and let's get focussing...
Wednesday 21 November 2012
The Gold Rings Emnity
How do you feel about partridges? Alive or dead, I've never really cared about the gamey little sods either way.
But here is the new, 100% official Disappearing Man Position Statement Re: Partridges.
They can just fuck....RIGHT...off...
That is all.
Actually, that's not all. Pear trees too can wither and die. We're making shitloads of species of plants and animals extinct every year, I reckon we should put it to a secret ballot, where I get every vote because of my unabashed awesomeness, and partridges and pear trees can just both entirely, 100% fuck off into the annals of cheery, chintzy Victoriana where they so clearly belong, never to trouble poor benighted choristers with their nonsensical pairing ever the fuck again.
Of course, it's not entirely their fault. No, really, it's the fault of whichever sick fuck decided it would get them laid if they sent poultry of increasingly bizarre and troublesome variety and number to their "true love" at Christmas.
Seven swans a-swimming? Really? Was that ever a pleasant thing to suddenly find on your doorstep one ice-covered morning. A-swimming, you'll note. So this is not a crate full of pissed-off displaced evil with eyes that remember being dinosaurs and beaks that could break your arm we're talking about here. Oh no...this is seven swans...complete with at the very least, their own swanny paddling pool, filled with water. Try taking that down to your local post office, I double-dog freakin' dare you.
Never mind the three French hens scrabbling around the foreground going
"Zut alors! Zis Enlish millet is bulllshit - what, no garlic, a little oil, like it would kill you to take a little pride in your work? Well, if you sink I am laying you ze eggs under these conditions, you 'ave another sink coming, ma friend"*
Maybe that's what the six geese a-laying are all about - do you think the true love popped the poultry psycho a note through, saying "Thanks for the hens, darling, but they won't lay. If this keeps up, we shall have to kill the family pig come breakfast time..."
"Never fear - Geese are here. Six guaranteed organic, free-range layers. Quickly my man, despatch these fine birds to the lady in question. Save the pig, save the breakfast!"
As if that wasn't lunatic enough, the next day, eight maids arrive, scratching their working class armpits and picking their scabs...Except of course they don't, do they? Oh no...the maids are fully employed, thank you very much. Milking! Oh, I'm sorry - a-milking! That means eight prime, milk-teeted cows. At which point you begin to suspect the local post office has closed up its shutters, and all the staff are hiding under the counters, pretending to be dead. In fact, round about the eight maids a-milking, I'm pretty sure we can deduce the origins of the phrase "going postal".
"Cows? You wanna send cows? I've had enough of this, mate, this is bullshit!"
"Cowshit..."
BANG BANG BANG,
"Don't interrupt me again, motherfucker!!"
Nine ladies. Dancing.
Nine upper-class dancing girls. OK fine, I know plenty of people who'd think that was a great Christmas present all on its own, so we'll let it go for now, though exactly who they're dancing with is perhaps a question that bears pornographic examination. The milkmaids? Is there some sort of Victorian lesbian daisy-chain of gavotting and Gay Gordonning going on here, in between the cowshit, the French hens going on strike, the four calling birds phoning home, the six geese honking, the seven swans pecking the bejeesus out of all comers, and the partridge, looking smugly down from its perch in the pear tree, going
"Fucking idiot...this is never gonna work..."
Push all thoughts of lesbian gavotting out of your head though, cos here come ten leaping chinless, clueless aristos, and we all pretty much know upon whom they're leaping, and to what purpose.
Closely followed by eleven pipers. Piping.
Eleven hairy-arsed Scottish fucks with over-developed forearms and a sideline of cat-strangling.
What kind of demented psycho-stalker wakes up in the morning, sees his demented gifts of poultry, gamebirds, livestock, moderately unskilled farm hands and well-bred louts haven't yet softened the heart or loosened the drawers of his true love and thinks: "I know - eleven pipers, that'll have her eating out of my jodhpurs!"
So in the midst of all the various poultry noises, the hens wandering round clutching little placards that just say "Non!", the cows being worried to the point of liquid incontinence by the honking of geese and the dead-eyed malevolence of the swans, the milkmaids and the ladies getting indiscriminately ravished by the gymnastic lords and the partridge, by this point frankly pissing itself in contemptuous laughter at the increasing desperation of stalker-boy back home, and, having waited eleven days for the bloody things to ripen, having the occasional nibble of pear while it can, there's a knock at the door, and eleven besporraned porridge-slurpers start up with a rousing chorus of "Just Ye Wait, Ye Englishe Bastards, Ye!"**
Which goes on for a whole day, until the drummers arrive. Now anyone who knows anything about rock and roll knows that while all the girls go for the singers or the guitarists, the drummer's accepted role in any gathering is to out-drink every other fuck and be just that little bit more mentally deranged than everybody else. So there you are - the hens have been slaughtered, and there's a roast chicken note in the air, the calling birds are now reversing the charges on a telegram to the New World, trying to get Google Maps on their Blackberries and thinking about going home, the swans are marking off a zone of death around their territory, the geese have explained to the cook how in non-geometric four-dimensional space, it really is possible to make an omelette without breaking eggs, cos secretly, geese are very clever birds, the cows have heard about that "jumping over the moon" line that wandered in from another song and are now playing hopscotch in the hall to improve their bovine dexterity, the maids are all completely shagged out and are swapping cigarettes and stories with the equally disheveled ladies, the lords have gotten bored and decided to see which of them can bag a brace of turtle doves, by Jove, and the Scotsmen have been threatened by the local police, but are standing their ground till they get paid, when in come twelve - count them, twelve! - drummers to give the whole Christmas scene a few quick choruses of "We Will Rock You".
Meanwhile, the recipient of all this stalker psychosis takes the five gold rings - really the only acceptable bit of this cavalcade of Christmas crap, and not entirely coincidentally, the only bit anyone ever really likes to sing - grabs a now-mushy pear and the partridge, and fucks off to enter the Victorian equivalent of the Witness Protection Programme,
Apart from that, it was a good rehearsal at choir tonight. Thanks for asking...
* This broad national stereotype is brought to you by Cliches R Us.
** Yep, this one too.
But here is the new, 100% official Disappearing Man Position Statement Re: Partridges.
They can just fuck....RIGHT...off...
That is all.
Actually, that's not all. Pear trees too can wither and die. We're making shitloads of species of plants and animals extinct every year, I reckon we should put it to a secret ballot, where I get every vote because of my unabashed awesomeness, and partridges and pear trees can just both entirely, 100% fuck off into the annals of cheery, chintzy Victoriana where they so clearly belong, never to trouble poor benighted choristers with their nonsensical pairing ever the fuck again.
Of course, it's not entirely their fault. No, really, it's the fault of whichever sick fuck decided it would get them laid if they sent poultry of increasingly bizarre and troublesome variety and number to their "true love" at Christmas.
Seven swans a-swimming? Really? Was that ever a pleasant thing to suddenly find on your doorstep one ice-covered morning. A-swimming, you'll note. So this is not a crate full of pissed-off displaced evil with eyes that remember being dinosaurs and beaks that could break your arm we're talking about here. Oh no...this is seven swans...complete with at the very least, their own swanny paddling pool, filled with water. Try taking that down to your local post office, I double-dog freakin' dare you.
Never mind the three French hens scrabbling around the foreground going
"Zut alors! Zis Enlish millet is bulllshit - what, no garlic, a little oil, like it would kill you to take a little pride in your work? Well, if you sink I am laying you ze eggs under these conditions, you 'ave another sink coming, ma friend"*
Maybe that's what the six geese a-laying are all about - do you think the true love popped the poultry psycho a note through, saying "Thanks for the hens, darling, but they won't lay. If this keeps up, we shall have to kill the family pig come breakfast time..."
"Never fear - Geese are here. Six guaranteed organic, free-range layers. Quickly my man, despatch these fine birds to the lady in question. Save the pig, save the breakfast!"
As if that wasn't lunatic enough, the next day, eight maids arrive, scratching their working class armpits and picking their scabs...Except of course they don't, do they? Oh no...the maids are fully employed, thank you very much. Milking! Oh, I'm sorry - a-milking! That means eight prime, milk-teeted cows. At which point you begin to suspect the local post office has closed up its shutters, and all the staff are hiding under the counters, pretending to be dead. In fact, round about the eight maids a-milking, I'm pretty sure we can deduce the origins of the phrase "going postal".
"Cows? You wanna send cows? I've had enough of this, mate, this is bullshit!"
"Cowshit..."
BANG BANG BANG,
"Don't interrupt me again, motherfucker!!"
Nine ladies. Dancing.
Nine upper-class dancing girls. OK fine, I know plenty of people who'd think that was a great Christmas present all on its own, so we'll let it go for now, though exactly who they're dancing with is perhaps a question that bears pornographic examination. The milkmaids? Is there some sort of Victorian lesbian daisy-chain of gavotting and Gay Gordonning going on here, in between the cowshit, the French hens going on strike, the four calling birds phoning home, the six geese honking, the seven swans pecking the bejeesus out of all comers, and the partridge, looking smugly down from its perch in the pear tree, going
"Fucking idiot...this is never gonna work..."
Push all thoughts of lesbian gavotting out of your head though, cos here come ten leaping chinless, clueless aristos, and we all pretty much know upon whom they're leaping, and to what purpose.
Closely followed by eleven pipers. Piping.
Eleven hairy-arsed Scottish fucks with over-developed forearms and a sideline of cat-strangling.
What kind of demented psycho-stalker wakes up in the morning, sees his demented gifts of poultry, gamebirds, livestock, moderately unskilled farm hands and well-bred louts haven't yet softened the heart or loosened the drawers of his true love and thinks: "I know - eleven pipers, that'll have her eating out of my jodhpurs!"
So in the midst of all the various poultry noises, the hens wandering round clutching little placards that just say "Non!", the cows being worried to the point of liquid incontinence by the honking of geese and the dead-eyed malevolence of the swans, the milkmaids and the ladies getting indiscriminately ravished by the gymnastic lords and the partridge, by this point frankly pissing itself in contemptuous laughter at the increasing desperation of stalker-boy back home, and, having waited eleven days for the bloody things to ripen, having the occasional nibble of pear while it can, there's a knock at the door, and eleven besporraned porridge-slurpers start up with a rousing chorus of "Just Ye Wait, Ye Englishe Bastards, Ye!"**
Which goes on for a whole day, until the drummers arrive. Now anyone who knows anything about rock and roll knows that while all the girls go for the singers or the guitarists, the drummer's accepted role in any gathering is to out-drink every other fuck and be just that little bit more mentally deranged than everybody else. So there you are - the hens have been slaughtered, and there's a roast chicken note in the air, the calling birds are now reversing the charges on a telegram to the New World, trying to get Google Maps on their Blackberries and thinking about going home, the swans are marking off a zone of death around their territory, the geese have explained to the cook how in non-geometric four-dimensional space, it really is possible to make an omelette without breaking eggs, cos secretly, geese are very clever birds, the cows have heard about that "jumping over the moon" line that wandered in from another song and are now playing hopscotch in the hall to improve their bovine dexterity, the maids are all completely shagged out and are swapping cigarettes and stories with the equally disheveled ladies, the lords have gotten bored and decided to see which of them can bag a brace of turtle doves, by Jove, and the Scotsmen have been threatened by the local police, but are standing their ground till they get paid, when in come twelve - count them, twelve! - drummers to give the whole Christmas scene a few quick choruses of "We Will Rock You".
Meanwhile, the recipient of all this stalker psychosis takes the five gold rings - really the only acceptable bit of this cavalcade of Christmas crap, and not entirely coincidentally, the only bit anyone ever really likes to sing - grabs a now-mushy pear and the partridge, and fucks off to enter the Victorian equivalent of the Witness Protection Programme,
Apart from that, it was a good rehearsal at choir tonight. Thanks for asking...
* This broad national stereotype is brought to you by Cliches R Us.
** Yep, this one too.
The Yogic Discrepancy
Today, I sat at home, editing.
Then I sat on a train,
editing.
Then I sat in Starbucks…editing.
Then they closed and threw me out,
and I sat in a theatre, laughing at
Dara O’Brian, the brilliant Irish comedian.
Now, as I write this, I’m sitting
on a bus…writing…and then probably editing. Then I’m going to go to bed and
sleep.
It’s entirely possible I would have used more energy
throughout the course of the day if I actually was a giant slug, rather than simply feeling like one. It’s been a
relatively inactive week, whichever way you look at it, so my inner slug is
well and truly out and if not exactly proud, then at least highly visible.
Tomorrow at 8.30, I’ll be hitting the gym with Ma, in what can only be
described as a desperate attempt to avoid a good and thorough salting on
Thursday morning when I step on the Nazi Scales.
Sigh – ask not for whom the salt burns…it burns for thee,
clearly. Thing is, while this week has been rather dominated by editing
deadlines, next week’s a write-off too in the exercise stakes, as for three
days, d and Ma and I are off to get funky and celebrate the wedding of my pal
Wendy to her fiancé, Maria. Mind you, it’s all in the perspective, I suppose –
I think my gym session tomorrow’s gonna be desperate, but it doesn’t come close
to Wendy’s first text of the day – “Just done a ‘Yoga For Abs’ workout”. That
sounds like a weird combination – as though there are a bunch of
Tibetans who come in quietly, bow serenely, then burst out in energetic bundles and shout at your for an hour to
feel the yogic burn…
Sigh – gym. Tomorrow.
Honest…
Monday 19 November 2012
The Chocolate Cake Inequality
Did a Starbucks day today - got a lot of work done, and got back on the bike when I got home, so kind of a yin-yang day of a little bit of everything. One thing I noticed today though:
I've mentioned before how these festive days at Starbucks (and elsewhere), there's your normal coffee...and then there's the fetishised Christmas-blend, weird-ass additional flavoured coffees - praline lattes, and toffee-nut malarkeys and minty chocolate coffee...stuff from Heaven via calorific Hell.
Well, I was queueing for my first coffee of the day today, and looked up at the board. Then I blinked, and swore under my breath. The lady in front of me turned round, as if I was calling her names. I smiled at her, then double-checked the chunk of chocolate cake on which my eye had lit before flitting up to the board to the coffees.
Turns out a big toffee-nut fuck-me drink is actually heavier, calorie-wise, than a biggish slab of chocolate cake.
How can that be? In what universe can a cup of faffed-about coffee be worse for you than a big slab of chocolate cake? Have I slipped through a crack in the multiverse and ended up in a world where coffee is made with lard?? Is tea secretly loaded with buttercream? Is duck-fat orange squash the newest cheffy thing and no-one's told me, despite the hours of food TV I watch?
What, in a phrase, the fuck??
Back to Starbucks tomorrow for an elongated session, as I'm going to see Dara O'Briain be funny tomorrow night. Woohoo!
I've mentioned before how these festive days at Starbucks (and elsewhere), there's your normal coffee...and then there's the fetishised Christmas-blend, weird-ass additional flavoured coffees - praline lattes, and toffee-nut malarkeys and minty chocolate coffee...stuff from Heaven via calorific Hell.
Well, I was queueing for my first coffee of the day today, and looked up at the board. Then I blinked, and swore under my breath. The lady in front of me turned round, as if I was calling her names. I smiled at her, then double-checked the chunk of chocolate cake on which my eye had lit before flitting up to the board to the coffees.
Turns out a big toffee-nut fuck-me drink is actually heavier, calorie-wise, than a biggish slab of chocolate cake.
How can that be? In what universe can a cup of faffed-about coffee be worse for you than a big slab of chocolate cake? Have I slipped through a crack in the multiverse and ended up in a world where coffee is made with lard?? Is tea secretly loaded with buttercream? Is duck-fat orange squash the newest cheffy thing and no-one's told me, despite the hours of food TV I watch?
What, in a phrase, the fuck??
Back to Starbucks tomorrow for an elongated session, as I'm going to see Dara O'Briain be funny tomorrow night. Woohoo!
Sunday 18 November 2012
The Sontaran Silhouette
I've had a weekend which, to my significant shame, has included absolutely buggerall in the way of exercise.
We'll see how that affects Thursday's weigh-in...on Thursday, I guess.
Had a slightly disturbing experience this evening though - walking from the well lit kitchen through the unlit hallway, I made myself jump. Opposite me on the wood beneath the stairs loomed the silhouette of a Sontaran!
For those who don't know, a Sontaran is a villainous alien from Doctor Who. They are famously short, bullet-headed with no neck, and militaristic. When I started this journey, when I was in my hoodie, I looked uncannily like a Sontaran. Haven't looked so much like them in a while - so to suddenly be confronted with their silhouette, back in my home, took me seriously aback.
I will not be re-invaded by the bloody Sontarans...at least not before Christmas. Back on the bike tomorrow...
We'll see how that affects Thursday's weigh-in...on Thursday, I guess.
Had a slightly disturbing experience this evening though - walking from the well lit kitchen through the unlit hallway, I made myself jump. Opposite me on the wood beneath the stairs loomed the silhouette of a Sontaran!
For those who don't know, a Sontaran is a villainous alien from Doctor Who. They are famously short, bullet-headed with no neck, and militaristic. When I started this journey, when I was in my hoodie, I looked uncannily like a Sontaran. Haven't looked so much like them in a while - so to suddenly be confronted with their silhouette, back in my home, took me seriously aback.
I will not be re-invaded by the bloody Sontarans...at least not before Christmas. Back on the bike tomorrow...
Saturday 17 November 2012
The Exhaustion Stick Paradox
Woke up today feeling exhausted. Had a lovely day with d...still feeling exhausted. Oddly enough, she's felt the same way. Some bugger's been hitting us with the exhaustion stick while we sleep, clearly. Words will be had with Bearly...
After dinner tonight, I dragged my ass up onto the bike.
After about fifteen minutes, d came upstairs.
"You need to stop now," she said.
At that precise moment, I was singing along to the theme from Gilligan's Island and pedalling with a degree of moroseness.
"Can't," I panted. "Just...done...a...hundred...calories..."
"Yeah...that's as maybe, but you're utterly miserable, and...it's spreading."
"Spreading?"
"Yeah. Don't know how else to put it honey, but your misery is running down the stairs and throttling me. Stop it. Stop it now."
I did. Dead loss in the exercise stakes today. Too much of a beating with the Exhaustion Stick. Of course, the paradox is that probably, approached with the right attitude, the biking would have given me more energy than anything else in the course of the day. But clearly, that didn't happen. Am outta here folks. Crawling back to bed...
...And snapping that goddamned stick...
After dinner tonight, I dragged my ass up onto the bike.
After about fifteen minutes, d came upstairs.
"You need to stop now," she said.
At that precise moment, I was singing along to the theme from Gilligan's Island and pedalling with a degree of moroseness.
"Can't," I panted. "Just...done...a...hundred...calories..."
"Yeah...that's as maybe, but you're utterly miserable, and...it's spreading."
"Spreading?"
"Yeah. Don't know how else to put it honey, but your misery is running down the stairs and throttling me. Stop it. Stop it now."
I did. Dead loss in the exercise stakes today. Too much of a beating with the Exhaustion Stick. Of course, the paradox is that probably, approached with the right attitude, the biking would have given me more energy than anything else in the course of the day. But clearly, that didn't happen. Am outta here folks. Crawling back to bed...
...And snapping that goddamned stick...
Friday 16 November 2012
The Nocturnal Continuum
Have you ever had one of those nights that just refuses to end?
Had one of those last night. We pushed ourselves quite far, cos we're basically old now - if you offered us the choice between a night of orgiastic, polyamorous lovemaking with some young fit, healthy swingers, it would depend how busy we'd been in the day and what time we had to get up in the morning, but we'd be just as likely to say "No, thanks, I'll take a coffee if you're making one, but Masterchef Australia's on in a minute..."
And then, now I think about it, we'd be the couple huffing when people's sweaty buttocks obscured our view of the Croquembouche Challenge...
SO anyway...where the Hell was I?
Oh yeah, we pushed ourselves quite far, so it was about 11.30 when we stumbled blearily up to bed, and later still by the time I woke d up again, coming back from my pathologically ritualistic last-thing-at-night bathroom routine. A delightful perk about which, as has been brought home to me, mostly without physical violence, is that once I've woken her up again, she's then had a power nap and is all sorts of bright and chatty, while I, divested by the bathroom of my last shreds of energy, am usually snoring within minutes. d generally being the soul of patient forbearance, she has either yet to shove something sharp up my nostrils when I do this, or if she has done, the joke's on her cos I've swallowed the sharp things in the night.
Although, thinking about it, I have had nosebleeds the last two days. Hmm...Note to self - conduct thorough nostril-exam in the morning.
Annnnyway, got to sleep by midnight. Slept the night through. Woke up yawning and refreshed and playing Morning from Peer Gynt in my brain, full of optimism and promise for a day down in Cardiff, editing. Looked across at my clock.
1.19.
Unff. Morning wound down into a sour collection of deflating bagpipe notes. It was still orange outside...
Orange, I should probably explain, has taken the place of "dark" since we moved to Merthyr, largely because we have a street light right by our bedroom window. For all we know, we're getting orange radiation poisoning every night from the bloody thing. But anyway, it was still orange outside. I humphed, shoved over onto my other side, and slept another night.
When I woke up this time, it was 2.26. And orange.
"Bastard!" I whispered viciously. Whispered in my mind, I should say - if I'd actually allowed the breath past my vocal chords in any way, d would have woken up. My darling wife, I've come to the conclusion, is a tragic loss to the intelligence community, not only because she actually has some, which would be a refreshing surprise to her colleagues, but because she has the most appallingly good hearing while asleep. While awake, deaf as a post - though she maintains this is because I mumble, which I do - but once asleep, her ears are no longer distracted by inputs from the rest of her senses, and become super-powered as a result. Normally, if I breathe in the wrong direction, she'll ask me why I['m breathing that way. Normally, in fact, she can hear my bladder filling, and nudge me, with the single word "Pee," to inform me of my own needs before I know of them.
Anyhow, at 2.26 I mentally cursed the orange and the night for not yet being over.
Next thing, it was 3.38. I turned the volume up on my brain, and punched my pillow. Bearly of course was awake at that hour, and in search of a partner to go fishing with in the river that's across the road from us. I tried to explain to him about mornings, and how the fish would all still be snoring, but Bearly...Bearly's not entirely governed by facts. He went off to do his own Kodiak thing. I throttled the pillow, humphed myself over and tried to over-extend the night one more time.
Then the alarm went off and it was 6AM. YAAAAAAY! The freakin' night that never ended was ending.
"Sleeeeeeeeep," muttered d.
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" I yelled inside my brain.
"Sleeeeeeeeep," muttered d again.
"Goddamnsonofabitch..." bounced off the inside of my skull. I turned over, turned off the alarm and slept till 7.
Which just goes to prove that sometimes, the hardest part of the day is getting out of bed in the first place.
Had one of those last night. We pushed ourselves quite far, cos we're basically old now - if you offered us the choice between a night of orgiastic, polyamorous lovemaking with some young fit, healthy swingers, it would depend how busy we'd been in the day and what time we had to get up in the morning, but we'd be just as likely to say "No, thanks, I'll take a coffee if you're making one, but Masterchef Australia's on in a minute..."
And then, now I think about it, we'd be the couple huffing when people's sweaty buttocks obscured our view of the Croquembouche Challenge...
SO anyway...where the Hell was I?
Oh yeah, we pushed ourselves quite far, so it was about 11.30 when we stumbled blearily up to bed, and later still by the time I woke d up again, coming back from my pathologically ritualistic last-thing-at-night bathroom routine. A delightful perk about which, as has been brought home to me, mostly without physical violence, is that once I've woken her up again, she's then had a power nap and is all sorts of bright and chatty, while I, divested by the bathroom of my last shreds of energy, am usually snoring within minutes. d generally being the soul of patient forbearance, she has either yet to shove something sharp up my nostrils when I do this, or if she has done, the joke's on her cos I've swallowed the sharp things in the night.
Although, thinking about it, I have had nosebleeds the last two days. Hmm...Note to self - conduct thorough nostril-exam in the morning.
Annnnyway, got to sleep by midnight. Slept the night through. Woke up yawning and refreshed and playing Morning from Peer Gynt in my brain, full of optimism and promise for a day down in Cardiff, editing. Looked across at my clock.
1.19.
Unff. Morning wound down into a sour collection of deflating bagpipe notes. It was still orange outside...
Orange, I should probably explain, has taken the place of "dark" since we moved to Merthyr, largely because we have a street light right by our bedroom window. For all we know, we're getting orange radiation poisoning every night from the bloody thing. But anyway, it was still orange outside. I humphed, shoved over onto my other side, and slept another night.
When I woke up this time, it was 2.26. And orange.
"Bastard!" I whispered viciously. Whispered in my mind, I should say - if I'd actually allowed the breath past my vocal chords in any way, d would have woken up. My darling wife, I've come to the conclusion, is a tragic loss to the intelligence community, not only because she actually has some, which would be a refreshing surprise to her colleagues, but because she has the most appallingly good hearing while asleep. While awake, deaf as a post - though she maintains this is because I mumble, which I do - but once asleep, her ears are no longer distracted by inputs from the rest of her senses, and become super-powered as a result. Normally, if I breathe in the wrong direction, she'll ask me why I['m breathing that way. Normally, in fact, she can hear my bladder filling, and nudge me, with the single word "Pee," to inform me of my own needs before I know of them.
Anyhow, at 2.26 I mentally cursed the orange and the night for not yet being over.
Next thing, it was 3.38. I turned the volume up on my brain, and punched my pillow. Bearly of course was awake at that hour, and in search of a partner to go fishing with in the river that's across the road from us. I tried to explain to him about mornings, and how the fish would all still be snoring, but Bearly...Bearly's not entirely governed by facts. He went off to do his own Kodiak thing. I throttled the pillow, humphed myself over and tried to over-extend the night one more time.
Then the alarm went off and it was 6AM. YAAAAAAY! The freakin' night that never ended was ending.
"Sleeeeeeeeep," muttered d.
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" I yelled inside my brain.
"Sleeeeeeeeep," muttered d again.
"Goddamnsonofabitch..." bounced off the inside of my skull. I turned over, turned off the alarm and slept till 7.
Which just goes to prove that sometimes, the hardest part of the day is getting out of bed in the first place.
Thursday 15 November 2012
The Zero Pulse Confusion
Weighed in today at 17 st 6.5.
Now, I know what you're thinking. You're clutching your brows and weeping disconsolately, aren't you?
Well, fine, but before you do, let's look at some facts here. What we have noticed in prior Disappearing experiments is that if we go and do some big chunky bit of exercise immediately prior to weighing in, we lose on average 1.5 pounds off the "real" weigh-in figure. And as luck would have it, last Thursday morning, prior to the weigh-in, I went for an uberwalk with Ma - which means the reading of 17st 4.25 was probably, in all honesty, supposed to be 17st 5.75. This morning, I didn't walk or exercise, as there were too many things to do and get on with. Which would mean that I've put on about .75 of a pound this week - which given the slightly more erratic approach to exercise I've managed this week, is altogether not as bad as it at first appears.
Went to see a cardiologist last night.
As ya do.
I've had a couple of vaguely fluttery tachycardic moments in the last year, so decided to at least see...wwwwwwhat the fuck was going on.
Turns out: Buggerall.
Officially, Buggerall is going on. My blood pressure's perfect, my heart, "as a pump", is perfectly fine, according to the consultant cardiologist.
That was an odd phrase, I thought. It's perfect "as a pump". It rather begs the question of as what it might be less perfect. A Nissan Micra, possibly.
There was one very peculiar moment though. He tried to take my pulse.
"Hmm," he said, in the kind of rich, fruity Welsh accent of which a thousand stereotypes are made.
"Sorry to tell you this..." he said, sounding admittedly, genuinely sorry (this was actually a private appointment - I love the NHS, but in terms of sounding like they actually give a fuck, clearly, you get what you pay for...).
"...but you have no pulse."
"Well..." I said. "That's inconvenient. I mean, you never know when one of them is going to come in handy..."
In my head of course, the rant went on. "I mean, come the zombie apocalypse, how are the other human beings going to identify me as one of their own? Other than the fact that I'm not ripping off the top of their skulls to get at their pink juicy brains, obviously...A pulse would come in dead handy then..."
He looked at me through his expensive spectacles, as though for a moment he suspected I might have been smoking something obscure before wandering in to see him.
"Tell me," he said. "Have you ever had an angiogram?"
"Yes!" I gasped, like a mark picked from a studio audience by a magician when he reveals my personally-signed playing card stuck in the middle of a melon. "How did you know?"
"Did they go in through your wrist?" he persevered.
"Yes, they did!" I said, almost ready to burst into spontaneous applause. He sniffed.
"That's why you have no pulse in your right hand," he explained. "If anyone ever tries to take your pulse in that hand, and says they feel one, get out of there, they don't know what they're doing..."
All this was new information to me. I wasn't even aware it was legal to walk around without a pulse. But apparently, I've been walking about without one in my right wrist for about two years now. And I have to say, I'm that desperate to be special, I feel rather proud of that. Sure, I might have a bog standard blood group (naturally, I was hoping for something incredibly rare and useful - you know, the kind of blood group that marks one out for greatness, and which is useful to the tiniest of premature babies and suchlike, but nope - cattle-grade peasant blood, whooshing around this scruffbag body of mine), but I only have a pulse in one wrist - howd'ya like me now?! Thinking about it, maybe, come the zombie apocalypse, I can broker peace between the factions - I'm neither alive nor undead, I'm kinda...half-and-half...
The thing that worries me is that back when I was having the angiogram, I had to specify that I wanted it in the wrist. They were all set to go in through the groin. Which makes you wonder - if they had (and indeed, in cases to this day where they do)...would I have ended up with, say, no blood flow to one ball? Would all the sperm on the right side be sitting round shivering, huddling together going "Bloody Hell, I know we like it cold, but this is ridiculous!" When getting...intensively friendly...with my wife, would only one side of me get the increased bloodflow demanded in order to be even remotely useful? I mean, would my dick look like it had had a stroke?
The doctor peered at me wearily through those expensive lenses, as if able to read my mind, and sighed.
"You've got bloodflow going to your hand through another vessel on the other side," he explained.
"Yeah - so you say! But does that explain why I've always got cold hands these days?" I asked.
He sighed again.
"No," he said, focusing on the money.
I've looked at my hand in an entirely different light since last night. Feel like it deserves a special glove or something, to preserve its zero-pulse status. Almost feel like it should now come with its own tourniquet, just make doubly sure of its pulse-purity, but y'know...
...you can go too far...
Now, I know what you're thinking. You're clutching your brows and weeping disconsolately, aren't you?
Well, fine, but before you do, let's look at some facts here. What we have noticed in prior Disappearing experiments is that if we go and do some big chunky bit of exercise immediately prior to weighing in, we lose on average 1.5 pounds off the "real" weigh-in figure. And as luck would have it, last Thursday morning, prior to the weigh-in, I went for an uberwalk with Ma - which means the reading of 17st 4.25 was probably, in all honesty, supposed to be 17st 5.75. This morning, I didn't walk or exercise, as there were too many things to do and get on with. Which would mean that I've put on about .75 of a pound this week - which given the slightly more erratic approach to exercise I've managed this week, is altogether not as bad as it at first appears.
Went to see a cardiologist last night.
As ya do.
I've had a couple of vaguely fluttery tachycardic moments in the last year, so decided to at least see...wwwwwwhat the fuck was going on.
Turns out: Buggerall.
Officially, Buggerall is going on. My blood pressure's perfect, my heart, "as a pump", is perfectly fine, according to the consultant cardiologist.
That was an odd phrase, I thought. It's perfect "as a pump". It rather begs the question of as what it might be less perfect. A Nissan Micra, possibly.
There was one very peculiar moment though. He tried to take my pulse.
"Hmm," he said, in the kind of rich, fruity Welsh accent of which a thousand stereotypes are made.
"Sorry to tell you this..." he said, sounding admittedly, genuinely sorry (this was actually a private appointment - I love the NHS, but in terms of sounding like they actually give a fuck, clearly, you get what you pay for...).
"...but you have no pulse."
"Well..." I said. "That's inconvenient. I mean, you never know when one of them is going to come in handy..."
In my head of course, the rant went on. "I mean, come the zombie apocalypse, how are the other human beings going to identify me as one of their own? Other than the fact that I'm not ripping off the top of their skulls to get at their pink juicy brains, obviously...A pulse would come in dead handy then..."
He looked at me through his expensive spectacles, as though for a moment he suspected I might have been smoking something obscure before wandering in to see him.
"Tell me," he said. "Have you ever had an angiogram?"
"Yes!" I gasped, like a mark picked from a studio audience by a magician when he reveals my personally-signed playing card stuck in the middle of a melon. "How did you know?"
"Did they go in through your wrist?" he persevered.
"Yes, they did!" I said, almost ready to burst into spontaneous applause. He sniffed.
"That's why you have no pulse in your right hand," he explained. "If anyone ever tries to take your pulse in that hand, and says they feel one, get out of there, they don't know what they're doing..."
All this was new information to me. I wasn't even aware it was legal to walk around without a pulse. But apparently, I've been walking about without one in my right wrist for about two years now. And I have to say, I'm that desperate to be special, I feel rather proud of that. Sure, I might have a bog standard blood group (naturally, I was hoping for something incredibly rare and useful - you know, the kind of blood group that marks one out for greatness, and which is useful to the tiniest of premature babies and suchlike, but nope - cattle-grade peasant blood, whooshing around this scruffbag body of mine), but I only have a pulse in one wrist - howd'ya like me now?! Thinking about it, maybe, come the zombie apocalypse, I can broker peace between the factions - I'm neither alive nor undead, I'm kinda...half-and-half...
The thing that worries me is that back when I was having the angiogram, I had to specify that I wanted it in the wrist. They were all set to go in through the groin. Which makes you wonder - if they had (and indeed, in cases to this day where they do)...would I have ended up with, say, no blood flow to one ball? Would all the sperm on the right side be sitting round shivering, huddling together going "Bloody Hell, I know we like it cold, but this is ridiculous!" When getting...intensively friendly...with my wife, would only one side of me get the increased bloodflow demanded in order to be even remotely useful? I mean, would my dick look like it had had a stroke?
The doctor peered at me wearily through those expensive lenses, as if able to read my mind, and sighed.
"You've got bloodflow going to your hand through another vessel on the other side," he explained.
"Yeah - so you say! But does that explain why I've always got cold hands these days?" I asked.
He sighed again.
"No," he said, focusing on the money.
I've looked at my hand in an entirely different light since last night. Feel like it deserves a special glove or something, to preserve its zero-pulse status. Almost feel like it should now come with its own tourniquet, just make doubly sure of its pulse-purity, but y'know...
...you can go too far...
Wednesday 14 November 2012
The Asswort Awakening
I woke with a start, with that instant feeling of having overslept. My clock said 7.06. So yeah, technically, we'd overslept. Meh...it didn't matter, I thought, closing my eyes again for a sneaky snooze.
The world exploded into the sounds of a demented cockerel running around the place, giving it "Cock-a-fuckin'-doodle-doo, motherfuckers!!"
The next thing I knew, there was a shove.
Then two shoves.
Then four rapid shoves...I think the next stage was a foot in the ass, frankly.
"Mmmnaahmmm..." I announced to the world.
"Well, press the button!" said d. "Turn the bloody thing o-"
There was a semi-second when the reality of the morning sank in.
"Oh...wait...that's not your alarm, it it?"
There was another second of activity on the other side of the bed, as she found her exploding cockerel phone, and silenced it.
"Oh my god!" she laughed. "I feel like such a...such a..."
"Douchebag?" I muttered, trying to be helpful.
"An Asswort!" she yelled, which was a new one on me. "Sorry!..."
"S'ok..." I almost drolled. "'msleepin'now..."
"Oh God," she said again...
And so, with a chorus of Quentin Tarrantino's cockerel and my wife yelling Asswort...Wednesday began. Let's see what it's got in store, shall we?
The world exploded into the sounds of a demented cockerel running around the place, giving it "Cock-a-fuckin'-doodle-doo, motherfuckers!!"
The next thing I knew, there was a shove.
Then two shoves.
Then four rapid shoves...I think the next stage was a foot in the ass, frankly.
"Mmmnaahmmm..." I announced to the world.
"Well, press the button!" said d. "Turn the bloody thing o-"
There was a semi-second when the reality of the morning sank in.
"Oh...wait...that's not your alarm, it it?"
There was another second of activity on the other side of the bed, as she found her exploding cockerel phone, and silenced it.
"Oh my god!" she laughed. "I feel like such a...such a..."
"Douchebag?" I muttered, trying to be helpful.
"An Asswort!" she yelled, which was a new one on me. "Sorry!..."
"S'ok..." I almost drolled. "'msleepin'now..."
"Oh God," she said again...
And so, with a chorus of Quentin Tarrantino's cockerel and my wife yelling Asswort...Wednesday began. Let's see what it's got in store, shall we?
Tuesday 13 November 2012
With A Voice Of Singing...
Blood was 5.6 this morning - this may well have been helped by the fact that I re-introduced myself to proper biking last night - proper smelly, sweaty, lung-bursting knackered biking - or as my pal Sian puts it - "Going until you feel sick".
Sian's pretty sick about this stuff at the best of times. I just did a pounding hour, but it felt really good, and made the food we had for dinner taste soooooo much more better, and vibrant and wonderful.
This morning, didn't do anything in terms of exercise, cos my "Stuff To Do Today list" was entirely mental with out and about running hither and yon-type stuff. That didn't really stop until tonight, when I got dressed for the first time in my Dowlais Male Choir "uniform" - trousers, shirt, tie, blazer, all that malarkey. Before I went off to sing, we took a picture of me in the get-up, and I didn't think anything of it.
I was being picked up by a minibus at 6.30. At 6.45 I decided something was wrong, so schlepped and got a cab up to the venue. Turned out there was another guy in the same busless boat. Apparently, the guy who'd booked the bus had had a fairly significant heart attack earlier in the day.
As ya do...some days...I guess.
Oh, earlier in the day, I had my eyes tested: turns out last time I was misdiagnosed, so I don't actually need the varifocals I currently wear. Woohoo!
Anyway, got a cab up to the venue, and had a great time singing. In particular, it's the first time I've performed Calon Lan live to others, the song that we got a choir to sing at Dad's funeral. That felt pretty special.
Came home, posted the pic of myself on Facebook. Within minutes, about 20 of my friends were sending me "Oh wow, you look amazing!" messages...which was really nice, given that having taken off the outfit and standing in my underwear, I looked like a great big uncooked Yorkshire Pudding.
So here's a Welshman, singing a happy song of thanks to all my friends for giving me positive reinforcement when I wasn't even looking for it.
And now going to crash, because I feel like I've been hit by the stick of big fuck-off stickness and concussion.
Sian's pretty sick about this stuff at the best of times. I just did a pounding hour, but it felt really good, and made the food we had for dinner taste soooooo much more better, and vibrant and wonderful.
This morning, didn't do anything in terms of exercise, cos my "Stuff To Do Today list" was entirely mental with out and about running hither and yon-type stuff. That didn't really stop until tonight, when I got dressed for the first time in my Dowlais Male Choir "uniform" - trousers, shirt, tie, blazer, all that malarkey. Before I went off to sing, we took a picture of me in the get-up, and I didn't think anything of it.
I was being picked up by a minibus at 6.30. At 6.45 I decided something was wrong, so schlepped and got a cab up to the venue. Turned out there was another guy in the same busless boat. Apparently, the guy who'd booked the bus had had a fairly significant heart attack earlier in the day.
As ya do...some days...I guess.
Oh, earlier in the day, I had my eyes tested: turns out last time I was misdiagnosed, so I don't actually need the varifocals I currently wear. Woohoo!
Anyway, got a cab up to the venue, and had a great time singing. In particular, it's the first time I've performed Calon Lan live to others, the song that we got a choir to sing at Dad's funeral. That felt pretty special.
Came home, posted the pic of myself on Facebook. Within minutes, about 20 of my friends were sending me "Oh wow, you look amazing!" messages...which was really nice, given that having taken off the outfit and standing in my underwear, I looked like a great big uncooked Yorkshire Pudding.
So here's a Welshman, singing a happy song of thanks to all my friends for giving me positive reinforcement when I wasn't even looking for it.
And now going to crash, because I feel like I've been hit by the stick of big fuck-off stickness and concussion.
Monday 12 November 2012
The Peppermint Mocha Multiplication
Sooooo about that idea that a day in Starbucks would be calorifically light...
The thing about what I firmly and categorically refuse to think of as "the Christmas Season" until at least freakin' December is that plenty of places bring out "Seasonal Varieties", to tempt the unwary consumer into parting with more cash to try new or limited-offer comestibles.
Which is kinda where my Starbucks plan went awry today.
Toffee Nut Latte? Hmm...nutty...
Gingerbread Latte...yum...gingerbready...
Praline Mocha...erm...mochy...
Peppermint Mocha...Yyyyyeah, think we have a winner.
I have now...practically run the gamut of seasonal varieties in Starbucks, stopping admittedly short of the Egg Nog Latte because - get this, o fans of deep-rooted hypocrisy - the idea of egg and coffee just really doesn't do it for me. I know, cos toffee nut coffee's just so normal, right?
Most of these, while still being de-caff and skinny, will undoubtedly have had proper, old-fashioned syrups lurking in them somewhere, and so while technically I haven't had what might be considered any "real food" today, I've certainly ingested a good few calories more than I intended with my whole "Starbucks Slim-Fast" plan. So this is me, home now before 6PM, jumping on the bike for a quick syrup-burning hour before the night really gets down to business.
All go, innit?
The thing about what I firmly and categorically refuse to think of as "the Christmas Season" until at least freakin' December is that plenty of places bring out "Seasonal Varieties", to tempt the unwary consumer into parting with more cash to try new or limited-offer comestibles.
Which is kinda where my Starbucks plan went awry today.
Toffee Nut Latte? Hmm...nutty...
Gingerbread Latte...yum...gingerbready...
Praline Mocha...erm...mochy...
Peppermint Mocha...Yyyyyeah, think we have a winner.
I have now...practically run the gamut of seasonal varieties in Starbucks, stopping admittedly short of the Egg Nog Latte because - get this, o fans of deep-rooted hypocrisy - the idea of egg and coffee just really doesn't do it for me. I know, cos toffee nut coffee's just so normal, right?
Most of these, while still being de-caff and skinny, will undoubtedly have had proper, old-fashioned syrups lurking in them somewhere, and so while technically I haven't had what might be considered any "real food" today, I've certainly ingested a good few calories more than I intended with my whole "Starbucks Slim-Fast" plan. So this is me, home now before 6PM, jumping on the bike for a quick syrup-burning hour before the night really gets down to business.
All go, innit?
Sunday 11 November 2012
Ramble Off
Blood was 6.6 this morning. Yes, I know - remember when I did that every day? Gonna try and get back to it, honest!
Today of course was Remembrance Day - or Veterans Day in the States. There's little funny to say about that, except that having gone to the trouble of buying a poppy badge - and making the lady on the stall have to break a ten pound note into coins to pay the single pound donation for it...Ahem...I forgot to wear it this evening when I ventured out into the world. That's sort of general remembrance, mixed with a whole dollop of highly specific forgetfulness.
I was meant to go Rambling today - there was an "Energetic" 9-mile ramble in particular that I was keen to go on. It fell somewhat by the wayside as this week progressed and a combination of crunchy deadlines and one tiny proto-blister that refuses to quit convinced me that on the whole, the day would be more productively spent at my desk than yomping up mountainsides with a bunch of aggressively healthy people.
I gave me this day, my daily bike though, so I haven't been entirely idle, though if you asked me on balance whether I'm doing as well this week as last, I'd probably say no.
Tomorrow should help in a lot of directions. Tomorrow, despite demands from left, right and centre, I am going to Cardiff to sit in Starbucks, to finish one edit, start another, and do some of my own writing. I'm also, therefore, going to have a relatively calorie-light day. Oh and I'm also, bizarrely enough, under orders from my choirmistress to buy a Santa hat, so...that'll be fun!
As I write this, d and I are already in bed at 9.42 - the demise of first Desperate Housewives and then Downton Abbey having thrown rather a wet blanket over our Sunday night entertainment schedule. But this is good - it means she can read an e-book she's been meaning to finish, and I can blether on to you lot and then get some proper writing done. It occurs to me...for a day on which I elected not to go Rambling, that I'm now, if not exactly rambling, then at least quietly bimbling into the electronic wall. So good night, gentle reader - and violent psychopathic one too, come to that. Tomorrow's another day, and another deadline.
Today of course was Remembrance Day - or Veterans Day in the States. There's little funny to say about that, except that having gone to the trouble of buying a poppy badge - and making the lady on the stall have to break a ten pound note into coins to pay the single pound donation for it...Ahem...I forgot to wear it this evening when I ventured out into the world. That's sort of general remembrance, mixed with a whole dollop of highly specific forgetfulness.
I was meant to go Rambling today - there was an "Energetic" 9-mile ramble in particular that I was keen to go on. It fell somewhat by the wayside as this week progressed and a combination of crunchy deadlines and one tiny proto-blister that refuses to quit convinced me that on the whole, the day would be more productively spent at my desk than yomping up mountainsides with a bunch of aggressively healthy people.
I gave me this day, my daily bike though, so I haven't been entirely idle, though if you asked me on balance whether I'm doing as well this week as last, I'd probably say no.
Tomorrow should help in a lot of directions. Tomorrow, despite demands from left, right and centre, I am going to Cardiff to sit in Starbucks, to finish one edit, start another, and do some of my own writing. I'm also, therefore, going to have a relatively calorie-light day. Oh and I'm also, bizarrely enough, under orders from my choirmistress to buy a Santa hat, so...that'll be fun!
As I write this, d and I are already in bed at 9.42 - the demise of first Desperate Housewives and then Downton Abbey having thrown rather a wet blanket over our Sunday night entertainment schedule. But this is good - it means she can read an e-book she's been meaning to finish, and I can blether on to you lot and then get some proper writing done. It occurs to me...for a day on which I elected not to go Rambling, that I'm now, if not exactly rambling, then at least quietly bimbling into the electronic wall. So good night, gentle reader - and violent psychopathic one too, come to that. Tomorrow's another day, and another deadline.
Saturday 10 November 2012
The Homecoming Nostalgia
Went out for dinner last night with Ma and d. Was kind of a big deal.
Why?
Well - a year ago yesterday, I got the go-ahead to leave London and come home. A year ago yesterday I told d, and she quit her job. A year ago yesterday we sat Ma down on Skype and scared the bejeesus out of her - the previous time we'd had to Skype her was to tell her I'd had my tachycardic episode.
Ma told us last night that she'd been thrilled to hear that we were coming home, and then panicked as to what to do. She'd told my Dad that we were coming, and he apparently was delighted, and started making plans immediately. When she'd raised questions about how things would work out, he'd told her, in his calm, certain voice, that things would work out fine. That whatever needed doing would be done.
One year on, we don't just live in a different place, but a whole different universe. Dad, while he still had the energy, made good on his promise and made us a world to live in, and then we lost him.
It struck me yesterday how entirely different a world this was. In some ways, I can't believe it's been a year since we got the word, and in others, it feels like two or three.
Of course, losing Dad was one of the biggest and saddest things to happen to me. Ever. But I guess the important thing to take from all this is that, by choice, I wouldn't go back. One way or another, I like my world much better now, though of course it would be much better with Dad in it. But in terms of time, and space, and general quality of life, I'm set here.
Must finally get the boxes from the move unpacked ahead of Christmas though...that's just getting silly by now.
Why?
Well - a year ago yesterday, I got the go-ahead to leave London and come home. A year ago yesterday I told d, and she quit her job. A year ago yesterday we sat Ma down on Skype and scared the bejeesus out of her - the previous time we'd had to Skype her was to tell her I'd had my tachycardic episode.
Ma told us last night that she'd been thrilled to hear that we were coming home, and then panicked as to what to do. She'd told my Dad that we were coming, and he apparently was delighted, and started making plans immediately. When she'd raised questions about how things would work out, he'd told her, in his calm, certain voice, that things would work out fine. That whatever needed doing would be done.
One year on, we don't just live in a different place, but a whole different universe. Dad, while he still had the energy, made good on his promise and made us a world to live in, and then we lost him.
It struck me yesterday how entirely different a world this was. In some ways, I can't believe it's been a year since we got the word, and in others, it feels like two or three.
Of course, losing Dad was one of the biggest and saddest things to happen to me. Ever. But I guess the important thing to take from all this is that, by choice, I wouldn't go back. One way or another, I like my world much better now, though of course it would be much better with Dad in it. But in terms of time, and space, and general quality of life, I'm set here.
Must finally get the boxes from the move unpacked ahead of Christmas though...that's just getting silly by now.
Friday 9 November 2012
The Blue Biceps Irritation
Ain't life a hoot sometimes?
I mean, really, just positively comical.
I spent 38, 39 yeeeeeears essentially wishing to do as little physical exercise as possible.
And yet it's only since I've turned 40 that I've encountered days where I'm actually, medically not allowed to do any exercise.
And now I miss it!
Went to give blood today, for only the second time - you have a wait three months, minimum, between donations - and they tell you to do nothing of any exercise value on the day you do that. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilcho. Buggerall, to use the Welsh term.
Thing is, there are still plenty of days when I want to do buggerall. Then there are the days when I want to do plenty but, as now, am up against a deadline that means it's incredibly hard to carve out the time to do anything. I'm not really putting up with that bullshit in my life at the moment - I'm carving, baby, carving like I expect The Great Pumpkin to bless me with his orange tealit glow.
But today, I could do nothing. And all I've really been able to think about, all afternoon, is walking, or getting on the bike, or even going swimming, just to burn up some of the calories I've taken in during the course of the day...and I haven't been able to!
Grr.
Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow, admittedly, the deadline pressure will still be on me, although I've JUST made my quota of pages done, as I sit here at 11 o'clock on a Friday night - here, incidentally, being in my office, while my poor wife, who's seen me for about an hour and a half all told today, including dinner, sits downstairs. Tomorrow, I'm up with the lark, getting the pages done, and hear me, o you mountains and you seas - There Will Be Biking!
Yes there freaking will, dammit...It's like...
You know what it's like? Have you ever heard the expression "blue balls"? It's a literally colourful expression for the irritation that builds up inside men if they haven't had sex in a while (though no-one, to my knowledge, has yet come up with an adequate expression for the irritation that builds up in women under the same circumstances - suggestions on a postcard please...).
Well, the way I feel tonight is like an exercising version of blue balls. Blue...Biceps, maybe? Yeah, that'll do, I've got blue biceps form not exercising today and, bar the walk that wouldn't end, not exercising yesterday either.
Tomorrow, dammit, I will have satisfaction, rid myself of blue bicep syndrome, and be an altogether more chipper human being to be around.
I mean, really, just positively comical.
I spent 38, 39 yeeeeeears essentially wishing to do as little physical exercise as possible.
And yet it's only since I've turned 40 that I've encountered days where I'm actually, medically not allowed to do any exercise.
And now I miss it!
Went to give blood today, for only the second time - you have a wait three months, minimum, between donations - and they tell you to do nothing of any exercise value on the day you do that. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilcho. Buggerall, to use the Welsh term.
Thing is, there are still plenty of days when I want to do buggerall. Then there are the days when I want to do plenty but, as now, am up against a deadline that means it's incredibly hard to carve out the time to do anything. I'm not really putting up with that bullshit in my life at the moment - I'm carving, baby, carving like I expect The Great Pumpkin to bless me with his orange tealit glow.
But today, I could do nothing. And all I've really been able to think about, all afternoon, is walking, or getting on the bike, or even going swimming, just to burn up some of the calories I've taken in during the course of the day...and I haven't been able to!
Grr.
Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow, admittedly, the deadline pressure will still be on me, although I've JUST made my quota of pages done, as I sit here at 11 o'clock on a Friday night - here, incidentally, being in my office, while my poor wife, who's seen me for about an hour and a half all told today, including dinner, sits downstairs. Tomorrow, I'm up with the lark, getting the pages done, and hear me, o you mountains and you seas - There Will Be Biking!
Yes there freaking will, dammit...It's like...
You know what it's like? Have you ever heard the expression "blue balls"? It's a literally colourful expression for the irritation that builds up inside men if they haven't had sex in a while (though no-one, to my knowledge, has yet come up with an adequate expression for the irritation that builds up in women under the same circumstances - suggestions on a postcard please...).
Well, the way I feel tonight is like an exercising version of blue balls. Blue...Biceps, maybe? Yeah, that'll do, I've got blue biceps form not exercising today and, bar the walk that wouldn't end, not exercising yesterday either.
Tomorrow, dammit, I will have satisfaction, rid myself of blue bicep syndrome, and be an altogether more chipper human being to be around.
Thursday 8 November 2012
The Told-You-So Satisfaction
Weighed in this morning, following a long-ass walk with Ma - started out as my traditional 5-mile route up through Twyn and Dowlais At about the highest point, Ma decided to take the route into her own hands, and took us on an even longer homeward path. Which was...erm...interesting...
Certainly felt that we'd earned out breakfast by the time we'd finished the walk. Weighed in:
17st 4.25.
That's 5..25 pounds lost since this time last week. So excuse me while I do a faintly smug "Oh yes oh yes oh yes I'm baby baby!" dance. Told you I was back on track with the zen calm and the willpower and the exercise and the not-eating-every-goddamn-thing-in-sight.
That is all...
Certainly felt that we'd earned out breakfast by the time we'd finished the walk. Weighed in:
17st 4.25.
That's 5..25 pounds lost since this time last week. So excuse me while I do a faintly smug "Oh yes oh yes oh yes I'm baby baby!" dance. Told you I was back on track with the zen calm and the willpower and the exercise and the not-eating-every-goddamn-thing-in-sight.
That is all...
Wednesday 7 November 2012
Missing Inaction
Wow...
Thanks, America. I mean that sincerely - thank you. Every time it looks as though things might go staggeringly wrong in recent years, you've come through. The rest of the world will sleep a little easier tonight than it did last night.
That's the thing - for all my talk about watching the Presidential election unfold live, I was gone last night before Ohio reported in. Why?
Well, because it struck me, as I stared dementedly at the TV screen, that I had turned into the political equivalent of those people who get on planes and won't move, or eat, or drink, or watch TV, because if they don't focus on keeping the plane in the air, or the people who go to a sporting event not to enjoy watching the game, but because their team will lose without them there to will them on, to mentally curve a ball, or psychically lift it toward the outfield...(That's it, that's my store of sports metaphors emptied).
So I went to bed. And when I woke up at 1-something, at 3-something, at 4-something and 5-something and a couple of separate 6-somethings, I forced myself to turn over, and not obey the impulse of my legs to get up and go downstairs.
At the second 6-something, it turned out d was awake too.
"I can hear you thinking," she said.
"Mmmpf" I said.
"It's a kind of crunchy sound," she said, borrowing shamelessly from the movie One Day, which we watched recently.
"Mmmraawwwrrmmpf," I argued.
"Do you wanna know who won?" she asked, picking up her phone.
"Sort of," I admitted. "But I'm kinda scared..."
She read me the headline result. I blinked.
"Really?" I almost gasped. "Freakin' A!!" I stopped myself from thinking "He did it? Without me? Huh..."
Today is now officially A Good Day in Disappearing World. In fact, it's a very good day - looks like there's a thinker continuing in the most powerful office in the world. As other battles float in front of my eyes, it looks bigger than that though - The senate looks like it's still in Democratic control...Granted, the Congress is still Republican controlled, but hey...The first openly lesbian Senator - Tammy Baldwin - and shitloads more gay and lesbian people had their relationships recognised as marriage-equal. What's more, a good fistful of Tea Party candidates had their asshats handed to them, which has to be a good thing, and particularly the extra special asses who told the world they believed a woman's body "shut down" potential pregnancies from rape, as if to claim there are no real consequences to that whole rape business...they're gone, they're outta here, which is clearly a good thing.
So - yay! Onward to the day, work, meetings, dentistry and Disappearing, then tonight to choir, to make an extra-specially joyful noise!
Thanks, America. I mean that sincerely - thank you. Every time it looks as though things might go staggeringly wrong in recent years, you've come through. The rest of the world will sleep a little easier tonight than it did last night.
That's the thing - for all my talk about watching the Presidential election unfold live, I was gone last night before Ohio reported in. Why?
Well, because it struck me, as I stared dementedly at the TV screen, that I had turned into the political equivalent of those people who get on planes and won't move, or eat, or drink, or watch TV, because if they don't focus on keeping the plane in the air, or the people who go to a sporting event not to enjoy watching the game, but because their team will lose without them there to will them on, to mentally curve a ball, or psychically lift it toward the outfield...(That's it, that's my store of sports metaphors emptied).
So I went to bed. And when I woke up at 1-something, at 3-something, at 4-something and 5-something and a couple of separate 6-somethings, I forced myself to turn over, and not obey the impulse of my legs to get up and go downstairs.
At the second 6-something, it turned out d was awake too.
"I can hear you thinking," she said.
"Mmmpf" I said.
"It's a kind of crunchy sound," she said, borrowing shamelessly from the movie One Day, which we watched recently.
"Mmmraawwwrrmmpf," I argued.
"Do you wanna know who won?" she asked, picking up her phone.
"Sort of," I admitted. "But I'm kinda scared..."
She read me the headline result. I blinked.
"Really?" I almost gasped. "Freakin' A!!" I stopped myself from thinking "He did it? Without me? Huh..."
Today is now officially A Good Day in Disappearing World. In fact, it's a very good day - looks like there's a thinker continuing in the most powerful office in the world. As other battles float in front of my eyes, it looks bigger than that though - The senate looks like it's still in Democratic control...Granted, the Congress is still Republican controlled, but hey...The first openly lesbian Senator - Tammy Baldwin - and shitloads more gay and lesbian people had their relationships recognised as marriage-equal. What's more, a good fistful of Tea Party candidates had their asshats handed to them, which has to be a good thing, and particularly the extra special asses who told the world they believed a woman's body "shut down" potential pregnancies from rape, as if to claim there are no real consequences to that whole rape business...they're gone, they're outta here, which is clearly a good thing.
So - yay! Onward to the day, work, meetings, dentistry and Disappearing, then tonight to choir, to make an extra-specially joyful noise!
Tuesday 6 November 2012
The Nervous Energy Extrapolation
Waaaaaaaargh!
Going nuts, going nuts, going nuts here....
No, for once, not Disappearing nuts - Disappearing zen calm remains entirely intact. This is more Presidential Election Holy Fuck Please Let This Work Out The Way I Want kinda going nuts. The kind of going nuts that's probably going on in the brains of politically-obssessed Americans (and, probably, anyone whose future depends on the political progress of that country) right about now, whichever way they think the future should be.
Disappearingwise, a slightly odd day has given way to a slightly weird week. Tomorrow, I have an early choir meeting, a late teeth cleaning and an ordinary choir practice. Thursday - weigh-in day - I have walking with Ma, and am then going up to hers for the day. Friday, got the Doctors first thing, followed by blood donation - and that means no more exercise that day.
In the middle of which, I'm working my ass off, and Trying to burn my ass off too.
No pressure, America, but my zen calm and dynamic energy will be sooooooo much easier to maintain this week if you get tonight right. Go - vote now. Vote the way I want you to (psycically tells all American readers which way that is, wanders off with a migraine...)
Vote vote vote vote vote...(No really, I'm like Bart Simpson, I can keep this up for hours), vote, vote VOOOOOOOOTE!!!!
Going nuts, going nuts, going nuts here....
No, for once, not Disappearing nuts - Disappearing zen calm remains entirely intact. This is more Presidential Election Holy Fuck Please Let This Work Out The Way I Want kinda going nuts. The kind of going nuts that's probably going on in the brains of politically-obssessed Americans (and, probably, anyone whose future depends on the political progress of that country) right about now, whichever way they think the future should be.
Disappearingwise, a slightly odd day has given way to a slightly weird week. Tomorrow, I have an early choir meeting, a late teeth cleaning and an ordinary choir practice. Thursday - weigh-in day - I have walking with Ma, and am then going up to hers for the day. Friday, got the Doctors first thing, followed by blood donation - and that means no more exercise that day.
In the middle of which, I'm working my ass off, and Trying to burn my ass off too.
No pressure, America, but my zen calm and dynamic energy will be sooooooo much easier to maintain this week if you get tonight right. Go - vote now. Vote the way I want you to (psycically tells all American readers which way that is, wanders off with a migraine...)
Vote vote vote vote vote...(No really, I'm like Bart Simpson, I can keep this up for hours), vote, vote VOOOOOOOOTE!!!!
Monday 5 November 2012
The Orca Inadequacy
Didn't go gymming and swimming when I woke up this morning. Instead, I discovered some deeply crucial huddling under blankets that really needed my attention. That done though, I got up, did some work, had some breakfast, and went to the gym.
Now - I don't have swimming trunks as such. I have swimming shorts, largely on the basis that the more body-mass that can be covered during this activity, the better it is for myself and others. So today I decided to cut a corner, go and work out in my swimming shorts, then drop down and do the swimming before coming home.
Then I pulled them on.
Ahem...
You know that moment in Jaws when the scientist guy calculates the size and bite-ratio of the shark while they're on the boat hunting the bloody thing, then turns to his two companions and grimly announces: "We're gonna need a bigger boat"?
We're gonna need some bigger shorts.
Welllll not really. I daresay they would still, just about, work - today I did the work out portion, hovered on the doorway to the changing room, saw a shitload of screamy little locust-kids come through the door, and checked out, with only the work out done.
But...yyyyeah. Clearly the weight I've put back on has changed the shape of my body. I came home to an email from Play.com - kinda like Amazon, but smaller - showing their daily deals. Having a quick scroll down, I spotted a bathing suit for women, called The Orca.
I'm really not kidding. Some genius somewhere decided to target a swimwear range at women, and named it after a freakin' whale. Nevertheless, I think what I need right now are Orca-shorts, quite frankly.
But, oddly enough, none of this is yet impacting the calm, or the determination, or the Get-This-Doneitiveness of the new campaign. It's only Monday now. I don't, now, weigh in till Thursday (do not adjust your internet, folks who missed the relaunch of the Disappearing Man - I weigh on Thursdays now, not Tuesdays...), so let's see what can be done between now and then.
Now...away to the bike!
Now - I don't have swimming trunks as such. I have swimming shorts, largely on the basis that the more body-mass that can be covered during this activity, the better it is for myself and others. So today I decided to cut a corner, go and work out in my swimming shorts, then drop down and do the swimming before coming home.
Then I pulled them on.
Ahem...
You know that moment in Jaws when the scientist guy calculates the size and bite-ratio of the shark while they're on the boat hunting the bloody thing, then turns to his two companions and grimly announces: "We're gonna need a bigger boat"?
We're gonna need some bigger shorts.
Welllll not really. I daresay they would still, just about, work - today I did the work out portion, hovered on the doorway to the changing room, saw a shitload of screamy little locust-kids come through the door, and checked out, with only the work out done.
But...yyyyeah. Clearly the weight I've put back on has changed the shape of my body. I came home to an email from Play.com - kinda like Amazon, but smaller - showing their daily deals. Having a quick scroll down, I spotted a bathing suit for women, called The Orca.
I'm really not kidding. Some genius somewhere decided to target a swimwear range at women, and named it after a freakin' whale. Nevertheless, I think what I need right now are Orca-shorts, quite frankly.
But, oddly enough, none of this is yet impacting the calm, or the determination, or the Get-This-Doneitiveness of the new campaign. It's only Monday now. I don't, now, weigh in till Thursday (do not adjust your internet, folks who missed the relaunch of the Disappearing Man - I weigh on Thursdays now, not Tuesdays...), so let's see what can be done between now and then.
Now...away to the bike!
The Portugese Disappointment and the Disappearing Blazer
Today has been deliciously busy, but has only included two meals. Hefty meals in both cases, and relatively carb-heavy, but two meals, nevertheless, which is just as well because I haven't managed the biking I planned to do.
The first meal was a perfect arc of hope and disappointment.
We've been trying new places since we arrived in Merthyr almost a year ago, but it being a Sunday morning, we decided to pop out for lunch, and couldn't think of anywhere within walking distance that was new and interesting. As we walked, we found a place called Santos. It looked promising, using Welsh ingredients in Portugese cuisine. One of our favourite local places in Stratford was Portugese, and called Selmos. So we went in with hope, and optimism, and hunger.
d ordered pate to start, and was given a plastic tub of the kind that contains marmalades in hotels.
"I'm guessing not made on site," I murmured. She spread it on some toast, bit into it...
...and nearly threw up.
Pate, in the world of the familiar, usually has something at the root of it that has walked around on legs. Sardine pate belongs to an entirely different world - the world of obnoxious fish paste.
Next!
Next was garlic bread and stewed pork, which worked nicely. Then there was a pair of mains. d's was pork in a pale sauce, mine was toast and ham and cheese and sausage and meat of some description. d's took forever to chew. Mine was entirely impregnable to knives, forks or teeth. It simply sat there, smirking at me.
The kicker was the bill, which was breathtaking for a plate of gelatinous, multiply-meated grimness. Clearly, Santos can kiss my wobbly ass in future.
The second meal, after choir, was almost entirely its antithesis - home made corned beef hash at home. Gorgeous stuff.
Inbetween the the two, of course, I went to choir. Apart from a brief appearance in a Penguin suit, I haven't sung with the choir as yet, because there's a uniform. Tonight, I was given mine, and had to try on clothes in front of a handful of other blokes. Since most of them were at least as big as me, there was none of the locker-room terror of my younger days, even though I'm undoubtedly fatter than I was back in those days. And now I have my "Blazer and Greys", so a week Tuesday is my first full performance as chorister.
When the blazer almost but not quite did up, the guy who was getting me kitted out looked at it almost but not quite approvingly.
"Don't worry," I grinned at him. "I'll Disappear into it shortly..."
Tomorrow - swimming and gymming before settling down for a solid day's editing. And Disappearing, obviously.
The first meal was a perfect arc of hope and disappointment.
We've been trying new places since we arrived in Merthyr almost a year ago, but it being a Sunday morning, we decided to pop out for lunch, and couldn't think of anywhere within walking distance that was new and interesting. As we walked, we found a place called Santos. It looked promising, using Welsh ingredients in Portugese cuisine. One of our favourite local places in Stratford was Portugese, and called Selmos. So we went in with hope, and optimism, and hunger.
d ordered pate to start, and was given a plastic tub of the kind that contains marmalades in hotels.
"I'm guessing not made on site," I murmured. She spread it on some toast, bit into it...
...and nearly threw up.
Pate, in the world of the familiar, usually has something at the root of it that has walked around on legs. Sardine pate belongs to an entirely different world - the world of obnoxious fish paste.
Next!
Next was garlic bread and stewed pork, which worked nicely. Then there was a pair of mains. d's was pork in a pale sauce, mine was toast and ham and cheese and sausage and meat of some description. d's took forever to chew. Mine was entirely impregnable to knives, forks or teeth. It simply sat there, smirking at me.
The kicker was the bill, which was breathtaking for a plate of gelatinous, multiply-meated grimness. Clearly, Santos can kiss my wobbly ass in future.
The second meal, after choir, was almost entirely its antithesis - home made corned beef hash at home. Gorgeous stuff.
Inbetween the the two, of course, I went to choir. Apart from a brief appearance in a Penguin suit, I haven't sung with the choir as yet, because there's a uniform. Tonight, I was given mine, and had to try on clothes in front of a handful of other blokes. Since most of them were at least as big as me, there was none of the locker-room terror of my younger days, even though I'm undoubtedly fatter than I was back in those days. And now I have my "Blazer and Greys", so a week Tuesday is my first full performance as chorister.
When the blazer almost but not quite did up, the guy who was getting me kitted out looked at it almost but not quite approvingly.
"Don't worry," I grinned at him. "I'll Disappear into it shortly..."
Tomorrow - swimming and gymming before settling down for a solid day's editing. And Disappearing, obviously.
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