Ahem...
Helllooooooo!
I haven't been around here for a while, I know.
Thing is, this blog's been kind of...well if not retired, then at least vaguely superseded.
By this blog - The Year of Living Beeblebrox
Basically, the idea is that since I've now turned 42, my friend Sian and I are going to do 42 new, exciting, or downright stupid things...just to mark the year. One of those in my case is still "lose four stone"!
Things have been going staggeringly badly in Disappearing terms in recent weeks, has to be said. Weighed in this morning at an unconscionable 18 stone 2.25. Unff.
But have just tweaked my goal, so that it's "lose 4 stone 3 pounds by 22nd October 2014 (my 43rd birthday). This would actually put me about half a stone lighter than I've been at any point during the Disappearing. As I have a bunch of followers at this blog (thank you, thank you, thank you one and all...) and, for reasons that will become quickly obvious, abbbbsolutely no bugger's following the new blog, figured it made sense to give a hearty "What Ho!" over here, and ask you, if you want to know how the Disappearing continues, to come and follow me over at the Beeblebrox blog instead.
Thanks folks!
Wednesday 13 November 2013
Tuesday 8 October 2013
The Farewell Fanfare - 7th October
London today. Nightmare commute home. But viewed the day as a kind of Farewell Tour to all things yummy. Had four Starbucks, mostly of a creamy nature, one cookie, one chunk of mammoth choc-chip shortbread, and...due entirely to the need to have somewhere warm to sit for an hour at Cardiff at 11 o'clock at night, a late night Double Rodeo Meal.
This means that of course, tomorrow's re-inaugural weigh-in is going to be dire, a kind of hangover-cum-punch-in-the-face.
I wish I could say I enjoyed the farewell fanfare more, but to be honest, much like birthdays once you've had four decades of them, I felt I was being decadent and celebrating...more for the look of the thing than for any real enjoyment.
Which I suppose is probably the right mindset in which to embark on the brand new installment of the Disappearing Man tomorrow...
Right?...
This means that of course, tomorrow's re-inaugural weigh-in is going to be dire, a kind of hangover-cum-punch-in-the-face.
I wish I could say I enjoyed the farewell fanfare more, but to be honest, much like birthdays once you've had four decades of them, I felt I was being decadent and celebrating...more for the look of the thing than for any real enjoyment.
Which I suppose is probably the right mindset in which to embark on the brand new installment of the Disappearing Man tomorrow...
Right?...
The Trifle Neccesity - 6th October
Still lurgied. Went to Ma's today for big traditional roast dinner. So far, so filling. Then she brought out dessert.
Desserts, excuse me. Strudel, a whole big trifle, and a whole big put of cream for whipping.
I thought about resisting, and then gave in with what it would be politic to call grace, and accurate to call gluttony.
The thing is, in my mind was the mantra of off kids who grew up in the 70s.
It'll only go to waste if no-one eats it. Followed closely by the number two hit in the psychological charts of the time:
There are people starving in Africa...
How and why this second mantra never translated into the logical further thought - so stop eating everything in sight, ya greedy bastard, I suspect I'll never know, but it's certainly true in my case that the programming of youth was that you finished your plate, both for domestic convenience and wider-scale socio-political responsibility...I ate that trifle for Ethiopia, don'tcha know? I think, in some messed-up dark little part of my brain, I expect smiles and brownie-points from (the let's not forget, stick-bloody-thin) Sir Bob Geldof for this act of demented gluttony...
They always say that inside every fat person, there's a thin person trying to get out. What no bugger tells you is that they're stark raving mad...
Desserts, excuse me. Strudel, a whole big trifle, and a whole big put of cream for whipping.
I thought about resisting, and then gave in with what it would be politic to call grace, and accurate to call gluttony.
The thing is, in my mind was the mantra of off kids who grew up in the 70s.
It'll only go to waste if no-one eats it. Followed closely by the number two hit in the psychological charts of the time:
There are people starving in Africa...
How and why this second mantra never translated into the logical further thought - so stop eating everything in sight, ya greedy bastard, I suspect I'll never know, but it's certainly true in my case that the programming of youth was that you finished your plate, both for domestic convenience and wider-scale socio-political responsibility...I ate that trifle for Ethiopia, don'tcha know? I think, in some messed-up dark little part of my brain, I expect smiles and brownie-points from (the let's not forget, stick-bloody-thin) Sir Bob Geldof for this act of demented gluttony...
They always say that inside every fat person, there's a thin person trying to get out. What no bugger tells you is that they're stark raving mad...
The Lurgification Swamp - 5th October
Joy of joys, all joys excelling...Lurgied.
Lurgied like a lurgied thing. Me. d. Ma...all bloody lurgied...d, bless her, coughing all night for about three nights now. Have tried dosing us up with stuff. Reckon the only thing left to do is paint a big black cross on the door and have done, to be honest...
Unff...
Lurgied like a lurgied thing. Me. d. Ma...all bloody lurgied...d, bless her, coughing all night for about three nights now. Have tried dosing us up with stuff. Reckon the only thing left to do is paint a big black cross on the door and have done, to be honest...
Unff...
The Starting Date Amendment - 4th October
Ah. You know I said I begin Disappearing again on the 6th October?
Yyyyeah, that's not happening. The 8th...that's the proper date to begin this whole thing again. Weigh-in day.
Besides, am going to Ma's on the 6th for something of a slap-up lunch...
Yyyyeah, that's not happening. The 8th...that's the proper date to begin this whole thing again. Weigh-in day.
Besides, am going to Ma's on the 6th for something of a slap-up lunch...
The Beeblebrox Imperative - 3rd October
I turn 42 soon. Been an...interesting...few years.
Thing is, Sian and I have determined we're not going to call it "turning 42". We're going to call it "Joining Team Beeblebrox". Fans of the Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy won't need that explaining to them. Non-fans of the Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy...probably, in all honesty, don't read this blog, but the short answer is there's a book called The Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy, which involves "The Answer To The Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe and Everything".
Which is 42.
The action of the book surrounds a bunch of characters, one of which is the supremely cool but not terribly bright two-headed galactic president and spaceship-thief, Zaphod Beeblebrox. Hence, Team Beeblebrox=people who are 42. Clear? Good, right, moving on...
We're challenging each other to Do Stuff with this Beeblebrox year, for no better reason than "we do that, sometimes."
The return of the Disappearing Man is not a Beeblebrox thing. It's a just a Me thing. Nevertheless, there are things that I've sort of agreed to do as part of Year Beeblebrox that will change utterly what people (including me) know about me. Have decided to try and spend a year "digitally dead for temporal reasons" - my personal use of Facebook, Twitter etc will die for a year beginning on October 22nd. I'm guessing this also means sharing this blog on Facebook, which I routinely do, has to die a death for a year. I will still be on social networks for various jobs - Jefferson Franklin, Dowlais Male Choir...my day-job etc. But the personal stuff - not for a year.
What's more...sigh...not at all sure about this one, I have to tell you...I'm giving up Starbucks for a year.
I'll still be allowed to support small, non-chain or local coffee shops, but none of the big boys - no Starbucks, no Costa, no Tescos cafe...
I'm also thinking about trying to take my coffee black, and unsweetened for a year. That way a) I'll grow accustomed to not having half a gallon of milky froth in it, which can only be good from a Disappearing standpoint, and b) I'll also stop treating coffee as a sweet treat, which I think - and this of course will surprise no-one - is what it's become to me, a kind of backdoor, surrogate dessert option.
So...yay...(waves tiny flag). Bring on Year Beeblebrox...
Thing is, Sian and I have determined we're not going to call it "turning 42". We're going to call it "Joining Team Beeblebrox". Fans of the Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy won't need that explaining to them. Non-fans of the Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy...probably, in all honesty, don't read this blog, but the short answer is there's a book called The Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy, which involves "The Answer To The Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe and Everything".
Which is 42.
The action of the book surrounds a bunch of characters, one of which is the supremely cool but not terribly bright two-headed galactic president and spaceship-thief, Zaphod Beeblebrox. Hence, Team Beeblebrox=people who are 42. Clear? Good, right, moving on...
We're challenging each other to Do Stuff with this Beeblebrox year, for no better reason than "we do that, sometimes."
The return of the Disappearing Man is not a Beeblebrox thing. It's a just a Me thing. Nevertheless, there are things that I've sort of agreed to do as part of Year Beeblebrox that will change utterly what people (including me) know about me. Have decided to try and spend a year "digitally dead for temporal reasons" - my personal use of Facebook, Twitter etc will die for a year beginning on October 22nd. I'm guessing this also means sharing this blog on Facebook, which I routinely do, has to die a death for a year. I will still be on social networks for various jobs - Jefferson Franklin, Dowlais Male Choir...my day-job etc. But the personal stuff - not for a year.
What's more...sigh...not at all sure about this one, I have to tell you...I'm giving up Starbucks for a year.
I'll still be allowed to support small, non-chain or local coffee shops, but none of the big boys - no Starbucks, no Costa, no Tescos cafe...
I'm also thinking about trying to take my coffee black, and unsweetened for a year. That way a) I'll grow accustomed to not having half a gallon of milky froth in it, which can only be good from a Disappearing standpoint, and b) I'll also stop treating coffee as a sweet treat, which I think - and this of course will surprise no-one - is what it's become to me, a kind of backdoor, surrogate dessert option.
So...yay...(waves tiny flag). Bring on Year Beeblebrox...
The National Obsession - 2nd October
My new pal Joe started reading some Disappearing Man yesterday. Didn't particularly ask her to, but did share a link with her. One thing she said about the very first entry, all that time ago, struck home.
"The chances are, you're not as fat as you think you are," I'd written, or something like it.
She messaged me back almost immediately. "Most people who think they're fat...are fat, you know," she said.
I wondered about that. With a society that obsesses about how people look - how women in particular look, what happens to their bodies, and in particular, what they weigh, I was skeptical. Have a feeling that, coming to it new, Joe may well have got the wrong end of the two-ended stick of weight perception. I'm under no illusions of course that fat people think they're thin. You can't, I suspect, be fat in the modern world and not know it - because if it wasn't enough to get body images of what beauty looks like to the half-dozen people in the world who get to decide what beauty and fashion are these days flung at you mercilessly from every ad campaign - with the none-too-subtle underlining that "you must look like this or you're not beautiful, and therefore not worth anything - particularly not worth anybody wanting to love or have sex with, ya fat fuck!" - people will come up and tell you. They really will - apparently concerned folk will come up to you and tell you you're fat. Young people (some of whom the old reactionary in my soul wants to ban) feel it incumbent on them to point and laugh, and feel that society is probably on their side, so don't particularly hide their intent. It is surely beyond a shadow of doubt that fat people know they are fat.
But the point is that in this body-obsessive society, not-fat people also know they're fat. Because the goalposts of fat are frequently set by the insane. Which is to say the fashionmasters, who design, as I've heard it described, clothes for pre-pubescent 12 year-old boys, and then sell them to women. You can be by any rational definition significantly not-fat and still think, be told, be blackmailed and brainwashed by an advertising and celebrity culture gone entirely round the bend, that you're not not-fat enough, not thin enough, not perfect enough.
I was mulling that as I wandered through the magazine section at Tesco tonight. Normally of course, I avoid the gossip magazines like the plague they are, but tonight I looked up. Dawn French - Heavier Than She Was was the headline on one. Beach Body Epic Failures was the headline on another. Some C-Lister Whose Name I Can't Remember - Friends Worry As Weight Balloons was very nearly the headline of a third.
Just a couple of years ago, we had a scandal in this country because journalists were crossing the boundaries of socially acceptable behaviour, hacking people's mobile phones. How, then, is it still acceptable to peddle body-image neurosis to a largely female readership, and get them to pay for the privilege of having fingers pointed indirectly and through the avatars of the famous or allegedly famous, at them, telling them what's wrong with their bodies on a weekly basis? Can we maybe, just for once in our lives, be a bit freakin' nicer to women, please?
"The chances are, you're not as fat as you think you are," I'd written, or something like it.
She messaged me back almost immediately. "Most people who think they're fat...are fat, you know," she said.
I wondered about that. With a society that obsesses about how people look - how women in particular look, what happens to their bodies, and in particular, what they weigh, I was skeptical. Have a feeling that, coming to it new, Joe may well have got the wrong end of the two-ended stick of weight perception. I'm under no illusions of course that fat people think they're thin. You can't, I suspect, be fat in the modern world and not know it - because if it wasn't enough to get body images of what beauty looks like to the half-dozen people in the world who get to decide what beauty and fashion are these days flung at you mercilessly from every ad campaign - with the none-too-subtle underlining that "you must look like this or you're not beautiful, and therefore not worth anything - particularly not worth anybody wanting to love or have sex with, ya fat fuck!" - people will come up and tell you. They really will - apparently concerned folk will come up to you and tell you you're fat. Young people (some of whom the old reactionary in my soul wants to ban) feel it incumbent on them to point and laugh, and feel that society is probably on their side, so don't particularly hide their intent. It is surely beyond a shadow of doubt that fat people know they are fat.
But the point is that in this body-obsessive society, not-fat people also know they're fat. Because the goalposts of fat are frequently set by the insane. Which is to say the fashionmasters, who design, as I've heard it described, clothes for pre-pubescent 12 year-old boys, and then sell them to women. You can be by any rational definition significantly not-fat and still think, be told, be blackmailed and brainwashed by an advertising and celebrity culture gone entirely round the bend, that you're not not-fat enough, not thin enough, not perfect enough.
I was mulling that as I wandered through the magazine section at Tesco tonight. Normally of course, I avoid the gossip magazines like the plague they are, but tonight I looked up. Dawn French - Heavier Than She Was was the headline on one. Beach Body Epic Failures was the headline on another. Some C-Lister Whose Name I Can't Remember - Friends Worry As Weight Balloons was very nearly the headline of a third.
Just a couple of years ago, we had a scandal in this country because journalists were crossing the boundaries of socially acceptable behaviour, hacking people's mobile phones. How, then, is it still acceptable to peddle body-image neurosis to a largely female readership, and get them to pay for the privilege of having fingers pointed indirectly and through the avatars of the famous or allegedly famous, at them, telling them what's wrong with their bodies on a weekly basis? Can we maybe, just for once in our lives, be a bit freakin' nicer to women, please?
Tuesday 1 October 2013
The Disappearing Countdown
Bum, quite frankly.
Bum bum bum bum bum...
Been a rotten couple of weeks, Disappearingwise. Been eating more or less what I like - and we all know what that is. Been throwing the occasional walk or biking session into the mix to try and persuade myself that I'd restarted, but last week saw me at 17st 11, and today...unff...back up to 17st 13.
Been down in all sorts of dumps. Work dumps, metabolic dumps, choral dumps (best kind of dumps, those - they come in four-part harmony, which is pretty at least, even if they do come with a range of amens at the end...). This week in particular, I've had my Disappearing teeth kicked in. Went to a big choral bash, for which formal dress was required. Last time I had to wear that, it did up. This week, it dangled from my once-again prodigious man-breasts, making me the extremely odd one out.
This weekend was our ninth wedding anniversary, so I hired a car and we pootled to Saundersfoot and Amroth (longstanding readers, if any such still exist, will know of course that this is our traditional holiday spot). d, for reasons best known to herself but probably connected to what it would be kind to call my natural inclination to physical comedy, and more accurate to describe as my klutz-footed, cack-handed ability to fall over while standing still, has for some years harboured a not-so-secret desire to see me ride a horse. I have of course largely dissuaded her from this foolish notion, but this year, I thought "bugger it, we have the car..." so we went to the Marros riding stable.
"Rough height and weight?" asked the schoolgirl there.
"5ft 6 and about 17 and a half stone,"I admitted. She sucked her entirely unhorsey teeth.
"Sorry," she said, "no can do...maximum weight's 16 stone, I'm afraid..."
There's a natural temptation, meeting such obstacles, to go into Angry Fat Bloke mode, and go "stick your wimp-ass horses where the sun don't shine, beeeatch!" Into which temptation I did not give, but still...
I'm intending to really rev the hell up and start the Disappearing thing pretty much from scratch again. In fact, it was supposed to have started today. Failed, failed, failed. Not...hugely...I mean, I haven't spent the day cramming cream cakes down my neck washed down with lard and Coke smoothies. But haven't exercised at all, haven't taken the slightest care of my metabolism...hence failed.
Now tonight, have been talking with Joe Bartholomew. That's right, the Joe Bartholomew.
Sigh...you're going to pretend you don't know who Joe Bartholomew is now, aren't you? A tedious fiction, to be sure, but anyway - Joe Bartholomew is an author, and a damn fine one at that, whose debut work will I daresay ring bells and pull heartstrings among Disappearers everywhere - it's called Three Fat Singletons...I could go on, but the point is probably made. To find out more, go here. I met Joe at the York Festival of Writing...what seems like an age ago now, but was really only a handful of heartbeats...and we've been corresponding since. Anyhow, she too was supposed to have started a new dietary regime today...but, y'know, there was angel cake and stuff...
I'm feeling increasingly wretched and lurgified as the night goes on, so am thinking of doing a Starbucks day tomorrow. Which means no early morning walking...So we sort of made an agreement. Disappearing Proper begins again, ladies and gentlemen, on October 6th. That's old style Disappearing - Walking, biking, carrot sticks, fruit, protein, all that schtick - plus of course all the no sugar, no fried, limited carb, calorifically counted malarkey.
Five days, people. Counting down as of....now!
Bum bum bum bum bum...
Been a rotten couple of weeks, Disappearingwise. Been eating more or less what I like - and we all know what that is. Been throwing the occasional walk or biking session into the mix to try and persuade myself that I'd restarted, but last week saw me at 17st 11, and today...unff...back up to 17st 13.
Been down in all sorts of dumps. Work dumps, metabolic dumps, choral dumps (best kind of dumps, those - they come in four-part harmony, which is pretty at least, even if they do come with a range of amens at the end...). This week in particular, I've had my Disappearing teeth kicked in. Went to a big choral bash, for which formal dress was required. Last time I had to wear that, it did up. This week, it dangled from my once-again prodigious man-breasts, making me the extremely odd one out.
This weekend was our ninth wedding anniversary, so I hired a car and we pootled to Saundersfoot and Amroth (longstanding readers, if any such still exist, will know of course that this is our traditional holiday spot). d, for reasons best known to herself but probably connected to what it would be kind to call my natural inclination to physical comedy, and more accurate to describe as my klutz-footed, cack-handed ability to fall over while standing still, has for some years harboured a not-so-secret desire to see me ride a horse. I have of course largely dissuaded her from this foolish notion, but this year, I thought "bugger it, we have the car..." so we went to the Marros riding stable.
"Rough height and weight?" asked the schoolgirl there.
"5ft 6 and about 17 and a half stone,"I admitted. She sucked her entirely unhorsey teeth.
"Sorry," she said, "no can do...maximum weight's 16 stone, I'm afraid..."
There's a natural temptation, meeting such obstacles, to go into Angry Fat Bloke mode, and go "stick your wimp-ass horses where the sun don't shine, beeeatch!" Into which temptation I did not give, but still...
I'm intending to really rev the hell up and start the Disappearing thing pretty much from scratch again. In fact, it was supposed to have started today. Failed, failed, failed. Not...hugely...I mean, I haven't spent the day cramming cream cakes down my neck washed down with lard and Coke smoothies. But haven't exercised at all, haven't taken the slightest care of my metabolism...hence failed.
Now tonight, have been talking with Joe Bartholomew. That's right, the Joe Bartholomew.
Sigh...you're going to pretend you don't know who Joe Bartholomew is now, aren't you? A tedious fiction, to be sure, but anyway - Joe Bartholomew is an author, and a damn fine one at that, whose debut work will I daresay ring bells and pull heartstrings among Disappearers everywhere - it's called Three Fat Singletons...I could go on, but the point is probably made. To find out more, go here. I met Joe at the York Festival of Writing...what seems like an age ago now, but was really only a handful of heartbeats...and we've been corresponding since. Anyhow, she too was supposed to have started a new dietary regime today...but, y'know, there was angel cake and stuff...
I'm feeling increasingly wretched and lurgified as the night goes on, so am thinking of doing a Starbucks day tomorrow. Which means no early morning walking...So we sort of made an agreement. Disappearing Proper begins again, ladies and gentlemen, on October 6th. That's old style Disappearing - Walking, biking, carrot sticks, fruit, protein, all that schtick - plus of course all the no sugar, no fried, limited carb, calorifically counted malarkey.
Five days, people. Counting down as of....now!
Tuesday 17 September 2013
The Post-Vacational Weigh-In
So...yeah, OK, went from one place - Torquay - famed for its fish and chips and its cream teas - to another place - York - famed for its tea shops and...apparently, its fish and chips. Had the kind of time that takes a few blogs to describe, and will describe it over the next few entries, but tonight, don't have time to mess about.
Big news - yesterday d and I moved the exercise bike back into the office, and today I biked for the first time in about a month or more.
Which was just as well, as the weigh-in showed me at 17st 7.25 - back to about the half-way point of progress.
Tides must now be turned. Discipline reinstated. Bikes re-pedalled, and pounds, and ultimately stones, re-lost. And to it we go...More on the week away tomorrow - expect more regular blogs again too; seems to have been a fundamental bit of the discipline process.
Big news - yesterday d and I moved the exercise bike back into the office, and today I biked for the first time in about a month or more.
Which was just as well, as the weigh-in showed me at 17st 7.25 - back to about the half-way point of progress.
Tides must now be turned. Discipline reinstated. Bikes re-pedalled, and pounds, and ultimately stones, re-lost. And to it we go...More on the week away tomorrow - expect more regular blogs again too; seems to have been a fundamental bit of the discipline process.
Sunday 8 September 2013
The Parrot of Invisibility
No, no, no, no, no...
This is not an ex-blog. It has not ceased to be. It may have ceased to be interesting, but that's another matter entirely.
Just deadlines. Work and deadlines and more deadline, with a cheery of work on top.
Weigh-in last Tuesday was disappointing - 17st 3.75. Humph.
Now I'm off, probably for a week without net access, and certainly for a wekk without Nazi Scales - first in Torquay...as ya do...and then in York...as you probably don't, as it seems to be twinned with the Middle of Bleedin' Nowhere...
Haven't really started again. Have tried. Have failed. Got a week away from my normal routines. Oddly enough, might be just what's needed at the moment; have a feeling my normal routines have got a bit abnormal.
Also of course, just to add a note of crushing sombreness - a year tomorrow, my dad died. Getting out of Dodge is probably a good thing on that front too. Catch you on the flipside, Disappearers!
This is not an ex-blog. It has not ceased to be. It may have ceased to be interesting, but that's another matter entirely.
Just deadlines. Work and deadlines and more deadline, with a cheery of work on top.
Weigh-in last Tuesday was disappointing - 17st 3.75. Humph.
Now I'm off, probably for a week without net access, and certainly for a wekk without Nazi Scales - first in Torquay...as ya do...and then in York...as you probably don't, as it seems to be twinned with the Middle of Bleedin' Nowhere...
Haven't really started again. Have tried. Have failed. Got a week away from my normal routines. Oddly enough, might be just what's needed at the moment; have a feeling my normal routines have got a bit abnormal.
Also of course, just to add a note of crushing sombreness - a year tomorrow, my dad died. Getting out of Dodge is probably a good thing on that front too. Catch you on the flipside, Disappearers!
Tuesday 27 August 2013
Escape And Return
Hellooooo out there.
Apologies - been a mad old time.
This week has been particularly bad - have barely made it down the Trail, there are cobwebs on the exercise bike, and just yesterday, when we had a bank holiday in Tenby, I had fish and chips and a chocolate sundae. Neither of these events are unique for the week.
So this morning, with a return to exercise and restraint, I figured I'd be much heavier, and with blood that was, to quote Victoria Wood, A Resus Nougat.
Surprisingly then, the weigh-in showed me at 17st 3.75 - up just a pound and three-quarters - and my blood sugar was 6.6 (not bad for a British diabetic). Went down the Trail this morning, and kept the food to reasonable, generally - cereal breakfast, toast lunch, and a sausage sandwich dinner. Probably a little heavy on the bread, but it's day one of the return to discipline.
I worked out this morning that there are just 18 weeks till the end of the year (which presumably explains why there are Christmas cards in the shops already. 18 weeks means an average of 36 pounds. Two and a half stone, to the Brits. So according to the numbers, I can get to the borders of 15 stone again before the dawn of 2014. Let's make it so...
Apologies - been a mad old time.
This week has been particularly bad - have barely made it down the Trail, there are cobwebs on the exercise bike, and just yesterday, when we had a bank holiday in Tenby, I had fish and chips and a chocolate sundae. Neither of these events are unique for the week.
So this morning, with a return to exercise and restraint, I figured I'd be much heavier, and with blood that was, to quote Victoria Wood, A Resus Nougat.
Surprisingly then, the weigh-in showed me at 17st 3.75 - up just a pound and three-quarters - and my blood sugar was 6.6 (not bad for a British diabetic). Went down the Trail this morning, and kept the food to reasonable, generally - cereal breakfast, toast lunch, and a sausage sandwich dinner. Probably a little heavy on the bread, but it's day one of the return to discipline.
I worked out this morning that there are just 18 weeks till the end of the year (which presumably explains why there are Christmas cards in the shops already. 18 weeks means an average of 36 pounds. Two and a half stone, to the Brits. So according to the numbers, I can get to the borders of 15 stone again before the dawn of 2014. Let's make it so...
Tuesday 20 August 2013
The Hereversary
Nine years ago right now, I was collecting d from Heathrow Airport. She'd sent everything she owned and couldn't bear to be parted from over from the States in a procession of mystery boxes, and all that was left was her and the clothes she stood. One month and nine days later, we were married.
This Hereversary has always meant quite a bit to us, and today was no different. We went out for dinner at a local Chinese, thuough it would be stretching it to call that celebratory. Probably the celebration will come two days from now when we meet up with friends at our current favourite Indian restaurant, the Qmin.
Other news from today - sadness as only the second author in over a year and a half takes issue or umbrage with our work at Jefferson Franklin. On reflection, he may have rather more of a point than the first one did. Something should, and something will, be done. It's a weird dynamic, really - I don't ever ask that people like what we say, but if they don't find value in what we do I feel like we've let them down. As I say, something will be done, once I'm doe with pondering on it.
Also, sent my work to a Writing Conference I'm attending in September, to be assessed by agents - that'll prove a deeply humbling experience, I've no doubt, but one through which one must go to grow the necessary carapace...
Oh and the weigh-in. As predicted, over the 17st mark - 17st 2 in fact. But went down the Trail this morning. Going again tomorrow, and cracking out the bike as well.
I'd be lying if I said my going back into the perspex box just yet - we have Thursday to do, after all.
All in all, feel like I've taken a fair share of kickings today - my mate Sally-Anne said I was patronising her today when I pointed something out to her. My pal Wendy just text-laughed when I mentioned my perspex boxes. Plus the author found little value in our work, so I feel like I've conned him, even though the work was done in good faith. Like I say, a day of many kickings, this Hereversary.
So I'm putting an end to it now and going to bed. See you, folks, am doing a Scarlett O'Hara - Tomorrow is another day. It starts around 6am...
This Hereversary has always meant quite a bit to us, and today was no different. We went out for dinner at a local Chinese, thuough it would be stretching it to call that celebratory. Probably the celebration will come two days from now when we meet up with friends at our current favourite Indian restaurant, the Qmin.
Other news from today - sadness as only the second author in over a year and a half takes issue or umbrage with our work at Jefferson Franklin. On reflection, he may have rather more of a point than the first one did. Something should, and something will, be done. It's a weird dynamic, really - I don't ever ask that people like what we say, but if they don't find value in what we do I feel like we've let them down. As I say, something will be done, once I'm doe with pondering on it.
Also, sent my work to a Writing Conference I'm attending in September, to be assessed by agents - that'll prove a deeply humbling experience, I've no doubt, but one through which one must go to grow the necessary carapace...
Oh and the weigh-in. As predicted, over the 17st mark - 17st 2 in fact. But went down the Trail this morning. Going again tomorrow, and cracking out the bike as well.
I'd be lying if I said my going back into the perspex box just yet - we have Thursday to do, after all.
All in all, feel like I've taken a fair share of kickings today - my mate Sally-Anne said I was patronising her today when I pointed something out to her. My pal Wendy just text-laughed when I mentioned my perspex boxes. Plus the author found little value in our work, so I feel like I've conned him, even though the work was done in good faith. Like I say, a day of many kickings, this Hereversary.
So I'm putting an end to it now and going to bed. See you, folks, am doing a Scarlett O'Hara - Tomorrow is another day. It starts around 6am...
Monday 19 August 2013
The Fear Factor
You know how some people, when they know they don't have enough money, refuse to look at their bank balance, for fear of the truth it will tell them?
That's the relationship I'm having with the Nazi Scales at the moment.
It's been almost a week since I wrote. The weigh-in this week was weird - for slightly convoluted reasons, it didn't take place on Tuesday, but Wednesday saw me up and looking at a 17. 17 stone...again.
Thursday, however, was kinder, and put me back at 16 stone 11. Since then, I've taken this only partially catastrophic news and run with it, but haven't carved out the time to exercise, and haven't eaten within any kind of logical moderation. And so I cower somewhat from the weigh-in this coming Tuesday, knowing it will probably see me 17 and then some, a deeply unaccetable turn of events for which, if blame were remotely useful, I would have no-one to attach it to but myself.
There are whispers of perspex again in my brain - go back behind my walls of absolutism again, regain control of my life, my weight, my metabolism and my energy levels. To some extent, the deadlines and demands of the day-to-day are rather drowning them out, those helpful, healthy whispers right now and I am in a degree of turmoil. A year ago now, things were coming to some sort of head with my dad, though there was hope, still, so much hope of him coming through and coming home to us.
I was out of control then too, and have only been inconsistently in control since - as d has put it - "you'll be losing this same stone time and time and time again..."
I know what I need to do.
Doing it is entirely another thing...
That's the relationship I'm having with the Nazi Scales at the moment.
It's been almost a week since I wrote. The weigh-in this week was weird - for slightly convoluted reasons, it didn't take place on Tuesday, but Wednesday saw me up and looking at a 17. 17 stone...again.
Thursday, however, was kinder, and put me back at 16 stone 11. Since then, I've taken this only partially catastrophic news and run with it, but haven't carved out the time to exercise, and haven't eaten within any kind of logical moderation. And so I cower somewhat from the weigh-in this coming Tuesday, knowing it will probably see me 17 and then some, a deeply unaccetable turn of events for which, if blame were remotely useful, I would have no-one to attach it to but myself.
There are whispers of perspex again in my brain - go back behind my walls of absolutism again, regain control of my life, my weight, my metabolism and my energy levels. To some extent, the deadlines and demands of the day-to-day are rather drowning them out, those helpful, healthy whispers right now and I am in a degree of turmoil. A year ago now, things were coming to some sort of head with my dad, though there was hope, still, so much hope of him coming through and coming home to us.
I was out of control then too, and have only been inconsistently in control since - as d has put it - "you'll be losing this same stone time and time and time again..."
I know what I need to do.
Doing it is entirely another thing...
Saturday 10 August 2013
The Inelastic Button
OK, well this week has really not gone according to plan. I've been OK...ish on the eating, but the exercise I planned to have time to do this week has pretty much been eaten alive, working on editing projects and the day job.
Which makes the inelastic button depressing but understandable.
The inelastic button? Hmm...the one that holds my jeans together at the moment. On Tuesday it had no particular problem performing the single, generally undemanding duty I required of it. Since yesterday though, it's pretty much turned into a wheezing, fortysomething corporal in a forgotten regient somewhere - fulls of aches and grumbles and dark mutterings about how it doesn't get padi enough to put up with the things it has to.
It's been straining somewhat - because of course, it's inelastic. That doesn't bode well for Tuesday, but we'll have to let Tuesday take care of itself to some extent I'm afraid. Gonna buy a week's train ticket to Cardiff on Monday morning, I think - there's insano-building work going on directly opposite out place, and it's like geographical dentistry. The good thing about this of course is that it's likely to be a rather calorifically lighter week if I spend most of my time (and yes, probably, most of my pay cheque) in Starbucks.
Is this a sensible plan, I hear you scoff.
Fuck sensible, it's coffee, goddammit, I hear me reply, getting my wuss-ass de-caff Jones on...
The inelastic button is looking at me now in soft disgust.
"Dude," it's saying, "we used to be friends. What the hell happened?"
Great, now I have button-guilt. Sigh - less food, more metabolic snacking, more exercise; that was how we became friends, o button on a smaller pair of jeans than I once ever dreamed of cramming my legs into again. You want me to try again and come back to you?
"Y...yes please...I'm dyin' here..."
Sigh...Fine...
FINE! Something...something will be done, now get off my case, inelastic button, I'v barely moved from this computer since 6.30 this morning and I want to try and guess what my wife looks like...
Which makes the inelastic button depressing but understandable.
The inelastic button? Hmm...the one that holds my jeans together at the moment. On Tuesday it had no particular problem performing the single, generally undemanding duty I required of it. Since yesterday though, it's pretty much turned into a wheezing, fortysomething corporal in a forgotten regient somewhere - fulls of aches and grumbles and dark mutterings about how it doesn't get padi enough to put up with the things it has to.
It's been straining somewhat - because of course, it's inelastic. That doesn't bode well for Tuesday, but we'll have to let Tuesday take care of itself to some extent I'm afraid. Gonna buy a week's train ticket to Cardiff on Monday morning, I think - there's insano-building work going on directly opposite out place, and it's like geographical dentistry. The good thing about this of course is that it's likely to be a rather calorifically lighter week if I spend most of my time (and yes, probably, most of my pay cheque) in Starbucks.
Is this a sensible plan, I hear you scoff.
Fuck sensible, it's coffee, goddammit, I hear me reply, getting my wuss-ass de-caff Jones on...
The inelastic button is looking at me now in soft disgust.
"Dude," it's saying, "we used to be friends. What the hell happened?"
Great, now I have button-guilt. Sigh - less food, more metabolic snacking, more exercise; that was how we became friends, o button on a smaller pair of jeans than I once ever dreamed of cramming my legs into again. You want me to try again and come back to you?
"Y...yes please...I'm dyin' here..."
Sigh...Fine...
FINE! Something...something will be done, now get off my case, inelastic button, I'v barely moved from this computer since 6.30 this morning and I want to try and guess what my wife looks like...
Tuesday 6 August 2013
The Quarter-Pounder Fairy
Well, that was pleasing.
Nazi Scales this morning show me as 16st 7 - down four pounds in a week. Happy enough with that.
Thinking about it, I realised that means I've lost sixteen quarter-pounds this week. Sixteen quarter-pounds in the space of seven days.
I feel like I've been flinging quarter-pounder hamburgers left and right this week, skipping merrily through the world like the quarter-pounder fairy. Not bad considering I haven't had that disciplined a week. Just imagine if I had been disciplined as all get-out? I could have been the half-pounder fairy, or maybe even the Big Mac Fairy.
The next week starts now. Big deadline Monday, but still, let's try and nail some discipline into place, shall we? I could get used to these wings...
Nazi Scales this morning show me as 16st 7 - down four pounds in a week. Happy enough with that.
Thinking about it, I realised that means I've lost sixteen quarter-pounds this week. Sixteen quarter-pounds in the space of seven days.
I feel like I've been flinging quarter-pounder hamburgers left and right this week, skipping merrily through the world like the quarter-pounder fairy. Not bad considering I haven't had that disciplined a week. Just imagine if I had been disciplined as all get-out? I could have been the half-pounder fairy, or maybe even the Big Mac Fairy.
The next week starts now. Big deadline Monday, but still, let's try and nail some discipline into place, shall we? I could get used to these wings...
Saturday 3 August 2013
The Randomiser Factor
As the world waits to discover the identity of the 12th Doctor in Doctor Who tomorrow, I feel a little like the 4th Doctor myself tonight - at one point in the show's history (Really dude, a Who blog? Yep, go with it, there's sort of a half-assed attempt at a point), the 4th Doctor fitted a Randomiser to the Tardis specifically to not know where he was going next. That's what this week feels like.
yes, I've done some walking this week, yes, I've done...alright fine, technically, one session on the bike this week, and yes I've been trying to do better with eating this week. But on the other hand, last night, I had a burger and chips for dinner, and this morning I had a McDonalds breakfast, which I probably shouldn't have had.
So it feels as though I'm throwing elements - good and bad - in randomly to the week, meaning I can have no genine idea what my next Nazi Scales destination will be - up or down.
In the show the Randomiser was added simply to add a bit of mystery to the destination in which the Doctor would find stories. In my life, the Randomiser feels like a symptom of incipient chaos which I should control.
Sigh...still some of the week left in which to control it, I guess. Let's see what happens if I press this big red button here...
yes, I've done some walking this week, yes, I've done...alright fine, technically, one session on the bike this week, and yes I've been trying to do better with eating this week. But on the other hand, last night, I had a burger and chips for dinner, and this morning I had a McDonalds breakfast, which I probably shouldn't have had.
So it feels as though I'm throwing elements - good and bad - in randomly to the week, meaning I can have no genine idea what my next Nazi Scales destination will be - up or down.
In the show the Randomiser was added simply to add a bit of mystery to the destination in which the Doctor would find stories. In my life, the Randomiser feels like a symptom of incipient chaos which I should control.
Sigh...still some of the week left in which to control it, I guess. Let's see what happens if I press this big red button here...
Wednesday 31 July 2013
The Clothes Horse Reclamation
So - did it. Finally did it. Cleared the clothes off the exercise bike last night, got on it and pedalled. Only did half an hour, but did it to music and clocked over 300 calories, so it feels like a start.
Today though, got into my Jefferson Franklin shirt, and was rather dismayed to see the impact that the last few weeks have wrought. Looking rather barrell-bellied and generally as though when I put a foot down, pavements should crack and pedestrians fall over, in a sort of green-skinned, "Tony Smash!" way. The shirt was blousing rather a lot, and my word but that rankled.
On the upside, got to meet another writer today, in what is fast becoming Jefferson's Cardiff offices - the front left-hand corner of Starbucks, St Mary Street. That was fun, and energising, and positively ego-boosting to boot.
Biking tonight? That very much depends - have to disappear to choir in about 40 minutes, so no chance before I go. Will see how d feels about me taking up to an hour of "our time" after choir to pedal and sweat and sing even more. Heading down the Trail tomorrow morning, though, as I attempt to claw back some sort of normalised routine of exercise and smart eating. Anyhow, that's been today so far - am off to edit some more right now, as a sort of personal treat.
No, really. Doing it purely for fun now. Am not entirely sure I haven't been hit on the head by something heavy...
Today though, got into my Jefferson Franklin shirt, and was rather dismayed to see the impact that the last few weeks have wrought. Looking rather barrell-bellied and generally as though when I put a foot down, pavements should crack and pedestrians fall over, in a sort of green-skinned, "Tony Smash!" way. The shirt was blousing rather a lot, and my word but that rankled.
On the upside, got to meet another writer today, in what is fast becoming Jefferson's Cardiff offices - the front left-hand corner of Starbucks, St Mary Street. That was fun, and energising, and positively ego-boosting to boot.
Biking tonight? That very much depends - have to disappear to choir in about 40 minutes, so no chance before I go. Will see how d feels about me taking up to an hour of "our time" after choir to pedal and sweat and sing even more. Heading down the Trail tomorrow morning, though, as I attempt to claw back some sort of normalised routine of exercise and smart eating. Anyhow, that's been today so far - am off to edit some more right now, as a sort of personal treat.
No, really. Doing it purely for fun now. Am not entirely sure I haven't been hit on the head by something heavy...
Tuesday 30 July 2013
The Unff Inevitability
So - finished the uber-deadline thingummy yesterday. Can't tell you how much lighter I feel now that's out of the way.
The Nazi Scales would heartily disagree though.
16st 11 today.
OK, serious. But today begins the tail-turn once again. Haven't manageed it yet, but intend to get back on the bke for the first time in weeks tonight.
And yeah, there's a certain "unff" feeling at seeing a reading like that, because of course it's work that has to be done and re-done dilligently now. But after the last few weeks of pressure and deadlines, as I say, feel genuinely lighter in my head, so more ready to do something about it - and have just a smidgen more time to do it in.
So even though the unff feeling - which was inevitable really as I've been in a bit of a deadline tunnel - is there and real, I'm still feeling altogether more positive about the next few weeks. So let's get on with them, eh?
The Nazi Scales would heartily disagree though.
16st 11 today.
OK, serious. But today begins the tail-turn once again. Haven't manageed it yet, but intend to get back on the bke for the first time in weeks tonight.
And yeah, there's a certain "unff" feeling at seeing a reading like that, because of course it's work that has to be done and re-done dilligently now. But after the last few weeks of pressure and deadlines, as I say, feel genuinely lighter in my head, so more ready to do something about it - and have just a smidgen more time to do it in.
So even though the unff feeling - which was inevitable really as I've been in a bit of a deadline tunnel - is there and real, I'm still feeling altogether more positive about the next few weeks. So let's get on with them, eh?
Sunday 28 July 2013
The Normal Service Resumption
Well...that was a weird week, wasn't it, boys and girls?
Practically no Disappearing Man for a week.
Practically no Disappearing either, to be honest. Been about a month now that I've been off the wagon again. Definitely beginning to show in the re-chunkification - it's probably at least a stone now of regain (14 lbs, Americans). As d remarked to me earlier this week, "Yeah, you really need to get back to it...you're gonna be losing and gaining this same stone forever otherwise..."
She's not wrong. And as I sit here on a Sunday night, I've done buggerall exercise for pretty much a week. Tomorrow...not a whole helofalot will change, to be honest - still up against a stiff deadline tomorrow. Tuesday though...
Tuesday's a whole different ball game. The edit should be finished, and while - let us make no bones about this - there will still be a shedload of stuff to be done, it will be not only possible but probably imperative to get back to the walking, the biking and the eating within calorific bounds. So while there's unlikely to be a significant change to my Disappearing status tomorrow, come Tuesday...there will be a light at the end of the Disappearing tunnel. Tired of it all again, want my energy back, and that only comes with pushing on down and feeling disciplined. So here's to the weigh-in on Tuesday, the philosophical beating I'll take from it, and then the moving the hell on and down.
Practically no Disappearing Man for a week.
Practically no Disappearing either, to be honest. Been about a month now that I've been off the wagon again. Definitely beginning to show in the re-chunkification - it's probably at least a stone now of regain (14 lbs, Americans). As d remarked to me earlier this week, "Yeah, you really need to get back to it...you're gonna be losing and gaining this same stone forever otherwise..."
She's not wrong. And as I sit here on a Sunday night, I've done buggerall exercise for pretty much a week. Tomorrow...not a whole helofalot will change, to be honest - still up against a stiff deadline tomorrow. Tuesday though...
Tuesday's a whole different ball game. The edit should be finished, and while - let us make no bones about this - there will still be a shedload of stuff to be done, it will be not only possible but probably imperative to get back to the walking, the biking and the eating within calorific bounds. So while there's unlikely to be a significant change to my Disappearing status tomorrow, come Tuesday...there will be a light at the end of the Disappearing tunnel. Tired of it all again, want my energy back, and that only comes with pushing on down and feeling disciplined. So here's to the weigh-in on Tuesday, the philosophical beating I'll take from it, and then the moving the hell on and down.
Tuesday 23 July 2013
The Humidity Factor
Apparently, there was thunder and rain in the night. Actually, there must have been, because when I went down the Trail this morning, the grass was wet (Really, Sherlock, tell us more about your amazing deductions...)
Unfortunately, the sun is simply refusing to freakin' quit, so what we've done essentially is swap an oven for a sauna. Ugh.
Weigh-in today was bad, but not in fact anything like as bad as I'd imagined.
16 st 8 - up a pound on last week.
Why Tony, you don't seem to be at all neurotic about that What gives, dude?
I'm not, and here's why. I know what I'm doing, and what I'm not doing. And as soon as the heat and the busyness eases the hell up jusssst a smidgen, I'll be able to change this lifestyle malarkey again, and the weight, then, will drop like that elevator in the second Omen movie - zhunk! - because my system will be so out of practice at doing stuff and eating right that it'll go "Wow, dude, seriously? OK, let's get it on..."
So this barest wobble in the wrong direction can't actually phase me at this point. There are gooderer (as my pal Greg would say) times ahead. But they're not ahead just now.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and wring out my underwear, cos this humidity's a sonofabitch.
Unfortunately, the sun is simply refusing to freakin' quit, so what we've done essentially is swap an oven for a sauna. Ugh.
Weigh-in today was bad, but not in fact anything like as bad as I'd imagined.
16 st 8 - up a pound on last week.
Why Tony, you don't seem to be at all neurotic about that What gives, dude?
I'm not, and here's why. I know what I'm doing, and what I'm not doing. And as soon as the heat and the busyness eases the hell up jusssst a smidgen, I'll be able to change this lifestyle malarkey again, and the weight, then, will drop like that elevator in the second Omen movie - zhunk! - because my system will be so out of practice at doing stuff and eating right that it'll go "Wow, dude, seriously? OK, let's get it on..."
So this barest wobble in the wrong direction can't actually phase me at this point. There are gooderer (as my pal Greg would say) times ahead. But they're not ahead just now.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and wring out my underwear, cos this humidity's a sonofabitch.
Monday 22 July 2013
The Bionic Lughole
Hey hey. Been too busy to blog this last couple of days, and the weather has continued to be horrendously hot, meaning I've managed nooooo biking, no gymming, nothing remotely productive except a couple of Trail walks.
Today was a big step forward in another area though. Took possession of my hearing aid today. Against a background of a degree of scepticism, I slipped the thing into my ear.
Amazing. Not perfect of course, but still amazing. Suddenly I didn't need to look at people and read their lips. Didn't need to turn my left ear round in a sometimes demented paroxysm, and could join in conversations relatively normally.
So now, your Disappearing Man comes with a cybernetic lughole, an earpod of excellence... Jaime Sommers, the Bionic Woman, and I, both now do that thing where we incline our heads just slightly, and then have scientifically magical, clear or clear-as-dammit hearing. Now all I need to do is get back to the "stronger, faster, better than he was before" ethic of Steve Austin.
There's every chance that tomorrow, your Disappearing Man also comes with a 17 again, but let's see what's what. Haven't weighed at all this week, but the likelihoods are stacked against me tomorrow.
Where the hell's this thunder we're supposed to be getting?
Today was a big step forward in another area though. Took possession of my hearing aid today. Against a background of a degree of scepticism, I slipped the thing into my ear.
Amazing. Not perfect of course, but still amazing. Suddenly I didn't need to look at people and read their lips. Didn't need to turn my left ear round in a sometimes demented paroxysm, and could join in conversations relatively normally.
So now, your Disappearing Man comes with a cybernetic lughole, an earpod of excellence... Jaime Sommers, the Bionic Woman, and I, both now do that thing where we incline our heads just slightly, and then have scientifically magical, clear or clear-as-dammit hearing. Now all I need to do is get back to the "stronger, faster, better than he was before" ethic of Steve Austin.
There's every chance that tomorrow, your Disappearing Man also comes with a 17 again, but let's see what's what. Haven't weighed at all this week, but the likelihoods are stacked against me tomorrow.
Where the hell's this thunder we're supposed to be getting?
Wednesday 17 July 2013
The Tuesday No-Show
OK, so...that was weird. I was available Tuesday, and around, and at a computer...but blog entry was there none.
Essentially, what's happening is this. For weeks now, I've been too busy to bike. It's actually getting to the stage now where I'm genuinely too busy to blog. My Brothers of Song in the Choir now joke that "you can't take your laptop on stage..."
I'm pretty much working as many hours as possible, to get all the work done. Which...is...fabbbbulous.
Never thought I could enjoy working this much. Feels fantastic, but more than a little sick, given that for at least the first thirty years of my life I turned lethargy into a performance art.
As it happens, being too busy to bike has kicked me in my big fat ass this week - the weigh-in yesterday showed me at:
16st 7! Up about five pounds in the space of a week.
Clearly though there's a pathway to beating the hell out of that...I just need to carve out the time.
Not...that that looks particularly likely through the end of July, but hey...I'll get there. For now there's little I can do but be philosophical and attempt to be sanguine about it till I can chip out some time to get things going back in the right direction. Do I want to get back up to 17 stone? Of course not. Can I tackle 16st 7 in the immediate future? Probably not...
Essentially, what's happening is this. For weeks now, I've been too busy to bike. It's actually getting to the stage now where I'm genuinely too busy to blog. My Brothers of Song in the Choir now joke that "you can't take your laptop on stage..."
I'm pretty much working as many hours as possible, to get all the work done. Which...is...fabbbbulous.
Never thought I could enjoy working this much. Feels fantastic, but more than a little sick, given that for at least the first thirty years of my life I turned lethargy into a performance art.
As it happens, being too busy to bike has kicked me in my big fat ass this week - the weigh-in yesterday showed me at:
16st 7! Up about five pounds in the space of a week.
Clearly though there's a pathway to beating the hell out of that...I just need to carve out the time.
Not...that that looks particularly likely through the end of July, but hey...I'll get there. For now there's little I can do but be philosophical and attempt to be sanguine about it till I can chip out some time to get things going back in the right direction. Do I want to get back up to 17 stone? Of course not. Can I tackle 16st 7 in the immediate future? Probably not...
Monday 15 July 2013
The Bizarro Inversion
Y'know, it's been a strange week. You'll have noticed that apart from anything else, it's been freakin' hot here in the UK. This is bizarre even for this time of year. People are dying...of heat...in Britain.
Clearly then, we're in BizarroWorld.
Which kinda represents the week I've had. Things have been going not just well, but crazy-well.
Jefferson has gone through the roof. The day-job is going almost swimmingly. And my job as PRO with the Dowlais Male Choir has brought almost unexpected success this week - press mentions and broadcast bits.
The only plate in my world that has pretty much fallen and smashed to smithereens has been the Disappearing plate. I'll make no bones about this - tomorrow's weigh-in is - to quote Greg Proops, of whose podcasts I'm currently listening to a yearsworth) - "gonna suck major man-bag". But tomorrow, there's going to be a shift in focus. I haven't biked for a good long while, because, apart from anything else, I don't want to be one of the people who dies of the heat. And frankly I still haven't got back on my wagon.
That changes tomorrow. Simple as...as they say around here. Tomorrow we get back on every track simultaneously, and we spin those plates...rather than filling them.
Forward!
Clearly then, we're in BizarroWorld.
Which kinda represents the week I've had. Things have been going not just well, but crazy-well.
Jefferson has gone through the roof. The day-job is going almost swimmingly. And my job as PRO with the Dowlais Male Choir has brought almost unexpected success this week - press mentions and broadcast bits.
The only plate in my world that has pretty much fallen and smashed to smithereens has been the Disappearing plate. I'll make no bones about this - tomorrow's weigh-in is - to quote Greg Proops, of whose podcasts I'm currently listening to a yearsworth) - "gonna suck major man-bag". But tomorrow, there's going to be a shift in focus. I haven't biked for a good long while, because, apart from anything else, I don't want to be one of the people who dies of the heat. And frankly I still haven't got back on my wagon.
That changes tomorrow. Simple as...as they say around here. Tomorrow we get back on every track simultaneously, and we spin those plates...rather than filling them.
Forward!
Saturday 13 July 2013
Bohemian Rhapsody
This isn't the blog I want to write tonight. That blog is long and complex and probably just a little mind-blowing.
Maybe tomorrow.
For now, I'm going to witter on about something, largely because I can.
When friends from entirely unconnected areas of your life end up giving you the same idea, you know it's time to go do a thing.
Today, we did a thing. We went to Cardiff this morning (It's Saturday, goddmmit, where did you expect me to be, there's a corner of Starbucks with my name on it!), and went for lunch at an Italian resaurant.
Yep, that was it. That was the thing. The restuarant's called La Boheme, and I've had reviews of it from friends in entirely separate corners of my life. So today - on the hottest day of the year so far - we tracked it down and ate there.
Meh...
Wasn't bad, but I wouldn't kill ya for it - which as most of you know, is really saying something, cos from time to time I'd kill each and every one of you with my bare hands for a guilt-free chocolate cake...
I think d's review sums it up: "I do feel like I'm in a real Italian place, like I'm in Italy, Italy...I'm just not entirely sure it's worth the air fare..."
To be honest though, today will go down in the history of my happiness for reasons entirely unconnected with the meal at La Boheme (including a slightly over-gelatinous panna cotta, so nehh!).
I went to a bank today.
That's rarely an experience that makes me happy, so today was a bit of a red letter day.
D'you know how you start a business these days? You go and see a business banker (I'm rather fortunate in that I used to spend Saturday nights with mine when we were teenagers, as parts of the same crowd. She's also that weirdest of phenomena - a banker with a sense of humour. Instead of one of those "Happy to help" badges they make people wear these days, hers simply has "Caffeine Addict:" and her name on it. I can respect that in a banker...). You ask them about funding and they go "Hmm...well these days, no-one gets an overdraft to start a business with..." (cos gods forbid we should be irresponsible and reckless with money, I'm guessing...) "...but what we can do is give you a business credit card, to make purchases on..."
So you get one of those, and then you start buying all the stuff you need to set up your business. And then over time, if you do it right, you get to put money towards paying off the balance of that credit card.
Well...I went to a bank today, and I cleared that credit card. My business exists now. In the black. In the world of proper, legitimate, technically profit-making concerns.
Can't really tell you how this makes me feel...both my fathers ran their own businesses (it's a bit of a perversion that I ended up being a Socialist, really). My nature-dad ran his into the ground like a paper plane, and there was always the fear when I started Jefferson Franklin that "if you set it up, no-one will give a toss..." - though admittedly, being reliably sober gave me an enormous head start on him. My nurture-dad ran his business to a quite impressive level of success - by which I mean he could pay off his mortgage early and so on. Fees like a bit of a hat-tip to him and what he taught me that today has happened. Even if I were to close it down tomorrow, it now feels like I can add "Entrepreneur" somewhere on my CV.
Of course, I also saw how back-breakingly hard my nurture-dad worked to make his business a success. My business, fortunately, involves abbbbbsolutely no heavy lifting whatsoever, but it has involved wuite a lot of time that otherwise belonged to d and I, or indeed belonged to the effort of Disappearing. That too, I learned from him.
And of course I'm not going to close it down tomorrow. Quite apart from anything else, there are editors in the middle of edits (including me). We've also now got work booked through the end of October, so it's likely the business will at least see out the end of 2013.
What happens in 2014? I don't know yet...though I do have Plans...
What happens to the Disappearing Man? Frankly, he gets a smack upside the head. This week, from Monday, discipline, thy name be Tony - morning walk as per usual, at least one hour on the bike or in the gym, sensible eating. Having crossed the business Rubicon, it's time to hop back across the Disappearing Rubicon and get the hell on with things.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get on - edits to do!
Maybe tomorrow.
For now, I'm going to witter on about something, largely because I can.
When friends from entirely unconnected areas of your life end up giving you the same idea, you know it's time to go do a thing.
Today, we did a thing. We went to Cardiff this morning (It's Saturday, goddmmit, where did you expect me to be, there's a corner of Starbucks with my name on it!), and went for lunch at an Italian resaurant.
Yep, that was it. That was the thing. The restuarant's called La Boheme, and I've had reviews of it from friends in entirely separate corners of my life. So today - on the hottest day of the year so far - we tracked it down and ate there.
Meh...
Wasn't bad, but I wouldn't kill ya for it - which as most of you know, is really saying something, cos from time to time I'd kill each and every one of you with my bare hands for a guilt-free chocolate cake...
I think d's review sums it up: "I do feel like I'm in a real Italian place, like I'm in Italy, Italy...I'm just not entirely sure it's worth the air fare..."
To be honest though, today will go down in the history of my happiness for reasons entirely unconnected with the meal at La Boheme (including a slightly over-gelatinous panna cotta, so nehh!).
I went to a bank today.
That's rarely an experience that makes me happy, so today was a bit of a red letter day.
D'you know how you start a business these days? You go and see a business banker (I'm rather fortunate in that I used to spend Saturday nights with mine when we were teenagers, as parts of the same crowd. She's also that weirdest of phenomena - a banker with a sense of humour. Instead of one of those "Happy to help" badges they make people wear these days, hers simply has "Caffeine Addict:" and her name on it. I can respect that in a banker...). You ask them about funding and they go "Hmm...well these days, no-one gets an overdraft to start a business with..." (cos gods forbid we should be irresponsible and reckless with money, I'm guessing...) "...but what we can do is give you a business credit card, to make purchases on..."
So you get one of those, and then you start buying all the stuff you need to set up your business. And then over time, if you do it right, you get to put money towards paying off the balance of that credit card.
Well...I went to a bank today, and I cleared that credit card. My business exists now. In the black. In the world of proper, legitimate, technically profit-making concerns.
Can't really tell you how this makes me feel...both my fathers ran their own businesses (it's a bit of a perversion that I ended up being a Socialist, really). My nature-dad ran his into the ground like a paper plane, and there was always the fear when I started Jefferson Franklin that "if you set it up, no-one will give a toss..." - though admittedly, being reliably sober gave me an enormous head start on him. My nurture-dad ran his business to a quite impressive level of success - by which I mean he could pay off his mortgage early and so on. Fees like a bit of a hat-tip to him and what he taught me that today has happened. Even if I were to close it down tomorrow, it now feels like I can add "Entrepreneur" somewhere on my CV.
Of course, I also saw how back-breakingly hard my nurture-dad worked to make his business a success. My business, fortunately, involves abbbbbsolutely no heavy lifting whatsoever, but it has involved wuite a lot of time that otherwise belonged to d and I, or indeed belonged to the effort of Disappearing. That too, I learned from him.
And of course I'm not going to close it down tomorrow. Quite apart from anything else, there are editors in the middle of edits (including me). We've also now got work booked through the end of October, so it's likely the business will at least see out the end of 2013.
What happens in 2014? I don't know yet...though I do have Plans...
What happens to the Disappearing Man? Frankly, he gets a smack upside the head. This week, from Monday, discipline, thy name be Tony - morning walk as per usual, at least one hour on the bike or in the gym, sensible eating. Having crossed the business Rubicon, it's time to hop back across the Disappearing Rubicon and get the hell on with things.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get on - edits to do!
Friday 12 July 2013
The Banging
Went down the Trail this morning, bought a short-sleeved shirt (as you do) for tomorrow's annual concert of the Dowlais Male Choir, came home and got on with editing.
There was a banging of doors from somewhere in our block of flats. Three bangs, like knocks at a door. Being of course half deaf I wondered if someone was AT our door, trying really hard to get my attention.
No, they weren't.
I went back to the editing.
The banging continued. Three rhythmic, almighty bangs at a time. But now, knowing it was nothing to do with me, I tried to ignore it.
Hafway through the afternoon, the school opposite our block turned on its amps and began a concert, mainly seeming composed of kids from the school doing karaoke in front of a crowd.
Got through the day - another sweltering, sweatbox day, sweetened to a large degree by also being payday (woohoo). Took d out for dinner and a movie tonight (Monsters University, since you ask. Big slow for the first half, ends better, still not a patch on Monsters, Inc).
When we came back, the concert was still going strong. And loud. And unable to locate an identifiable note if its life depended on it. Come to our annual concert tomorrow night, you'll have a much better time...
"Damn, it's hot in here," muttered d, wiping the back of her neck.
"Yeah," I agreed, practically wringing out my man-breasts.
There was a banging. Three loud, evenly spaced bangs.
"What the hell was that?" asked d.
"Dunno," I muttered. "S'been doing that most of the day."
"Y'know, screw it," said d. "We slept with the back door open all the time in East freakin' London...what can Merthyr do to us?"
I pondered.
"I said pretty much the same thing about walking home on new year's eve, 1996," I reminded her. New year's eve, 1996 was, for any newbies here, the night I got what is generally considered to be the living shit kicked out of me on the street in Merthyr, and woke up on new year's day 1997 facing surgery to reconstruct - or potentially amputate - my left foot.
"Humph...spoilsport," muttered d, as I went back up to the office to carry on editing.
There was a banging. Three loud bangs, like a knock on the door, audible over the racket across the road.
"Seriously?!" called d. "What the Hell is that??!"
"Seriously!" I called back, "I don't know!"
Half a chapter later, she came upstairs.
"Ok, fine, you're right," she said. "Can't sleep with the doors open."
"I agree, but why?" I asked.
"A total stranger just came to our door...asking if we smoked," said d.
"That's...odd," I admitted, not thinking about it very much.
There was...no banging. I sighed in relief and carried on editing.
The next thing I knew, there was the sound of a woman's voice from downstairs, using our phone, I thought, to complain to the police about the noise from across the road. I figured d had been doing her 'responsible citizen' thing again and finding out out who else was being disturbed by it.
About forty minutes later, she came up.
"Erm..." she said.
"Hi honey," I said.
"The police are downstairs," she said.
"O...K," I said, still thinking it had to do with the concert, which continues past 11pm.
"The woman who wondered if we smoked came back," she explained.
"Right." I blinked.
"Y'know that banging?"
"Yeeeeees..." I said, cautiously, not really feeling the bottom of this conversation underneath my feet.
"It was her. It was her cry for help. She's been trying to kill herself."
"Holy crap!" I exclaimed.
"She's been drinking, she's tried to hang herself...she came to ask if we had a phone, and she called for an ambulance to take her to hospital. I'm going to go with her, cos the police can't find her dad..."
I blinked again.
"Want me to come with?"
"If you could," she said, nodding. I got substantially more dressed. By the time I came downstairs, her dad had been found and she was heading off to hospital, leaving d behind. Apparently she has a history of abandonment issues, meaning every time she feels a relationship's going rocky, she starts tying knots or popping pills.
Is there a moral to this story?
Actually, there are two. First, my wife's more curious and more caring than I even know how to be.
And second, if you hear a persistent banging that isn't accompanied by evocations to some deity or other...go and check what it is. You might be the person who saves a life...
There was a banging of doors from somewhere in our block of flats. Three bangs, like knocks at a door. Being of course half deaf I wondered if someone was AT our door, trying really hard to get my attention.
No, they weren't.
I went back to the editing.
The banging continued. Three rhythmic, almighty bangs at a time. But now, knowing it was nothing to do with me, I tried to ignore it.
Hafway through the afternoon, the school opposite our block turned on its amps and began a concert, mainly seeming composed of kids from the school doing karaoke in front of a crowd.
Got through the day - another sweltering, sweatbox day, sweetened to a large degree by also being payday (woohoo). Took d out for dinner and a movie tonight (Monsters University, since you ask. Big slow for the first half, ends better, still not a patch on Monsters, Inc).
When we came back, the concert was still going strong. And loud. And unable to locate an identifiable note if its life depended on it. Come to our annual concert tomorrow night, you'll have a much better time...
"Damn, it's hot in here," muttered d, wiping the back of her neck.
"Yeah," I agreed, practically wringing out my man-breasts.
There was a banging. Three loud, evenly spaced bangs.
"What the hell was that?" asked d.
"Dunno," I muttered. "S'been doing that most of the day."
"Y'know, screw it," said d. "We slept with the back door open all the time in East freakin' London...what can Merthyr do to us?"
I pondered.
"I said pretty much the same thing about walking home on new year's eve, 1996," I reminded her. New year's eve, 1996 was, for any newbies here, the night I got what is generally considered to be the living shit kicked out of me on the street in Merthyr, and woke up on new year's day 1997 facing surgery to reconstruct - or potentially amputate - my left foot.
"Humph...spoilsport," muttered d, as I went back up to the office to carry on editing.
There was a banging. Three loud bangs, like a knock on the door, audible over the racket across the road.
"Seriously?!" called d. "What the Hell is that??!"
"Seriously!" I called back, "I don't know!"
Half a chapter later, she came upstairs.
"Ok, fine, you're right," she said. "Can't sleep with the doors open."
"I agree, but why?" I asked.
"A total stranger just came to our door...asking if we smoked," said d.
"That's...odd," I admitted, not thinking about it very much.
There was...no banging. I sighed in relief and carried on editing.
The next thing I knew, there was the sound of a woman's voice from downstairs, using our phone, I thought, to complain to the police about the noise from across the road. I figured d had been doing her 'responsible citizen' thing again and finding out out who else was being disturbed by it.
About forty minutes later, she came up.
"Erm..." she said.
"Hi honey," I said.
"The police are downstairs," she said.
"O...K," I said, still thinking it had to do with the concert, which continues past 11pm.
"The woman who wondered if we smoked came back," she explained.
"Right." I blinked.
"Y'know that banging?"
"Yeeeeees..." I said, cautiously, not really feeling the bottom of this conversation underneath my feet.
"It was her. It was her cry for help. She's been trying to kill herself."
"Holy crap!" I exclaimed.
"She's been drinking, she's tried to hang herself...she came to ask if we had a phone, and she called for an ambulance to take her to hospital. I'm going to go with her, cos the police can't find her dad..."
I blinked again.
"Want me to come with?"
"If you could," she said, nodding. I got substantially more dressed. By the time I came downstairs, her dad had been found and she was heading off to hospital, leaving d behind. Apparently she has a history of abandonment issues, meaning every time she feels a relationship's going rocky, she starts tying knots or popping pills.
Is there a moral to this story?
Actually, there are two. First, my wife's more curious and more caring than I even know how to be.
And second, if you hear a persistent banging that isn't accompanied by evocations to some deity or other...go and check what it is. You might be the person who saves a life...
Thursday 11 July 2013
The Broiled Veal Experience
Yesterday was fun.
Just...such...fun.
Up at the crack of bullshit, couple of hours on a train, going to the day-job office for about four and a half solid hours of committee meeting...most of which was about committees.
Yeah, you heard me, that's committee-squared.
Then back to Paddington, via Starbucks of course to partially revive the committee-dead brain cells.
Got on my usual train at 7.15 last night. There was a guy with a long off-white ponytail sitting in my seat.
"Hi," I said. "Sorry, I think you're in my seat."
"No," he said, airily, fanning himself with an Evening Standard.
I checked the seat number.
"No, really," I said. "I think you are..."
"No," he said again. "I'm in D29."
"Yes," I agreed. "That's my seat."
"Got your reservation?" he challenged.
"Right here," I said. It's probably worth noting that I had on my broad-brimmed brown leather cowboy hat, and standing in the aisle, briefcase loaded, it was hot as High Noon. I began to hear the whistle of the "Good, the Bad and the Ugly" theme as we stared at each other. I narrowed my eyes. He thinned his lips.
"Show me," I growled, lower than I'd expected. His eyebrow twitched. A tear of sweat ran down my face. The air got hot and dry and time went away as we stared at each other. I watched his eyes, bit down on the straw of my Starbucks Strawberries and Cream...
His little finger moved, and I drew my ticket out of my pocket, as he scooped his, slo-mo, up from the table in front of him. In seemingly endless, frame-by-frame motion, we brought our evidence face to face.
"Ha!" I said. "Wait...wha-?"
He was right. He did have a reservation for seat D29. And so did I.
"Oh," I said, my Western cojones shrivelling and my Britishness reasserting itself like a popped balloon of embarrassment. "Oh, I'm...erm...I'm sorry."
"Mmm, me too," he agreed. "Oh, wait a minute," he added, working something out in his brain. "I know what it is - I was on the later train, and they only just upgraded me to this one."
"Ah!" I said, feeling my Western cojones swell with righteousness again. So it was a bureaucratic error, and fortunately, I was on the right side of it.
I'd like to say of course that there was no right side of it. We both had an equal right to the seat, but somehow, in the moment, my British nit-pickery saw perfect sense in the logic that because my seat had been allocated to me weeks ago, and his only minutes ago, I had a prior claim to the ass-space. He agreed, and frankly buggered off, never to darken my ass-dent again.
It was only once I was seated and set up ad the carriage filled with other well-meaning schlubs on their way somewhere that one other fact was borne in on me.
"Damn, is it hot?!" I asked, practising my rhetoric.
d texted me. "Having dinner with your mom. How ya doin'?"
I told her about the reservation-duel and the heat.
"Aircon or veal-broiling death are now our only options," I added.
We pulled out of Paddington.
"Message to passengers in coaches C, D and E," said the announcer. "Sorry to tell you, the air conditioning's broken down in those carriages. Suffer, peasants. Meanwhile for our first class passengers, your at-seat oral gratification team will be moving among you shortly, thank you..."
What followed was miserable. Hot, and sticky, and stinking of mayo from the woman across the table, who insisted on sucking down a salad, and her husband, who chowed through some olives and blue cheese. At one point I reached over and stuck a plastic spork right into her eye socket...
Whaddaya mean I didn't? I certainly felt like I did...
Did I mention the go-slow yet? We were stuck outside Maidenhead station for about 20 minutes.
"Something on the track," the announcer frankly, blatantly lied to us and our brains turned to liquid mush and leaked out of our ears.
Twenty minutes later, he came clean.
"Sorry about that, there was nothing on the tracks. Someone'd left a suitcase behind on the platform, and the bomb squad had to come and investigate it before we could go through..."
A guy two rows in front of me got up, gave an impassioned speech about how they were morons, and how the terrorists were winning, and how no-one complained in this country, and how he was going to write to the Prime Minister. I know, given everything, you probably think this is hyperbole, but I promise you, this is not like the eye-sporking or the First Class blowjob team, this actually happened. When he'd finished and sat down, we all said abbbbbsolutely nothing, and avoided making eye contact with him, in case he had a knife or something. He blew up a couple more times on the journey, usually exploding with single words.
"Morons!"was his word of the evening.
And so we trundled to a missed connection, an hour on Cardiff Cental's platform Six, being eyed up by the enormo-seagulls and praising Zephyr, god of breezes-round-the-armpits at regular intervals. Got in pretty close to midnight...
Stick a fork in me, folks...I'm done.
Got up at 6.30 this morning to go down the Trail with Ma...
Unff...
Just...such...fun.
Up at the crack of bullshit, couple of hours on a train, going to the day-job office for about four and a half solid hours of committee meeting...most of which was about committees.
Yeah, you heard me, that's committee-squared.
Then back to Paddington, via Starbucks of course to partially revive the committee-dead brain cells.
Got on my usual train at 7.15 last night. There was a guy with a long off-white ponytail sitting in my seat.
"Hi," I said. "Sorry, I think you're in my seat."
"No," he said, airily, fanning himself with an Evening Standard.
I checked the seat number.
"No, really," I said. "I think you are..."
"No," he said again. "I'm in D29."
"Yes," I agreed. "That's my seat."
"Got your reservation?" he challenged.
"Right here," I said. It's probably worth noting that I had on my broad-brimmed brown leather cowboy hat, and standing in the aisle, briefcase loaded, it was hot as High Noon. I began to hear the whistle of the "Good, the Bad and the Ugly" theme as we stared at each other. I narrowed my eyes. He thinned his lips.
"Show me," I growled, lower than I'd expected. His eyebrow twitched. A tear of sweat ran down my face. The air got hot and dry and time went away as we stared at each other. I watched his eyes, bit down on the straw of my Starbucks Strawberries and Cream...
His little finger moved, and I drew my ticket out of my pocket, as he scooped his, slo-mo, up from the table in front of him. In seemingly endless, frame-by-frame motion, we brought our evidence face to face.
"Ha!" I said. "Wait...wha-?"
He was right. He did have a reservation for seat D29. And so did I.
"Oh," I said, my Western cojones shrivelling and my Britishness reasserting itself like a popped balloon of embarrassment. "Oh, I'm...erm...I'm sorry."
"Mmm, me too," he agreed. "Oh, wait a minute," he added, working something out in his brain. "I know what it is - I was on the later train, and they only just upgraded me to this one."
"Ah!" I said, feeling my Western cojones swell with righteousness again. So it was a bureaucratic error, and fortunately, I was on the right side of it.
I'd like to say of course that there was no right side of it. We both had an equal right to the seat, but somehow, in the moment, my British nit-pickery saw perfect sense in the logic that because my seat had been allocated to me weeks ago, and his only minutes ago, I had a prior claim to the ass-space. He agreed, and frankly buggered off, never to darken my ass-dent again.
It was only once I was seated and set up ad the carriage filled with other well-meaning schlubs on their way somewhere that one other fact was borne in on me.
"Damn, is it hot?!" I asked, practising my rhetoric.
d texted me. "Having dinner with your mom. How ya doin'?"
I told her about the reservation-duel and the heat.
"Aircon or veal-broiling death are now our only options," I added.
We pulled out of Paddington.
"Message to passengers in coaches C, D and E," said the announcer. "Sorry to tell you, the air conditioning's broken down in those carriages. Suffer, peasants. Meanwhile for our first class passengers, your at-seat oral gratification team will be moving among you shortly, thank you..."
What followed was miserable. Hot, and sticky, and stinking of mayo from the woman across the table, who insisted on sucking down a salad, and her husband, who chowed through some olives and blue cheese. At one point I reached over and stuck a plastic spork right into her eye socket...
Whaddaya mean I didn't? I certainly felt like I did...
Did I mention the go-slow yet? We were stuck outside Maidenhead station for about 20 minutes.
"Something on the track," the announcer frankly, blatantly lied to us and our brains turned to liquid mush and leaked out of our ears.
Twenty minutes later, he came clean.
"Sorry about that, there was nothing on the tracks. Someone'd left a suitcase behind on the platform, and the bomb squad had to come and investigate it before we could go through..."
A guy two rows in front of me got up, gave an impassioned speech about how they were morons, and how the terrorists were winning, and how no-one complained in this country, and how he was going to write to the Prime Minister. I know, given everything, you probably think this is hyperbole, but I promise you, this is not like the eye-sporking or the First Class blowjob team, this actually happened. When he'd finished and sat down, we all said abbbbbsolutely nothing, and avoided making eye contact with him, in case he had a knife or something. He blew up a couple more times on the journey, usually exploding with single words.
"Morons!"was his word of the evening.
And so we trundled to a missed connection, an hour on Cardiff Cental's platform Six, being eyed up by the enormo-seagulls and praising Zephyr, god of breezes-round-the-armpits at regular intervals. Got in pretty close to midnight...
Stick a fork in me, folks...I'm done.
Got up at 6.30 this morning to go down the Trail with Ma...
Unff...
Wednesday 10 July 2013
The Insectoid Instinct
Oh, right - you wanted to know the weigh-in, right?
Oh, 16st 2 yesterday. Not bad considering I've had a fortnight off the wagon. I can handle that, and by next week I genuinely intend to be back in the 15s. Back down the Trail tomorrow with Ma.
Interestingly, I always used to get the crap bitten out of me in Summer before I started all this, because, I'm assuming, my blood sugar was wildly high and the insects followed essentially the same instinct I ahd, and went for the good sweet stuff.
Over the last two years, this hasn't really been a problem. Then last night, after going to Choir committee (cos that's who I am now - CommitteeMan...), I went across to join d and our friend Louise at the Dragonfly pub and restaurant. They were sitting outside, since to sit inside last night was effectively no different to pre-heating your oven and then climbing inside.
Two minutes.
That's all it took for Wales' entire population of flying, biting, blood-sucking bastards to decide that dessert was served. I have bites on my bites right now, which leads me to rub myself up against doorways in a frankly disturbing manner.
Back on the wagon for Disappearo-Boy, cos this is just nuts!
Oh, 16st 2 yesterday. Not bad considering I've had a fortnight off the wagon. I can handle that, and by next week I genuinely intend to be back in the 15s. Back down the Trail tomorrow with Ma.
Interestingly, I always used to get the crap bitten out of me in Summer before I started all this, because, I'm assuming, my blood sugar was wildly high and the insects followed essentially the same instinct I ahd, and went for the good sweet stuff.
Over the last two years, this hasn't really been a problem. Then last night, after going to Choir committee (cos that's who I am now - CommitteeMan...), I went across to join d and our friend Louise at the Dragonfly pub and restaurant. They were sitting outside, since to sit inside last night was effectively no different to pre-heating your oven and then climbing inside.
Two minutes.
That's all it took for Wales' entire population of flying, biting, blood-sucking bastards to decide that dessert was served. I have bites on my bites right now, which leads me to rub myself up against doorways in a frankly disturbing manner.
Back on the wagon for Disappearo-Boy, cos this is just nuts!
Tuesday 9 July 2013
The Metropolitan Comparison
As many of you know, d and I lived for about 7 years together in London, and then left for the comparitive sticks of my home town, Merthyr Tydfil, in South Wales.
I've always said that part of the joy of living in London is the anonymity, which allows people to be just as unique, self-expressive, self-realising and...well, not to put too fine a point on it, deliciously weird as they want to be, without anyone else actually having the time or inclination to give what might realistically be considered to be a whole fuck, let alone a fuck and a half.
And so when we left, a handful of people, knowing my view, nodded sagely, as at another soldier fallen, another tattoed mentalist gone to work in insurance, another lover of the wild, gone, as Billy Connolly would have it, decidedly beige.
"You're gonna miss the weirdness," they said. "The wild and crazy mentalness that only a city can provide..."
Wellll....
This morning, I met a bloke who had all over, bright blue, snowflake-crunchy zombie skin covering his whole face, who was dressed in a light tweed suit, with an alpine hat, out of which protruded a magnificent feather, and who carried an open bottle of beer in one hand, from which he sipped, rather than guzzled with the need of an early morning alcoholic.
This was at 9am, on the way home from Tescos.
Bring it on, London! Bring it on...
Tomorrow of course, I'm going back to London. For an all day committee meeting...about committees.
Cos that's the kind of mentalness you miss...
I've always said that part of the joy of living in London is the anonymity, which allows people to be just as unique, self-expressive, self-realising and...well, not to put too fine a point on it, deliciously weird as they want to be, without anyone else actually having the time or inclination to give what might realistically be considered to be a whole fuck, let alone a fuck and a half.
And so when we left, a handful of people, knowing my view, nodded sagely, as at another soldier fallen, another tattoed mentalist gone to work in insurance, another lover of the wild, gone, as Billy Connolly would have it, decidedly beige.
"You're gonna miss the weirdness," they said. "The wild and crazy mentalness that only a city can provide..."
Wellll....
This morning, I met a bloke who had all over, bright blue, snowflake-crunchy zombie skin covering his whole face, who was dressed in a light tweed suit, with an alpine hat, out of which protruded a magnificent feather, and who carried an open bottle of beer in one hand, from which he sipped, rather than guzzled with the need of an early morning alcoholic.
This was at 9am, on the way home from Tescos.
Bring it on, London! Bring it on...
Tomorrow of course, I'm going back to London. For an all day committee meeting...about committees.
Cos that's the kind of mentalness you miss...
Monday 8 July 2013
The Kinky Boots Of Renewed Vigour
The new boots - ohhhh yeah, think so very much. They have something called a steel shank in them. All I know about steel shanks is that they're what needed to be put into ordinary high-heeled shoes so that 18 stone transvestites could wear them in the movie "Kinky Boots".
Hey - almost anything good enough for an stone transvestite's good enough for me!
Fairly blasted down the Trail - with Ma today, which was fun for a change. Looking forward to tomorrow too - same trail, same boots, more music.
Weigh in tomorrow of course, but as yesterday, am not overly stressing about it. Yes, will be over 16 stone, but that's to be expected after two weeks pretty much off the wagon. But today began my return to wagonhood. So really it's not tomorrow's weigh-in that I'll be interested in, but next Tuesday's. Tomorrow's will be pretty much a speedbump in my trajectory of renewed vigour.
Also, helps that it's hot. Practically want to eat buggerall...
Hey - almost anything good enough for an stone transvestite's good enough for me!
Fairly blasted down the Trail - with Ma today, which was fun for a change. Looking forward to tomorrow too - same trail, same boots, more music.
Weigh in tomorrow of course, but as yesterday, am not overly stressing about it. Yes, will be over 16 stone, but that's to be expected after two weeks pretty much off the wagon. But today began my return to wagonhood. So really it's not tomorrow's weigh-in that I'll be interested in, but next Tuesday's. Tomorrow's will be pretty much a speedbump in my trajectory of renewed vigour.
Also, helps that it's hot. Practically want to eat buggerall...
Sunday 7 July 2013
The Seven Sins Sunday
It's been a day of seven sins here, none of which are particularly useful to a Disappearing Man.
Woke up this morning with Lust in what it is conveniently euphemistic to call my heart...
Thought about going down the Trail for a six-mile walk...then got back into bed and let Sloth take me.
Opened up an email from a client, full of praise for the job we did for them. Which is as good a way as any of letting Pride into your life.
Pondered the aim of getting my own writing out into the world for a while, and felt a stab of cloying, honeyish Envy that others, that friends of mine, had books coming out or books on shelves, while I remain as yet just "promising".
Then remembered that however I might want to blow off things and feed my own characters on occasional Sundays, the amount of work we have booked (now running into October), will be good for business (which frankly, I think counts as Greed).
Had a moment of Wrath in Ebbw Vale. We'd gone to replace my dead hiking boots (they are ex-hiking boots. They have ceased to be). I'd brought the laptop along to get some work done when d and Ma went Proper Shopping, as I knew - this not being my first time at the rodeo - they would do.
"You don't need to sit and set up baby," said d, as they prepared to go into one particular last-little-shop. "We'll be right out..."
After ten minutes of standing, broiling like a frog on a hotplate, I went and sat in the shade...fuming quietly.
Which of course leaves Gluttony.
Gluttony wasn't going to feature particularly highly in my day till after lunching with Ma, there appeared plans for a dessert - fruit, meringue, ice cream and whipped cream...Didn't need it, shouldn't have had it, but wanted it, dammit, so had it.
Have now had a fortnight pretty much off the wagon. That ends tomorrow at 7am, when I - in my new boots - head off back down the Trail. Too little, too late of course to affect Tuesday's result, but this can't just be about Tuesday weigh-ins. If it's to be any damn use at all, it has to be about steady progress over time. And progress begins with a first step.
Tomorrow. 7am.
Woke up this morning with Lust in what it is conveniently euphemistic to call my heart...
Thought about going down the Trail for a six-mile walk...then got back into bed and let Sloth take me.
Opened up an email from a client, full of praise for the job we did for them. Which is as good a way as any of letting Pride into your life.
Pondered the aim of getting my own writing out into the world for a while, and felt a stab of cloying, honeyish Envy that others, that friends of mine, had books coming out or books on shelves, while I remain as yet just "promising".
Then remembered that however I might want to blow off things and feed my own characters on occasional Sundays, the amount of work we have booked (now running into October), will be good for business (which frankly, I think counts as Greed).
Had a moment of Wrath in Ebbw Vale. We'd gone to replace my dead hiking boots (they are ex-hiking boots. They have ceased to be). I'd brought the laptop along to get some work done when d and Ma went Proper Shopping, as I knew - this not being my first time at the rodeo - they would do.
"You don't need to sit and set up baby," said d, as they prepared to go into one particular last-little-shop. "We'll be right out..."
After ten minutes of standing, broiling like a frog on a hotplate, I went and sat in the shade...fuming quietly.
Which of course leaves Gluttony.
Gluttony wasn't going to feature particularly highly in my day till after lunching with Ma, there appeared plans for a dessert - fruit, meringue, ice cream and whipped cream...Didn't need it, shouldn't have had it, but wanted it, dammit, so had it.
Have now had a fortnight pretty much off the wagon. That ends tomorrow at 7am, when I - in my new boots - head off back down the Trail. Too little, too late of course to affect Tuesday's result, but this can't just be about Tuesday weigh-ins. If it's to be any damn use at all, it has to be about steady progress over time. And progress begins with a first step.
Tomorrow. 7am.
The Mortgage Muller
Another day of zero exercise. d and her pal Louise were off on a fun day today, so I buggered off back down to Starbucks and stayed there all day, working. I found myself wondering - if I was to take out a second mortgage, I wonder whether Starbucks would sell me my little corner of St Mary's Street.
At this point - with work having begun on an eighteen month bridge project just outside our window, and plans running up to rip off our walls, replace our windows and possibly lift off the roof - it'd probably end up cheaper than all the top-ups I'm gonna need in the next six months...
At this point - with work having begun on an eighteen month bridge project just outside our window, and plans running up to rip off our walls, replace our windows and possibly lift off the roof - it'd probably end up cheaper than all the top-ups I'm gonna need in the next six months...
Friday 5 July 2013
The Disappearing Malcontent
I need to make something abbbbsolutely clear before we start
this entry. There is no real reason for me to want to bludgeon people to death
today. I’ve had the kind of day that people who, for instance, go out to work
for a living, can only dream about – Woke up, started work, then decamped to my
favourite coffee shop – you know the one by now – and spend a highly
companionable day enjoying coffee-based and frequently chilled beverages, while
I got the hell on with stuff.
Tonight of course, it’s Friday night, and far from being
able to relax and go meet my payday-girl, I’m due in extra choir practice in
less than two hours. That’s not what makes me want to bludgeon people with –
let’s say for generosity’s sake – a nerf-bat…
In fact, I don’t know what’s at the source of this feeling.
Possibly, it’s the feeling – entirely self-generated at present – that I’ve
slipped out of the groove I need to be in to get on with the Disappearing.
Could well have got on the bike this morning at 8…but simply didn’t. Could,
maybe, get on it tonight after choir and dinner…but you now as much as I do
that I probably won’t. Hence the sense
of slap-happy malcontent grumpiness and nerf-bat obsession.
So basically today’s a waste of Disappearing time. On to
tomorrow…
Thursday 4 July 2013
The Sliding Doors Error
Oh...there was no blog yesterday?
Hmm...I stood in the kitchen late last night, going "Did I already do the blog today? Oh yeah, must have done, I crossed it off my list of Stuff To Do..." and didn't think about it again. Feels like a certainty, to be honest...but doesn't exist anywhere in this reality. Maybe I've wandered into a parallel diension, and the "me" in the other version of reality wrote a blog yesterday. Wonder what it was about...
Boots, in all likelihood. Bought new boots back in March, and last week, they died on their heels, quite literally - came home from a walk down the Trail, to find the heels completely gone and full of stones. Since when, I've gone down the Trail a couple of times in my dad's boots, but the buggers are hurting me - have what looks like a burn mark on my right foot, meaning I'm Trail-impoverished till at least Sunday, when hopefully, I'll be taking the dead boots back and complaining wildly.
You'd think, in the absence of Trail, I'd be biking like a maniac.
Notsomuch. Haven't trusted myself to carve time out of the competing deadlines any day this week as yet to get on the thing. Which means more progress in the wrong direction come Tuesday, unless the situation is significantly addressed before then...Watch this lazy-ass space, I guess...
Hmm...I stood in the kitchen late last night, going "Did I already do the blog today? Oh yeah, must have done, I crossed it off my list of Stuff To Do..." and didn't think about it again. Feels like a certainty, to be honest...but doesn't exist anywhere in this reality. Maybe I've wandered into a parallel diension, and the "me" in the other version of reality wrote a blog yesterday. Wonder what it was about...
Boots, in all likelihood. Bought new boots back in March, and last week, they died on their heels, quite literally - came home from a walk down the Trail, to find the heels completely gone and full of stones. Since when, I've gone down the Trail a couple of times in my dad's boots, but the buggers are hurting me - have what looks like a burn mark on my right foot, meaning I'm Trail-impoverished till at least Sunday, when hopefully, I'll be taking the dead boots back and complaining wildly.
You'd think, in the absence of Trail, I'd be biking like a maniac.
Notsomuch. Haven't trusted myself to carve time out of the competing deadlines any day this week as yet to get on the thing. Which means more progress in the wrong direction come Tuesday, unless the situation is significantly addressed before then...Watch this lazy-ass space, I guess...
Tuesday 2 July 2013
The Normality Bombshell
Ok, so a) I was right in general, and b) I was substantially less right than I'd imagined I would be.
Back down the Trail this morning (Nehh! Told you I would be!), and weighed in at a bad, but nowhere-near-as-bad-as-I-imagined...
16st 2.25.
Even though of course that's post-Trail, so the actual figure is probably more like 16st 4.0, I can handle that. It's probably about a week's solid, disciplined work to see a 15 again, and the weekend was utterly utterly worth it.
It's at this point that I get a clonk on the head from the Giant Frying Pan of Non-God, and while the tweeting bluebirds of consciousness spin around my bruised and hairless noggin, I have to ask - is this what normal people do? Have a heavy weekend, get up in the morning and go "Right, fuck, gonna have to have a light weekend to get this back under control," and then just fuckin' do it??
Wow...whodathunkit?...I'm becoming what passes for normal in this massively dystopian, cackling-in-darkened-room-with-all-the-worst-things-in-the-world-ever century...
Cool beans...
Apart from that, not much to tell you, my little Disappearo-junkies (and yes, I'm pretty much aware that these delusions of audience reveal more about my own egomania than they do about any actual viewing figures I may have. Most people who read this now are people who know me in real life, or know me in Mark Zuckerberg's Matrix). Ate a cereal breakfast when I came back from the Trail, post-weigh-in, ate a moderately carbolicious lunch, ate some grapes, whoop-de-doo...
Am looking at my list of Stuff To Do right now, and it has "Bike" as the top remaining thing to do on it. Let's see, shall we?
Back down the Trail this morning (Nehh! Told you I would be!), and weighed in at a bad, but nowhere-near-as-bad-as-I-imagined...
16st 2.25.
Even though of course that's post-Trail, so the actual figure is probably more like 16st 4.0, I can handle that. It's probably about a week's solid, disciplined work to see a 15 again, and the weekend was utterly utterly worth it.
It's at this point that I get a clonk on the head from the Giant Frying Pan of Non-God, and while the tweeting bluebirds of consciousness spin around my bruised and hairless noggin, I have to ask - is this what normal people do? Have a heavy weekend, get up in the morning and go "Right, fuck, gonna have to have a light weekend to get this back under control," and then just fuckin' do it??
Wow...whodathunkit?...I'm becoming what passes for normal in this massively dystopian, cackling-in-darkened-room-with-all-the-worst-things-in-the-world-ever century...
Cool beans...
Apart from that, not much to tell you, my little Disappearo-junkies (and yes, I'm pretty much aware that these delusions of audience reveal more about my own egomania than they do about any actual viewing figures I may have. Most people who read this now are people who know me in real life, or know me in Mark Zuckerberg's Matrix). Ate a cereal breakfast when I came back from the Trail, post-weigh-in, ate a moderately carbolicious lunch, ate some grapes, whoop-de-doo...
Am looking at my list of Stuff To Do right now, and it has "Bike" as the top remaining thing to do on it. Let's see, shall we?
Monday 1 July 2013
The Broken Wagon Extension
"Of course, we've technically got today off," said d, laying in our bed this morning.
I was already on the page with her - I'd set a 7am alarm to go do the Trail this morning, and turned it off at 6.50.
"That means," she said, swinging an idle leg lazily and turning my thoughts to drool and gibberish in my head, "it's still technically the weekend..."
"Yes," I said, watching the swinging knee like someone who's about to walk like a chicken or sing like Elvis. "Yes, it does..."
"So...I mean, really, there's no point going back on the wagon today...as such...is there? I mean, tomorrow's the day really...isn't it?"
I wiped the drool off my chin, as the knee did that peculiar thing that women's knees do, that hitches their skirts or nighties just a fraction of a milimetre and burns the world of men to the ground. In my private brain-world, Im fairly sure Salome had knees that did that. Delilah too...Goooood knees...
"Let's go to Cardiff for breakfast then," said d brightly, swinging lithely out of bed.
"Wa-huh?" I said, watching the knees disappear...
So we headed to the city, and had a day of just being groovy together and reconnecting, and then a bit of time where d had her hair done and I repaired to Starbucks, St Mary's St, without my coputer, and so with nothing to do but chill...which was fab. I've kind of forgotten what that feels like. Feels good.
Today therefore has been an extension of the weekend, and an extension of my period off the wagon. Back on it tomorrow at 6.30 am though, for an appointment with the Trail, and a week of salads and biking and hard bloomin' work. Looking forward to that actually: all this lazing about and eating nice things without neurosis is starting to get to me.
I was already on the page with her - I'd set a 7am alarm to go do the Trail this morning, and turned it off at 6.50.
"That means," she said, swinging an idle leg lazily and turning my thoughts to drool and gibberish in my head, "it's still technically the weekend..."
"Yes," I said, watching the swinging knee like someone who's about to walk like a chicken or sing like Elvis. "Yes, it does..."
"So...I mean, really, there's no point going back on the wagon today...as such...is there? I mean, tomorrow's the day really...isn't it?"
I wiped the drool off my chin, as the knee did that peculiar thing that women's knees do, that hitches their skirts or nighties just a fraction of a milimetre and burns the world of men to the ground. In my private brain-world, Im fairly sure Salome had knees that did that. Delilah too...Goooood knees...
"Let's go to Cardiff for breakfast then," said d brightly, swinging lithely out of bed.
"Wa-huh?" I said, watching the knees disappear...
So we headed to the city, and had a day of just being groovy together and reconnecting, and then a bit of time where d had her hair done and I repaired to Starbucks, St Mary's St, without my coputer, and so with nothing to do but chill...which was fab. I've kind of forgotten what that feels like. Feels good.
Today therefore has been an extension of the weekend, and an extension of my period off the wagon. Back on it tomorrow at 6.30 am though, for an appointment with the Trail, and a week of salads and biking and hard bloomin' work. Looking forward to that actually: all this lazing about and eating nice things without neurosis is starting to get to me.
Sunday 30 June 2013
The Push Back
So - this wedding weekend has been frankly and unapologetically off the wagon. I'm expecting and assuming that come Tuesday, I'll be back up to something in the region of 16st 7. And to be honest, I'm OK with that. Had a great weekend, a full weekend, a fun weekend. Tomorrow with the dawn begins a week more in control and within bounds, and we shall see where it gets me. Time, certainly, to push back down, to push back in from this delicious weekend and regain my discipline and control.
Kookily Ever After - 29th June
d has an idea that ‘as long as people are still getting
married, there’s still hope in the world.’
I, thinking myself a harder judge of human character, am not
so easily swayed by the idea that a single day of perfect, blind optimism can be used as a barometer of the
general human condition. I tend to play the UberCynic and refer her to the
opening scene of the movie Dogma, where people meeting at an airport amaze an
angel with their simple love and gladness to be back within each other’s arms.
A second angel wanders into shot and reminds him that not six hours ago, one of
the reunited lovers was having sex with the best friend of the other, ruining
the moment. That’s my angel – I tend to try and force the reality of stressful
mortgage payments, screaming kids, the diminution of lust with a continuing
partner and the allure of the fresh and the new into the scenario – in other
words, I focus on all the things that can blow those simple moments of love and
optimism to jagged ugly smithereens of pain and recrimination.
Cos…y’know…I’d rather be honest than happy any day of the
week. It’s a sickness, frankly.
But this trip to Liverpool – have you ever been, by the way?
It’s brilliant, you should go…go on, we’ll wait… - to the wedding of two old
friends of ours…gotta tell you, it’s enough to make a romantic of me.
T and H (which, being married to a woman who likes to be
known as d is pretty much how I’ve come to think of them over the years) first
popped up on my radar something like ten years ago, at which point they were
both married to other people, and in bad – or at least let’s say aggressively
complicated – situations. I got to know H first, as I’d built a company
intranet of sorts, and she sent me some emails from the Liverpool office. H is
one of those people who, on meeting her, make you go “Aww…” She’s one of those
people with a grin and a giggle and an outlook on life that makes you sigh, and
think, maybe, that things are gonna be fine after all. As such of course, she
brings the protector out in a cynic like me, cos people who make the world feel
like it’s all gonna be alright are prone to the attention, both in work and at
play, of out-and-out bastards with an urge to prove that no, really, it won’t.
I don’t want to oversimplify except where absolutely
necessary – I’m not trying to sell you H as an angel-character: she’s a real,
complex woman with wants and needs and roadblocks just like the rest of us. But
spending time in her company still
makes you feel that maybe, just maybe, things’ll work out, even when she
herself doesn’t think so.
T on the other hand…
T spends his life solving problems. T is, and let’s make no
bones of modesty about this, phenomenally
good at solving problems. He gets paid for it, and he’s worth the money, having
an inherent instinct when to negotiate, when to fold his arms, when to speak
and when to say nothing, and when, for instance, the best thing to do is to
walk out of the room. The first time I had much to do with T – who, I should
point out, at the time worked at the same organisation as both H and I – was
when we were both scheduled to spend a couple of nights in the same house in
Aberdeen.
You learn a lot about someone sharing a house with them in
Aberdeen…
I learned that T, who has the elongated body of a strangely
white basketball player, also has the nature of a poet, the conscience of a
social worker, the twinkle of the Scouser cliché, a kick-ass set of culinary
skills (He cooked. I let him), and a protective instinct rather more out and
proud than my own. He wants to help people. Which is why he spends his days
solving problems. Without getting gushy about the whole thing, he’s the kind of
Bloke you hope your son grows up to be.
When I first discovered they were a kind of
maybe-sort-of-hush-now item, I was all for one of my usual quick fixes – my
approach to problem-solving tending to resemble a hand grenade – blow the
building up and count the remaining limbs. Neither of them wanting to do that
and I couldn’t understand why.
“But you’ll be much happier afterwards!” I pointed out to
both of them, utterly ignoring (as is my wont) the complex emotional background
and all the people in it, and focusing purely on my selfish vision of the
happiness of the two people about whom I happened to give a fig.
Today – ten long-ass years later – was the proof that I’m a
numpty. These people…these two
staggeringly impressive people…took the long path, unravelling issues as
they went, running into more and different levels of complexity with
practically every step they took, and facing those together too, and setting
about the task of getting through. Ten years, these two have waited, and loved, and struggled and skillfully untied the obstacles in their way. And loved. Still. They have seen such joy and trouble and they've looked each other in the eye and in the heart and said "Forever."
Their ceremony was beautiful and simple and funny as well - their first dance was to Daivd Bowie's "Couple of Kooks" - a theme for the day, and utterly perfect for the short woman and the tall man who find themselves reflected in their hearts. They had me
sniffing like a sentimental snotball all day, because in this wedding, I found d's words to be true.
I do not grant that while people get married, there's hope left in this world. But while people as impressive as this get married - while they struggle and hold to each other, and get through all sorts of things, and still get married - then I'm happy to agree. That gives me hope for the human race, and for love, and all that that often-misnamed or misattributed emotion can do in the world. Here's to the impressive people, and to marriage, now and always, kookily ever after.
I do not grant that while people get married, there's hope left in this world. But while people as impressive as this get married - while they struggle and hold to each other, and get through all sorts of things, and still get married - then I'm happy to agree. That gives me hope for the human race, and for love, and all that that often-misnamed or misattributed emotion can do in the world. Here's to the impressive people, and to marriage, now and always, kookily ever after.
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