The Lalalalala Imperative

Weighed this morning. News not good. Irrespective, went and did the walk this afternoon with Ma - 5.5 miles. Doing something similar tomorrow, very much because right now, it's what I can do. It is of course pretty much the dietary equivalent of sticking fingers in your ears (whether they work or not!), and going "Lalalalala" and hoping that it does some good come Tuesday. But as I say, right now, it's what there is.

On...in the absence of any other option...we go, walking when we can.

The Sweatshirt Foretelling

I feel almost bizarrely trapped between two realities. With my shirt off, I feel like this week is going well. When I put on my sweatshirt though, I'm noticing it short in the back...which presumably means it has more ground to cover in the front. Not sure whether this means I'm losing, as it looks and feels like, without the shirt, or gaining, as it looks and feels like in the shirt. The shirt may yet foretell my Tuesday fate, we'll see...

Sigh. Don't know, trying not to care. Went for the 5.5 mile walk this morning, and that was good. Cereal breakfast, bread and cheese for lunch, fajitas for dinner, apple for snacking.

Didn't get on the bike after all - lopped a little more off the List instead...this work-life-Disappearing balance thing continues to be a tricky ride.

Tuesday - how about we shoot for Tuesday for the re-introduction of the biking...?

The Steam Cloud Stupidity

Now, you will have been here before.

You will have been, because I have been.

I did something stupid this afternoon. Feeling actually as though the week was paying dividends, I did a middle-of-the-day, post-a-couple-of-meals weigh.

That was stupid. Reeeeeeally stupid. Showed me at 17st 13.75, which would be catastrophic given the exercise I've started doing this week, and which also wouldn't correspond to what I'm seeing in the mirror.

This, you see, is the danger of vanity. Vanity that makes you break routines, break times, to sneak a little look at how you're doing. Vanity that gives you results which actually mean nothing at all, but can - if you let them - sink in and suck the spirit out of you.

Have I let it do that?
Sort of, inasmuch as there's been a kind of cloud of grey steam around my head for the rest of the day.
But tomorrow, we walk, again. Tomorrow we work, and we walk, and we bloody well perservere. To hell with clouds of grey steam and crushing stupidities. Effort must be paid, work must be done, for the reward we want in this world. Tomorrow, incidentally, sees me clear - for a day or two at least - of pressing deadlines, so tomorrow sees me walk and bike, dammit.

And on we go.

The Bad Thursday Logicality

So tomorrow's Good Friday. Which would make a certain sense of this being Bad Thursday. Or "Not-Quite-So-Good-As-Had-Been-Hoped" Thursday, at least.

Went walking with Ma round the lake this morning, but after barely a revolution and a half, I cried uncle and quit it. There seemed to be too much on my mind, and too much on my Beanstalk List, to give any thought to the busines of going round and round the frozen lake until we were dizzy.

So - something of an exercise failure there. A large cereal breakfast added to the sense of failure, though a light-ish lunch helped feel like balance was restored.

d called to say that with all the work I've been doing, she's pretty much forgotten what I look like by daylight, so could we have dinner out together? That seemed only fair, so we met at Nandos and had a cheap and cheerful chicken dinner. After which, it only seemed right to make it Date Night, and go see a movie too. So that's what we did.

In all, while Date Night was fun, and at least one big Beanstalk branch and a few leaves have been hacked off the lis, the exercise failure still leaves a taste in the mouth of  "Not-Quite-So-Good-As-Had-Been-Hoped" Thursday. Ah well - on to "At-Least-Slightly-Better" Friday, we hope...

The Deadline Cluster

Sigh. You remember that little stump of a To Do List I had?

Ever heard the story of Jack and the Beanstalk?

That tiny little list has done its 'magic beans' thing. Suddenly I have about four deadlines screaming towards me by end of play tomorrow. Plus tomorrow's a bitty day - doctors in the morning to discuss a bunch of stuff. Couple of interviews in the afternoon.

Still - got my morning walk in again today, and plan to do it again tomorrow too.
Food intake today - cereal breakfast, toast and tomatoes for lunch, small plainish pasta portion for dinner - basically, the walk should equate to the lunch, so should be calorifically OKish for the day.

Soooo - busy busy busy. And part of the busyness is still the Disappearing. Kinda looking forward to Tuesday: how perverse is that? But it's all part of the spirit up-keep of getting back into the swing of this thing. next week, with any damn luck (in fact, over Easter, hopefully), will be able to grab the time to add in some bike work - oddly enough, once tomorrow's over with, there should be a severe slackening of deadline pressure.

Should...it's a good word, innit?

While writing this, Ma has texted to say she wants to walk tomorrow, but she wants to do it round the lake. So - slight change of plan there. Still..."should" be OK...

The Post-Dawn Determination

Yep.

Figured as much.
Weighed in today and the weekend took something of a toll - 17st 9.25 - up 2.5 pounds on last week.

On the other hand, got my arse out of bed this morning and went down the Taff Trail (on this occasion with Ma). 2.9 miles to a landmark, 2.9 miles back. Cereal breakfast. Cereal lunch (I know, I know...). Fish, small amount of mash and some veg for dinner. The end.

No additional biking tonight - feeling what might be called the squeaky end of a deadline at the moment. If I'm attempting even the remotest hint of honesty, tomorrow'll be tricky to add the biking into too, but we'll give it a go. Got about four deadlines before Good Friday. Y'know...as ya do.

Also didn't make it to the Doctors for bloodsticks today either - as it happens, have to go and see them on Thursday anyway, to report the two tachycardic incidents and see what the Hell is going on with my ENT referral - yes folks...STILL deaf in the right ear, except now it vibrates painfully to oud noises...which is geat fun in the Top Tenor section of the choir, I can tell ya!

Crap - forgot - back to choir tomorrow night. Double extra squeaky deadline time...Still - shoulders to it then. And on we go. Still feeling the determination ot do this. Spent an inordinate amount of time in the Easter Egg aisle at Tesco tonight, and got not a flicker of bitching from the Carbohydrate Choir. I am a determined Disappearing Man. Hear me...if not exactly roar, then probably fart, and panic, and run to check my wodge...We're back on the trail of this thing...

The Pre-Dawn Realism

Today feels like the hour before dawn. Not that it's particularly dark, but tomorrow  begins my walking down the trail again in the morning, and biking in the evening.

Plus of course, it pays to be realistic - whatever else can be truly said, I just had a couple of days away with good solid meals out and no real exercise, so the likelihood of even maintaining last week's result is unlikely.

But whatever happens in the morning, the mood has changed. I want this. Which translates directly as "I will do this."

So while tomorrow morning may not be a good result, the ungovernable truth is that it will get better from here.

Up for the ride one more time?

The Twin Dilemma - 24th March

Yesterday was Earth Hour, of course. Our hotel was participating, and it was a little eerie, when we got back, to see everything just semi-lit.

We’d been congregating, generally, in Ma’s room.
“Come to ours” we insisted. “Change into your comfy clothes and come round to us in ten.”
“Righto,” said Ma, and went to her room.

“Right, you,” said d to me. “Do whatever you need to in the bathroom, get into your onesie and put the kettle on…”

That sounded like a plan. I was…shall we say…straining somewhat…when the lights went out.

“Wwwwwhat the hell?” I asked. There was a noise of clicking from outside the bathroom door.

“Either it’s an Earth Hour….thing,” said d, or the fuse has blown!”

It wasn’t an Earth Hour thing. A row of about five rooms on our floor were suddenly plunged into darkness and powerlessness.

d went along the perfectly lit corridor to Ma’s room.

“Change of plan,” she explained.

Ending the night on an up note, and one in keeping with my “author of my destiny” rant of yesterday, I checked my email, and got a notification last thing last night before padding back to our by-then re-illuminated room.

d has always…shall we say “proactively encouraged” me to write Doctor Who stories, on the grounds that she actually believes I can do this writing…thing…and that I’m one of those UberFans who always critique the TV episodes, so she kind of  goes the cheerleadery “Write your own then” thing that is both challenge and statement of faith.

I’ve always resisted, frankly, due to a paucity of actual ideas. Then a couple of weeks ago, I saw a contest on Facebook, run by one of the many fan pages I’m on, saying “Write us your best Doctor Who fan-fiction, and win a prize”.  Figured I’d give it a go, but work and Jefferson deadlines conspired against me, despite suddenly having an idea for such a story. I ended up writing 5000 words in two sessions, each of which ran from midnight to 2.30/3AM, getting the story in just hours before the deadline.

Having Other Stuff To Do, I practically forgot about it and came away for this weekend. The email last night was to say “Oi you…you’ve won. Hoorah. Where do we send your prize?” So that was a very useful shot in the arm in terms of putting the effort in and reaping the rewards. The story’s now been published online to the 11,000 or so Who fans on the page, and has had pleasingly good reviews. Ahem…mini-wave in celebration of me. Not surprisingly, ideas for other stories have since been forthcoming.

Today has been one of those pleasingly buggerall days when you actually get to relax. Another hotel buffet breakfast led on to…essentially, a great deal of sitting about in the warm, rather than going out in the windchill of -3 degrees Celsius. As I write this, the journey home is in its final stages, and we’re on a coach driven by someone who truly doesn’t know where he’s going. It’s An Adventure, as d would day – and indeed has said. Home soon-ish, and then the week begins again. Except for me, it doesn’t – I booked the day off as annual leave, and so am schlepping down to Cardiff in the morning with a computer and a Starbucks card, to edit the bejeesus out of my latest client’s work to delivery by the deadline of the 28^th. Tuesday is bloodsticks, possible coronary phonecalls, and a return to long morning walks and evening biking sessions – no substitutions, no excuses, no essential fannying about. Destiny, author, yadda yadda yadda – the motivation remains currently impregnable, for all that, after three days away I look like I’m about to give birth to twins or triplets. Back to blue pills tonight when I get home, and hopefully, will be able to birth these buggers come the morning…

And then author, destiny and so on and etc.

The Neverland Revelations - March 23rd

“It’s snowing.”

As first words to hear on any given morning, there’s something infinitely dreary about those two. If you happen to wake up in a strange bed, from a dream of running in a glorious warm spring sunlit day, they instantly collapse the sugar-cage of possibility you’ve built in your unconsciousness.

“Morning,” I said, across the enormous blank madeness of the bed. D was already up and on the computer, checking weather forecasts.

“Snowing?” I asked, making sure my one good ear wasn’t playing up. “But it’s March, for god’s sake.

“Isn’t it?” she agreed, grinning. “Confused?”

“More than somewhat,” I agreed, padding heavily over to the window.

“It’s snowing,” I said.

“Morning, honey,” she said, coming to kiss me on the forehead.

Ma was scheduled to go to Buckingham Palace this morning and stand, watching the Changing of the Guard, which she’s managed to get to her age without ever actually watching.

Over a vast hotel buffet, and while nibbling on toast and marmalade, she came to a decision.

“Bugger that for a game of bearskins,” she said. “I’ll see it next time. In Summer…”

“Good decision,” chorused d and I. “So whatcha gonna do?”

“Think I’ll have a wander up and down Edgware Road, looking for handbags,” said Ma. Handbags, for reasons that passeth all my understanding, are to Ma what kitchen equipment is to d, or comedy DVDs and pens are to me. Things in which there is inherent virtue from possession of excess, whether they are ever practically used or not.

“I’m gonna try my hand at bartering,” said Ma, clearly believing that the number of Arabic shopfronts along the Edgware Road meant she was actually in a souk. D and I locked eyes, as the idea of what Ma would be getting up to ran through both our brains. I vocalised it.

“Welsh Provocatrix Stabbed In Handbag Turf War…” I mused.

As it turned out, a brief excursion out onto Edgware Road convinced Ma that, after all, perhaps she wouldn’t do that on a day of driving frozen drizzle and a biting wind. She determined instead to come into Trafalgar Square with us, and “do touristy things”. Given the havoc of which she’d been at the centre the previous day when trying to do something as innocuous as buying a travelcard, I’d be lying if we were entirely easy in our minds as we went to see Dame Judi Dench and Ben Whishaw on stage, in the new play “Peter and Alice”.  The play extrapolates from a brief meeting of Peter Llewelyn-Davies, the namesake and part inspiration of Peter Pan and Alice Liddle Hargreaves, who in her gauche youth had been Alice in Wonderland. The play was brilliant and devastating, and should you have an opportunity to go and see it – do whatever you have to. It’s probably, I would say, in the top two plays I’ve ever seen, and its final line hits you like a train.

One of the best lines, from my perspective, in the piece was a very simple piece of life-wisdom.

“It’s your life – not Peter Pan’s, not Barrie’s. Live it.”

This, to me up in the demi-gods, was a revelation. An inspiration. An oxygen tent.

It won’t surprise any of you to learn that the last year or so has been a year of regrets, and excuses, and letting things get in the way of the Disappearing. I’ve already started giving the lie to all that, but this line, spoken by a great actress, hit me where I live on a lot of levels – not just as the Disappearing Man, but as a frustrated would-be writer too. One life is all we’re guaranteed. To me at least, it makes sense that that’s all we have. So if you want to do something, and you have the means to get that something at your disposal, and you still don’t get it, it’s nobody’s fault but your own – whether you dream of a more active, healthy life, or literary success, or some idea of personal happiness. Go for it – do what you need to do. Time is short – and may be shorter than you think (a truth underlined by the death of horror author James Herbert this week).

It’s worth mentioning I had a second tachycardic incident this morning, too. I was standing in the bathroom, mid-pee in fact, when the Catherine Wheel of pre-tachycardia began fizzing in my chest. It took me less than a minute of laying down with my legs up for the thing to sod off – and in retrospect, it may have been something to do with not being understood when asking for de-caff at breakfast – but nevertheless, it was an incident that helped underline the Neverland Revelation.

We made fun of Ma as the day went on – the Central Line, which was key to our travel plans…was entirely closed.

“They’ve heard you’re in town…” we muttered.

She ended up hiding from the snow and the bitter wind in the National Portrait Gallery, and only causing minor hassle by wandering into a ticketed zone without permission. Rumours of a multi-million pound art heist have been, we are assured, grossly exaggerated.

We went to our old haunting ground, the Golden Bird Chinese restaurant on the Mile End Road for our evening meal – but for one reason and another, we got there from Stratford, by bus…which involved travelling the first part of my usual, every morning Stratford walk, from Stratford Mall to Mile End Station. Stop by stop, it was impressed on me that a) that was quite a distance, and the fact that I went, routinely, all the way on to Aldgate East pretty much blew my mind, and b) it’s been quite a while since I did anything like that amount of walking. Tuesday, my 6 mile morning walks begin again earnest…That was revelation two of the day, really – and the resolution to action is part of revelation one. I want this again. I can’t really explain the difference this makes – I’ve known I’ve had to do it for some time. But actively wanting it is a whole other thing. It’s a plan, and a determination, and a fuck you to the condemnation of fate that would see me, twenty years from now, as a wheezing heart patient with no diabetic control. NO. I have a will – and when I focus, I have a will which must be reckoned. I am the author of my own destiny, dammit, and I will have my say.

Watch this space.

The Travelcard Extravaganza - 22nd March

OK, so – off to London en famille for fun and games and the magic of the theatah…

As it happened, we were stuck on a bus with a pack of screeching hen partiers, who felt it encumbent on them to react en masse to every street we passed, every announcement from the driver, and essentially every remark that one of their number made, by caterwauling, screaming, whooping, or in some other way de-evolving and calling their simian brothers to mate.

I think the real low point was the group “singing” of the Eastenders theme, regularly and repeatedly, every couple of miles from Hammersmith flyover to the Edgware Road. See? Who said being half deaf had no up side?

Anyhow, on paper, a reasonably good food day – had Kentucky Fried Chicken at the services, and then a simple, two course but not portiontastic Italian meal in the evening. But that was all, for the whole day.

Really, the high point of the day, I suppose, came not long after we arrived at out hotel on the Edgware Road. Ma and d went to go and shop for supplies, and to pick up a travelcard for Ma.

“You go to Starbucks,” said d, “and we’ll meet you back there when we’re done.” I’d like it noted, this escape of domestic duties wasn’t my idea, but on behalf of the testosterone in my body, I’d also like it noted that I didn’t argue, but turned on my heel and got myself the right side of a de-caff skinny latte.

They were gone for some time. I had settled myself with Kylie Minogue going into my one working ear and The Communist Manifesto on my Kindle (just cos…one of the weirdest combinations I’ve ever come across, in case you were wondering), but as time passed and the bourgeoisie were utterly smashed, and the proletariat were poised on the brink of glorious revolution, I started to wonder what the hell could be taking them so long. When they eventually turned up, they had a tale to tell…

They’d been in the line at Edgware Road station, when a platoon of baton-wielding police officers had essentially stormed the place as though it were an embassy, yelling for people to get out of the way and get down.

Ma and d got out of the way, or got down…and then, on instruction, got the hell out.

We buggered quickly off back to Ma’s 16^th floor room to survey the story in development. 12 police vehicles, all with blues and twos, one fire truck, and traffic stopped both ways for about 45 minutes. There was police tape and cordoning, there were dog units and a mobile crime lab. We’re still not entirely sure what the hell was going on, but something…Londony…went down yesterday, of that there’s little doubt.

“That’s it,” I said, as we finally tore ourselves away from the unfolded drama. “Tomorrow, I’m buying the tickets. Can’t take you two anywhere…”

The Bloodstick Decrepitude

Every now and again, seemingly out of nowhere and when you least expect it, an Embuggerance catches you smartly on the side of the head.

Happened to me this morning. You may have...well, facing facts, you probably haven't given enough of a toss to have, but still...you may have noticed that I haven't posted blood results for a few days.

Simply - I ran out of testing strips. Figured there were more in the big bag o' medications in the living room, that I've simply been too busy to look into for the last few days. Looked this morning, to discover they simply weren't there.

Never having been a Boy Scout, I don't subscribe to that whole "Be Prepared" schtick. Or homophobic bigotry. Or pre-teen paramilitarism. Or helping old ladies across roads, come to that. But the point is, I tend not to think far enough ahead, so when faced with a curve ball, I either panic or, in times of early morning crisis, I do what I'm best at - I rummage.

This morning, I didn't have the energy to panic, so rummaging was, I figured, my friend. Found an unopened box of perfectly sealed blood testing strips with their little microchip circuit to tell the machine how to self-calibrate to read them correctly. Stuck in the microchip.

"Ptui!" it said, spitting out an error message.
"Wha-huh?" I asked, not yet being in full control of my consonants.
"Ptui!" it repeated.
"Whhhhhy?" I managed.
"Icky!" it responded.
"Wha-huh?" I asked again.
"Too old!" it spat, seeming to conclude matters.
"Me?" I asked, incredulous.
"Your horrid, icky, wrinkly old testing strips!" it elucidated. "They're all old and wrinkly and smelly and off and horrid. PRUI!"
"Ohhhh," I said, finally understanding - the strips might have been perfectly sealed, but apparently, they'd been in the drawer so long as to be unacceptable to my fussy-eater blood-testing machine.

So - that'll be me schlepping back to the surgery on Tuesday for some fresh, young, sparkly strips then.

Tuesday because we're off to London in the morning - d and Ma and I - for a family weekend, which includes probably dinner at an Italian we used to visit tomorrow night, definitely dinner at our second favourite Chinese restaurant on Saturday night (our top favourite having closed down - boo!) and having belonged to the parents of a friend of ours...man, that was good...sigh...
Where was I? Oh yeah, so the trip includes two meals out AND an apparently kick-ass show: Peter and Alice, starring Judi Dench and Ben Whishaw. Looking forward to that.

And Monday, I have the day off as annual leave, so in all likelihood, I'll bugger off to Cardiff and sit in Starbucks all day...editing.

Hence Tuesday for more bloodsticks, woohoo!

And for now - To the SnoringPit! Hoorah...

The Atlantean Failure

In an effort to justify the faith d apparently has in Tuesdays, and the positive morale-boost of getting a reading lower than expected yesterday, I determined to go swimming today for the first time in many many months.

In fact, it occurred to me as I waddled like some kind of slightly greasy porpoise to the pool from the changing room, this is the heaviest and flabbiest I've been setting foot in this pool - when we arrived in Merthyr I was at least a stone lighter than I am now.

Anyhow, got in the pool, did ten lengths and came home.

Though actually, that sounds a whole lot more...connected than reality will allow. I didn't exactly "do ten lengths."

I did one length. Felt the pounding of my heart (normal but bloody surprised, rather than tachycardic), thought "Christ I'm out of practice," clung to the wall like a numpty. Did another length, felt the burning in my arms and legs, clung, gasping to the side. Decided to wimp out and do a backstroke length. Did another half-length forwards, swallowed water, coughed, spluttered, stood up...

And so on, for ten...or technically eleven, agonising lengths.
Clearly, waaaaaay out of practice. Ow.

When d came in, she was weary after a day of work. went to have a little lay down for five minutes, and I went to join her, to chat over the day, and just catch up.

Three hours later, we woke up, with me having missed choir, and altogether fairly well prepared to sleep till morning.

Clearly, swimming is currently able to kick my flabb white ass all over the place.

Might go back tomorrow...

The Sally Reaction

Weighed in today. I know, I know, but I did mention I was toying with it as part of the whole "Taking This Thing Seriously Again" stratagem. When I did so, I got one rather delicious response.

"Oh yes, yes, yes, YES!!!" said d.

I pulled my glasses halfway down my nose and peered at her over them.
"Are you...quite well, dear?"
She was on the opposite couch to me, doing a creditable impression of Meg Ryan.
She smiled at me in rather a blissful, well-that's-my-world-rocked sort of way, swallowed, and said
"You did so much more when you weighed in on Tuesdays..."

It took me a second to work out what the hell she was talking about - she didn't read the blog entry immediately after I'd written it, so I'd actively forgotten what I'd written.
"Oh!" I said. "Oh, that!"
"That," she agreed. "That's a great idea honey. Go on..."

So, inspired by what I can't help thinking of as her "Sally Reaction", I weighed in at 17st 6.75 - nearly three pounds lighter than Thursday.
Now of course, lovely as that would be, I do have slightly more intelligence than a chimp, and I realise that this is largely the result of having a very light day in London yesterday (largely as a result of not having time to do much, including breathing, that wasn't directly on my Stuff To Do List (not to self - put Breathing on next Stuff To Do List - the pretty colours are all very fine, but the black-outs are a bitch). That said, when I did eat, it was carb, in the form of quite a lot of rice, and it was late, which means, not to get gastrointestinal on your asses...as it were...it was still in my ststem when I weighed this morning.

No, this doesn't prove the miraculous, herculean effort I've been putting in since Thursday, but it does prove the morale-boosting benefits of a light Monday and a Tuesday weigh-in. I feel inspired to not do things. Not have a binge on chips and chocolate, for instance. Not give in to the choir of carbohydrates as I walk around a supermarket. Not make excuses to not exercise.

Here's to the resurrection of Tuesdays, and the power of Not...

The Doctor Shoes

Readers of this blog will have come across the fact that I’m something of an insane Doctor Who fan. When I acquired a business suit with a scarlet lining, for instance, it became “The Master Suit” because it reminded me of a suit with the same kind of lining worn by actor John Simm when he played arch-villain The Master in a run of three episodes a few years ago.

I did say an insane Doctor Who fan, right?

Today was an UberCommute day. I stayed late in the office, getting an altogether gratifying amount of Stuff done – you should see the List: it’s not so much a tree right now as a stunted, blasted little bush, which pleases me no end.

Anyway, I know from experience that the walk across Hyde Park and on to Paddington Station – to which I was quite looking forward on this otherwise exercise-free day – takes me about fifteen minutes. My train home – the last train home of the day – left London at 7.15. I left the office at 6.34 according to my phone, which my wife insists is five minutes slow, meaning it was actually twenty minutes to seven. No sweat – stroll across the park in fifteen, still enough time to grab a Starbucks and drink it before the train leaves.

“Fuck.”

“No, seriously…fuck!”

The park gates were closed. Mr Navigationally In-Freakin’-Competent here stood looking at the clock on his phone, looking at the locked gates, looking at the long expanse of road to…any damn thing that would take him somewhere useful.

“Fuuuuuck,” I said. “Did I mention that?” I asked the locked gates.

Now…feel free to laugh here, but as the numbers refused to compute, there was a moment as I stood mulling all this over where the thought actually went through my head…

“They’re only small gates…You could probably climb ’em if you really needed to.”

While the rest of my brain collapsed in paroxysms of simultaneous panic and mirth, my legs raised a point of order.

“Seriously, dude, get it together!” they yelled, like a pair of dope fiends on a job interview. “Ahhh, screw it…”

And they took off….

Running. I made Notting Hill by 6.43 on my phone, which for a fat fuck who’s chronically out of shape again, was pretty good going.

6.43…which meant 6.48 by my wife’s “real time”. 27 minutes till the train pulled out of Paddington and left me searching for a cheap-ass hotel room for the night and a train back in the morning…which would force me to miss a meeting with an accountant that I’ve already put off three times. How would I explain this one to her.

“Sorry, can’t make the appointment tomorrow, my train left on time…”

I should pause at this point to explain that it’s A-Week.

What’s A-Week, I hear you vaguely mutter. A-Week is a week (see what I did there? Crap, wasn’t it?) of Atheism Awareness. I’m not sure there’s much more I can do to raise people’s awareness of my atheism. Think I’m pretty much covered on that. I only bring it up at all, because if there was an awesome god in the universe, and I was one of his beloved little creatures, then when I arrived, panting, at Notting Hill – wearing, it should be noted, new tight trousers, a thick new warm sweater, a big heavy thigh-length woollen overcoat, a black suede faux-cowboy hat and my brand spanking new Walking-About Shoes – there would have been a Number 27 bus pulling in to take me to Paddington, which journey the gems at Transport for London, in their infinite optimism, had posted on the bus stop should take no more than seven minutes.

There wasn’t a Number 27 pulling in. Ergo there is probably no god. Quod erat demonstrandum, as the ancient Romans and the modern pretentious-fucks say.

Now I know what you’re thinking. But if there was an awesome god in the universe and he just didn’t like me very much for my blasphemies and sins and generally pointing out the extreme likelihood of his non-existence…then a Number 27 wouldn’t have turned up five minutes later.

And it did. Ergo there is probably no god. Quod erat…wossname.

I got on the bus at 6.48, according to my phone…which meant it was really 6.53. Seven minutes, according to the people at Transport for London.

Did I mention their infinite optimism? OK, did I mention they must have been smoking crack out of the ass of municipal hookers when they posted that up?

I tried to take my mind off the ticking of the universe. 7.53…which meant 7.58…Maybe there was a god after all, and this was his idea of fun. Maybe this was a very low grade smiting. There are famously – if shamefully incorrectly – no atheists in foxholes. And tonight, there was still an atheist on a Number 27 bus…but I will admit, it was close for a minute there.

I pressed the bell for Paddington when it came in sight. 7.03…which was really 7.08. Seven minutes for the bus to pull up, and for me to get back to the station (the bus, in and act which no sane god would have anything to do with, shows you Paddington Station, and then fucks off for a good few hundred yards…just, apparently…because), through the barrier, and along practically the whole length of Platform 5 (tip for you if ever you need to get the Cardiff train from Paddington. It’s probably going to be on Platform 5. Or if not, it’ll be on one of the hidden platforms that not even Harry Potter could find, which aren’t really in Paddington at all, but are halfway to Heathrow…), to sit my ass on the last train out of Dodge.

The bus duly did its thing and showed me the station. Then, as if it had been looking for the ideal spot for an urban picnic, it stopped. Truly, I expected the driver to pull out a hamper and a chequered rug and settle down for a brew and a cucumber sandwich.

7.08…which meant…

We moved. I raised my eyes skyward.

“You’re taking the piss now, you know?” I muttered to any deity that happened to be passing.

Finally, at 7.09 according to my phone, we pulled up at the Paddington stop. It seemed an impossible task, and if I was to stand any chance at all, I knew what it would involve.

My feet hit the pavement, and I ran!

Rand and dodged and ran and nearly went down the wrong side-street, ran and got the side-street right, ran to the departure board.

“BOARDING” it flashed. “Platform 5”.

Who says I don’t know what I’m talking about?!

I got to the gates, and my ticket wouldn’t work, I had to queue to be let through the gates by a surly bloke in a high-vis vest who asked me where I was going. I looked up to answer him, and something caught my eye. The station clock said it was 7.11. I quickly checked my phone.

Ha…

d may have her real time, but it turns out my phone clock’s not wrong. It’s just on Paddington Time. I grinned, deliriously, for a second. Then I snapped out of it, realising I didn’t have a second to waste. I ran, and ran to the end of the platform, looking for carriage B. By the time I got to carriage G, and was nearly out of platform, I realised something sneaky was afoot. They’d reversed the usual order of the carriages, making the rich buggers in First Class do the walking for once. Normally, this would have been entirely delightful. As I’d sprinted past the carriage I needed though, the delight was a little slow to dawn on me. I sighed, and took off in the opposite direction, getting my seat with about three real, Paddington minutes to spare. I used those minutes wisely and well – coughing up a lung and trying not to turn into a beetroot and die.

“Made the train…just,” I panted to d via cellphone. “Y’know these walking-around shoes?”

“Aha,” she said.

“Also good for running,” I panted. “As it turns out…”

“Great,” she said.

“In fact, I think they have to be considered my Doctor Shoes,” I announced.

“They don’t look anything like Doctor shoes,” d commented placidly.

“Not about what they look like,” I gasped. “About what you do with them. Most definitely Doctor Shoes…”

“OK,” said d, not willing to throw any further facts in the path of my illogical convictions.

Sometimes it amazes me that she’s not an atheist herself…

Post-Script: In this whole frivolous blog where I claim to prove the probably non-existence of gods (and yes, before you point it out, I know you can’t prove a probability or it becomes a certainty), one final thought has to be borne in mind.

I can’t remember the last time my Cardiff train arrived in Cardiff on time, allowing me to catch the connection up to Merthyr without waiting around on a platform for an hour or giving up and getting a bus. Tonight though, that’s exactly what happened – I arrived on the Merthyr platform with a whole seven minutes to spare, and got home a few minutes ago, where normally, I’d barely have been on the train a few minutes.

Evidence of an aweome god who loves me? Hmm…I’d prefer to thank the Doctor Shoes. Also, as it turns out, good for bounding up staircases like a fat bald slovenly gazelle…

The Training Shoe Contingency

How many shoes must a man wear down...before you will call him a spendthrift bastard who needs to take better care of his shoes...

Ahhh the sixties. Pure poetry, man, from start to finish...

I pose this deep and meaningful question because it seems relevant to me today. As a bloke...as, if I may venture to add myself to altogether more august club, a man, I only have two feet. Actually, one and a half most days recently, blisters being the unutterable sods they are...but anyway. Two feet, standard issue for your average upstanding biped.

So when d and Ma agreed that today I Needed Shoes, I was pretty perplexed.
"I have training shoes, and walking boots, and business shoes, and two pairs of slippers, and posh goth-cowboy boots as well," I said. "How can I possibly need shoes? Shoes...I have. Long is what I am, by any sane reckoning, when it comes to the subject of shoes. Shoe-erly?"
d rolled her eyes at me. "Your trainers are dissolving from inside," she said with devastating brevity, making, it should be noted, abbbbbbsolutely no overt comment on what this said about the underlying power of my grimy feet-sweat.

"Oh," I said. "That."
"Yes dear. That. Now hurry up and get dressed, your mother'll be here in a minute."

I got casually dressed. As it happens, I got very casually dressed. I'd just come down the stiars when d mentioned, as if in passing,
"You need new trousers too. You can't wear those awful things any more?"
"Awful things?" I said, clueless.
"The ones you insist on wearing the guts out of to go to London."
"My comfy trousers? What's wrong with them now? I've only just gotten them properly broken in."
"No dear...just broken," she sighed, with the infinite world-weariness of wives everywhere.

I was aggrieved. Dead aggrieved, I was. If you've ever wanted to see a fat bloke be thoroughly aggrieved, all I can say is you should have been in our hallway this morning. I was about to explain the degree and quality of my aggreivement whem Ma turned up and we buggered off.

At the shoe store, Ma had apparently done a recce, and had a pair she thought I'd like put away. I didn't like them. I'm not entirely sure I didn't dislike them just because she'd bothered to do a recce and have them put away, but anyway, I quickly-ish found a pair of trainers I was happy with.

"Mind you, you can't use them for walking about in," said d. I blinked. I was about to ask whether these were special hopping trainers, when Ma chimed in.
"Well, no, course not. Mind you, you've got walking boots, haven't you?"
I agreed that I did, but felt compelled to ask what I was going to pay 20-odd quid for trainers for if they couldn't be used for the sundry and somewhat general purpose of walking about.
d headed me off - she's often able to read my mind and do that. I think it's an oestrogen thing, personally.
"They're training shoes. They're for the gym. Only the gym."
"Noooo," I said. "Trainers are trainers  you can use them for everything..."
The sales girl, sniffing the possibiility of a multiple sale, decided to chip in her half-dollar at this point.
"No, really, you can't," she said. "You need walking-about shoes too, really..."
"Walking-about shoes...?" I asked, growing weaker by the minute.
"Yeah..." she said. "Try these..."
These were thirty odd quidsworth of "walking-about shoes".
"Can't use those in the gym," said d before I had bothered to ask.
"So now I'm buying two pairs of shoes for one pair of feet?" I checked.
"Yes," said Ma, d, and the salesgirl almost in unison.
"Because the trainers will spontaneously combust if I have the audacity to walk about in them, and the walking-about shoes will automatically kick the gears out of all the gym equpiment?" I wanted to ask.
"Just because!" said d, heading off my brain at the pass.

So I came out with two pairs of shoes today. I swear, I'm going to need a wallchart in the hallway to remember which shoes to put on for which type of activity.

Next was the trouser-buying spree. This had the potential to be utterly miserable, given my Reappearing state. As it happened though, d handed me a pair of size 36 jeans, and they fit. A little snugly, I'd be the first to admit...but they fit. It was as I was taking them off and getting back into my highly casual outfit that she whipped the changing room curtain back to hand me a sweater.

I yelped, grabbed one leg of my jogging pants and covered my extreme modesty.
"Commando!" I squeaked. "That was that I was trying to tell you in the hallway. I'm commando today!"

She went away, laughing hysterically.
Two pairs of shoes, one pair of jeans and a sweater...

I have no idea how I came out with the sweater...

I'm thinking, by the way, of reinstating the Tuesday weigh-in, and cracking on again with some positive mental attitude, some appalling sweating and some proper portion control. What do we think? Back to Tuesdays and actually taking this thing seriously? I don't really want to feel the wave of dread again that I did when walking into a clothes shop this morning...although maybe that was just because I had too few feet and was going commando...

The Philosophical Conundrum

I should probably update some blood records. 7.8, 7.1, 8.1 for the last three days. 8.1 is understandable given that we ate out last night and I had a glass of cider.

Still, understandable is not the same as "a good thing", of course. Not even close.

Seems to me that at the moment I'm at the stage again where all it would take for me to lose a satisfying "whumpf" of weight would be to philosophically commit to the idea of losing weightloss - smaller portions, regular exercise, metabolism boosts, all the stuff that...y'know...works. I feel like at the moment, what I'm actually doing is trying to construct a daily safety net, and then throwing myself onto it. As though I'm trying to beat the system or something, or force biology to believe that things that don't work actually do.

Biology of course is neither a fool nor a pussy, and won't be messed about with. It doesn't care about psychology, it doesn't care about blisters or heart shenanigans or any damn thing whatsoever. It's a ruthless, honest bastard with a calculator and an actuarial table. You either play its game to win, and lose by trying, or you play its game to lose, and lose by not trying, probably a damn sight quicker.

Time to stop trying to make do or get by. Actually trying of course is bloody exhausting. Sigh...but it's got to be done.

The Sock Sequestration Stratagem

Confucius he say, "Man who stomps around like five-year old gets only blisters for his troubles..."

As I was getting undressed for bed last night, I realised that the thing I'd thought all day was a stone in my shoe...actually wasn't a stone in my shoe after all.
"Blister!" I called to d in the other room.
"Oh nooo," she said, all sympathy and sweetness.

Tonight, being a Friday, we went to the supermarket and then Ma had suggested we all go out for dinner together. Great. We were in the line at Tescos, when I stared into the middle distance and held up a hand.
"What's the matter, honey?" said d. "You dizzy again?" I shook my head, trying to catch the feel of something. "Can you hear?" she asked, hopefully. Again, I had to shake my head. "What then?"
I drew the shape of a spiral on my chest - an indication of the fizzing Catherine Wheel sensation I get before a tachycardic incident.
"Really?" she asked. Really was tricky. I wasn't sure if it was a tachycardic incident or if it was wind. I took her hand and jabbed it against my chest, searching her eyes for confirmation.
"Really," she said, nodding. "Go and sit down..."

I did. I was all for laying on the floor with my feet in the air - a long-proven remedy for this condition, bizare as it may sound. But d said no - the cardiologist I saw a few months ago said if it happened again, I shouldn't do that, but should get to a hospital while it was still going on, so as to present with actual symptoms. d went to ring Ma, to arrange transport to hospital. While she was gone, the pounding heart subsided and I returned to normal.

Have to say, this has given me a new perspective on something. When conversation has ever turned morbid, and people describe how they want to die, I've always said that I'd like to keel over in the "Five Items Or Fewer" aisle at the supermarket, just to cause maximum irritation with my final moments.

Having a wobbly moment like this, in situ, kind of brings home what an ultimately crappy way that would be to die - and what an equally crappy story for the funeral. Now I think I'd like to die in a freak decompression accident on the first Mars colony. While  eating a choux bun.

Fuck off, it's my death fantasy, I can be eating a choux bun if I want to be...

Anyhow - on reflection, I decided it would be complete folly to go to the ER on a Friday night in my town - the headlines of the lcoal paper are awash with people in the ER waiting nine or ten hours in corridors just to be seen - or indeed dropping dead in the same corridors - I submit out of sheer medical boredom. So we went on our way for our meal, and I was recounting the story of the blister to Ma.
"Ohhh," she said. "Is that from walking?"
"Walking in the wrong socks," I explained. d choked, turned ot me with a murderous glint in her eye and a suddenly sharp-looking fork in her hand.
"You are so lucky we're in public right now!" she said...

To explain - a few days ago, while preparing to go walking with Ma, I had thrown on some ordinary socks. One had a Cyberman on it, because yes, I'm that geeky. The other was thin and had red stripes on it.
"Put some proper walking socks on!" d had said.
"Nah, I'll be fine," I explained. "It's not proper walking walking..."

Y'know what? Turns out all walking is proper walking walking...
"That's it," said d, back in the restaurant. "I'm going to take away all your non-walking socks. There will be nothing but walking socks in this house. Maybe...if you're good...I'll let you have your Cybersocks for your birthday..."
"There's a joke there," I mused, then saw the look in her eye. "Which I wouldn't dream of making right now..."


So if I wake up in the morning to a world of nothing but green stretchy socks, I'll let you know. In fairness, this does rather highlight a constant in my life - when I brush aside the advice of good women...bad things happen. On the night of New Year's Eve, 1977, for instance, Ma had warned me to be carfeul and come home early.
"Pah," I said. "I've survived in London, I've survived in Glasgow, I'm sure I can survive New Year's Eve in Merthyr..."
Later that night I was in the ER, having had seven shades of shit kicked out of me.

My life is littered with similar examples. Does this mean I'm going to simply submit to all the advice that's meant to do me good and keep me safe?

Nahhh....where's the fun in that?

Now, amd gonna lay down and finally put my feet up. night all...

The Gym Boredom

When dealing with disappointment, there are two ways to go. Either you can reflect in a mature and clam way on all the things that led to your not achieving some result.

Or you can turn into a five-year-old, blame everybody and everything except yourself and stomp around for an hour, hoping someone asks you what's wrong so you can let them have it with both barrels.

Wanna take a guess how I dealt with this morning's weigh-in?

This morning's weigh-in made, as far as I could see, very little sense.
I weighed in at
17 stone 10 pounds.

That's up something like a pound and three quarters on last week, despite all the walking and occasional gymming. I huffed. My lip wobbled, like a storm about to break. Then I stomped back off to the bedroom, yelling "THAT'S NOT FAAAAAAAIIIIIIRRRR!!!"

Quite took the bears by surprise, I can tell you...
I stomped down to the kitchen and made myself a fairly big bowl of cereal, purely out of spite. Ate it, felt better - or at least fuller, then stomped off about my day - went to the dentist, the post office, the train station, and then to meet my aunt and uncle at the gym.

They were already there, working side-by-side running machines. I took the empty one by their side, and walked, and ran, a hundred calories away.
"BORED!" I yelled inside my brain. I wanted to jump on a bike, but of course, the world hates me so they were all full of Other People's Arses! What's THAT about?!

Got on to a push-up machine, did 18.
"BOOOOOOORING!" yelled my brain. "Plus...actually....OW! Not FAIR!"
The bikes were still full of arses.
I got onto a back-muscle machine. Did 40 of those, just to prove it wasn't just me being stroppy that made everything so boooooooooring...
Bikes still full. GET OFF, ALREADY!
Tried a cross-trainer. Clearly, after just ten calories, that wasn't happening. TOOO BOOOORING!!!!
Sighed heavily. There was nothign for it but the rowing machine.

Sat on one rowing machine. Decided I wasn't gonna take the usual shit, where as soon as you start rowing, the straps come loose. Adjusted the footplates by hand, realised I now had black hands, covered in rubber and dust and god knows what else from a parade of people's feet. but at least after about five minutes of muttering I had properly adjusted straps. Picked up the rowing bar, and pressed the button.

Nothing.
Pulled the bar, pressed every button on the panel. Nothing. Nada. No sign of life.
FUCKIN' BROKEN! T'RIFFIC. SOOOOO BORING!
Slid over to another rowing machine, because of course the bikes were still occupied.
Set it on 6, so that it wouldn't kill me. Pulled the bar, nearly fell over backwards, because I went back so far, so fast. It was way too easy - but now of course I was strapped into place and couldn't change the setting. So there I was, stuck, rowing the easiest race of my life. I tried to scratch my nose - don't do that while you're rowing, you'll have the machine over before you know where you are.
Then a friend and fellow chorister, Keith, wandered up, and we chatted for a minute.
"Do me a favour - whack me up a couple of notches would you?" I asked, and he did so. I began to row properly, but even that was boooring. Then my aunt, who'd been rowing in front of me, got off her machine. I sighed.

"Any bikes going spare?" I asked. I couldn't turn round to look, obviously - that's madness on a rowing machine.
"Ohhhh I don't like the bikes," she said placidly.
"No, but I bloody do..."
"One's just come spare," she said, and I quit the boredom of rowing in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, I like a recumbent bike, because it's what I'm used to. The one that had come spare was traditional bike, and it had been used by someone with longer legs than me. I batted vaguely at the pedals as they span around, but really, it wasn't doing me much good. Then, finally, the clouds parted, an angel choir sang, and a recumbent bike next door to me came free. I slid over to it triumphantly, and began pedalling properly.
"Ready to go then?" asked my aunty.
"Cool," I said, and abandoned it.

Got home, weighed again, just for badness. I'd put at least a couple of pounds of food into my system at breakfast, plus coffee, plus water, then pissed about at the gym for an hour.

I'd lost a half-pound. 17st 9.5 - up just a notional pound and a quarter on last week.

Booooooring!

The Uphill Continuance

See - the bread, as d so rightly said, is not my friend - blood this morning was 7.8.

It's allegedly the Duke of Wellington who said that next to a battle lost, there was nothing so terrible as a battle won. Well I am here to tell you that next to a moany old hatchet-faced git of a relative, there's nothing quite as abominable as a relative brimming with bounciness and vigour and unbridled enthusiasm for the day.

Which is why, having slept almost entirely through my alarm this morning, Ma's enthusiasm for walking around the lake until we were literally blue in the face (damn cold, this week) was...challenging.

Oh also, note to self - remind me to slap my uncle in the face next time I see him...damn, that's supposed to be tomorrow for the gym...alright well maybe not slap him in the face, but at least be surly and miserable to the bugger - last time he was up at Ma's he suggested to her that rather than doing endless revolutions of the lake itself, we should stride out manfully and indeed womanfully into the wider expanses of the park - almost all of which, like almost all of everything in my town, involves almost impossible stretches of uphill.

"Unnff..." I said this morning. "How many revolutions d'you wanna do this morning? Three?"
"More than three!" beamed Ma, with the kind of determination to take the day by the scruff of the neck and throttle it that has quelled stronger men than me.
"Four?" I asked.
"Four and we'll see," she said, then, remembering my uncle's words, she had a visible brainwave.
"How about three, and then up and round the park, and then our fourth one?"
"Greeeeeat..." I unashamedly lied, and we set off. We did the three primary revolutions, and then It loomed. The Uphill Continuance.
"Right," said Ma, striding forward as if Cerberus, the guardian of the underworld, had been keeping her up at night with his howling and she was going to smack him on the noses with a rolled-up newspaper. "On we go...Upward!"

And on we went...upward. I treid not to whinge, honestly I did, but by the end of the apparently never-ending upness, followed by the fourth ungodly revolution, I was fit for nothing.
"There we are," she said as we got back to the car. "That was bracing, wasn't it?"
I grinned. It was largely rictus.

The rest of the day, spent at her place, has been spent in a blue of work of four different sorts, one after the other. The food consumption today hasn't been particularly good - a faux-healthy cooked breakfast, soup and some bread for lunch, a snack of fruit and low-fat yoghurt. On the potential upside, I felt so stuffed by the time I came home, I genuinely haven't felt like anything to eat tonight at all - and I still don't. Presumably there's a lesson in there somewhere about eating earlier in the day.
Whatevs...as I belief the youth are accustomed to saying these days, since they stopped speaking English. Tomorrow is weigh-in day. I had high hopes of course at the last weigh-in that this weigh-in would see me lower and lighter. I no longer have those hopes particularly, after yesterday's breadfest.

But I haven't weighed this week on the sly at all, so tomorrow's result will be a big surprise to me whatever it is. Annnnd cue dramatic music...

The Bread Bastketcase

Blood is staying static at 6.8, it seems. Which is OK, but I really should do more exercise to boost the matabolism and push the numbers down a bit.

Especially, as it turns out, today. Did the mroning walk with Ma, and was scheduled to do the gym with my uncle at 11.30. Looking at my ridiculous list of Stuff To Do, I cancelled it.

Had a cereal breakfast, and lunch of seeded toast and a tin of cold Macaroni Cheese - yeah, I know, shurrup, it's a taste I acquired as a student, too lazy to heat things up.

That saw me through to the evening - d was on a late shift and I had a choir committee meeting to go to, so it meant either fixing food before I went, or not eating until late.

I ended up with a can of cold chicken soup - again, lazy student syndrome, or what comedian Dylan Moran refers to as "eating bread, from the bag, and dipping it in anything runnier than bread..."

When I finally got in tonight, I made d a cup of coffee, and we caught up on our days. She looked at the limp and sagging  polythene bag that contained the remnants of the loaf.
"Jesus...you went through nearly a whole loaf of bread...in a day?" she said, then came at me with comedy lobster-claws. "Too much bread, dude," she said, squidging what she kindly still refers to as my "tummy". "Bread is not your friend..."

Of course she's right. And I'd like to blame the over-consumption of wheaty goodness on the fact that we have a smartarsed four-slice toaster - seriously, it does "sardonic" in a way no other appliance we own can even dream of doing. It pops two slices up first, as though it's raising one eyebrow and saying "A...ha...and you wanna lose how much this week?" before popping the other two slices.

But the truth is, it's not the toaster's fault. It's mine. And it's mine because like the consumption of cold shit from cans, eating four slices at a time underneath the cold shit in cans is something I learned to do as a student. It was quick and monumentally simple, and it filled me up.

Annnnnnyone spot the flaw in that plan?

Note to self - dude, you haven't been a student in the longest time - get a freakin' grip on the bread basket...

The Sub-Zero Hike

Normal service has been resumed - bood was 6.8 this morning. Oddly, Ma wasnted me to test hers too, and she came out at 6.3, despite never having been diagnosed as Diabetic in any way. I offered to make it three for three, but d said "I'm not letting you stab me with that thing, I'm already in pain."

"A simple 'not this morning dear, I have a headache' wouldn've done, honey," I weak-ass-joked as Ma and I set off into what were actively sub-zero temperatures for our walk.

When we'd done the thing which isn't Twyn Hill (which I've subsequently learned is called Alma Row. I mentioned to d that I'd never remember that, and her suggestion bore all the hallmarks of Desperate Housewives addiction: "Just think of it as "Orson's mad first wife's row," she suggested, in all apparent seriousness. Cos that's easier to remember...), neither Ma nor I could breathe. The world went all spangly and sparkly - the cold was actually making it harder to breathe than normal, or so it felt.
"Maybe..." gasped Ma, "...if this bloody snow, frost....thing keeps up...we should go...a different...way."
I nodded, saving my breath to make all the pretty stars go away.

"But," said Ma as she began to be able to speak in sentences again, "we can't just be fair weather walkers..."

We're not. We're going again tomorrow morning, then I have the gym at 11.30 with my uncle. Who knew - making it a family affair was good for discipline. Maybe it's that old adage at work: the family that suffers and sweats and gasps and bitches at the world together, stays together.

That's how it goes, right?

The Chinese Exemption

Today pretty much went to pot. Forgot to test my blood before breakfast (a mouthful of gammon, couple of poached eggs, baked beans and some home fries). Simply had too much to do to spare any time for exercise, took Ma for lunch - the first place we tried was booked solid, the second was similarly packed. The third was closing two minutes after we phoned. The fourth place had a wait of 45 minutes, so we went to the fifth potential restaurant in the town. It was a Chinese buffet, and I had two platesworth of assorted carbs. Bar some fruit and yoghurt at Ma's afterward, that's it today. But it's odd - I had chips at the Chinese. Not many, admittedly, but some.
"This is about the only place left where you allow yourself those, isn't it?"
She's right. Something about the mass of assorted carbohydrates makes it seem altogether less of a leap to eat fried potatoes (though of course it should be noted, my embargo does not, in addition, appear to extend to home fries...).

I can of course only hope and not-pray that a day like today can be coped with by my otherwise generally facetious metabolism. Tomorrow, I'm taking Ma on the truncated Twyn walk, and Tuesday, am back in the gym with my uncle...And on we go, still hoping for unrealistic weight loss come Thursday.

The Self-Righteous Vibration

Annnd there it is.
Walked yesterday, and went to the gym this morning, with my aunt and uncle. Did a fair amount of calorie-burning and some muscle-work over the course of an hour and some-odd. Doing it, I felt sweaty and achey and above all, horribly self-righteous, in that "look what I did" way that makes you want to punch people like me. Hell, it makes me want to punch people like me, but there's buggerall use to this blog if I'm not going to be honest in it.

While on one machine, I spotted Gethin. Gethin's one of the GP Referral gym-bunnies, who signs you in and out and shows you how to use the kit. Naturally, I haven't seen him in a good long while.
"Duw," he said (It's Welsh for God), "haven't seen you in a while."
I did some mental mathematics and realised Gethin had actually never seen me this big. I wasn't this heavy when I started on the GP Referral scheme, and I certainly wasn't this big when I finished and qualified on it.

That'll kick your self-righteousness in the face pretty damn quick - which is probably just as well, all things considered. I explained about last year being a bit of a write-off, with Dad's illness and passing and my discipline being shot to Hell.
"Back to it now though, eh?" said Gethin.
"Aye," I agreed, grinning.
"Good man," he judged, and moved on.

Good man, I thought with self-indulgent sadness, drifting back to last September. Then I shook myself and got back to the business in hand.

I screwed my iPod headphones into both ears, and got the shock of my life. I'd chosen a little Cream to exercise to, and the bassline of "Sunshine of Your Love" vibrated in my ears.

Ears, plural.

No, I still can't "hear" in the right ear. I couldn't even "hear" the bassline. But with the headphone screwed in just right, the bassline definitely vibrated in time. Can honestly say I've never been happier to feel the bassline of Sunshine of Your Love. Maybe...just maybe...I might be able to hear the thing before too long...

The Ha! Expostulation

Has to be said: Ha!
In fact, come to that, Ha! Ha! Ha!!

Walked a kind of truncated verion of my Twyn Hill walk this morning, re-weighed when I got home - back down to 17st 8.25. That's more like it, frankly.

Meant to mention yesterday, while the Nazi Scales continue to be changeable in their loyalties, the blood testing kit is still giving me love since I changed its battery this week. Yesterday - 6.8. Today, 6.7 - both of which are within the normal ranges for a diabetic, so that's positive.

Out to the gym tomorrow morning with, of all people, my Uncle Lynn and Aunt Cynthia. Lynn's doing really well - lost a bunch of stones himself recently, to greatly improve his knee condition - he's got that thing where you wear all the bendy-goo (that's the medical term, I'm assured) in your knees away, so he's been taking advantage of the GP Referral gym membership that I used to do. Time to join him for the pain and the progress, I think. Was glad I did this morning though - as the ridiculous near-vertical of the thing that isn't actually Twyn Hill but its next-street neighbour loomed in front of me, I was tempted to just call it quits and go back home - shows how soft I've become. But instead, I ploughed on and did it. And clearly, two things need to be said.
1. Fuck me, I'm out of practice at this uphill lark.
2. I'm back, baby!

So if we take 17st 8.25 as this week's "real reading", I'm gonna try and set an unrealistic goal for next week - I'd like to get to 17st 5. May well get a "system shock" benefit if I start doing things regularly again, so let's see if the unrealistic can be achieved.

Oh and I suppose there's a third thing. I plugged my iPod in to do the walk, because the thought of doing a walk like that with just my thoughts for company was mortifying. And yes, I'm still profoundly, or rather totally, deaf in the right ear. Not a damn thing going in there.

Sigh - back to the docs a week today...and potentially Ear, Nose and Throat specialist referral, cos clearly this is not getting better in terms of hearing. Humph...

The Nazi Punch In The Face

OK, so this goes beyond playfulness.

When you've had a heavy week, you sort of know what to expect, and brace yourself accordingly.
On a week when you haven't been that bad, and have started exercising again after not having done so for a while, you don't expect miracles, but you don't expect a punch in the face - which is pretty much what I got when I stepped onto the Nazi Scales this morning.

17 stone 11.75!

That's an increase of either 2.25 pounds, 2.5 pounds, or 4.5 pounds on last week, depending on which of last week's readings you take as accurate. What's more, I snuck in a sneaky weigh a couple of mornings ago, and it had me at 17 8.25. I have not deserved to put on 3.25 pounds in the freakin' meantime.

"What gives?!" I asked the scales, rather hysterically, this morning.
"Fuck you, you never talk to us any more, just get your lardy ass on, expect us to give you some love, and put us away again. Where's the demented neurotic we used to know, who'd be on us a couple of times a day, huh? You're just phoning it in these days, so fuck you! 17 stone 11.75! See how you like them apples!"

I'm not entirely convinced, and, like all whinging gits since the dawn of time, am thinking of having a do-over tomorrow.
Am also thinking of starting back on my longish walks in the morning, weather permitting. If nothing else, they build up stamina and give me additional calories in my daily allowance before I start to "add" weight, as it were. Again, this would be a much more attractive prospect with two working ears, but still...can't wait around for that to right itself or the Nazi Scales will decide I'm 20 stone again!

Humph...

The Plumbing Postponement

The blood count today was 7.8.
Got up to go to the gym. Then there was, for one reason or another, a washing machine to shift. Once we'd done that, I opened the front door, and felt the cold and blustery wind around my knees.

"I'll go later," I said, and got on with some of my still-ridiculous To-Do List.

By "later", I actually meant after 2pm. Part of the point of moving the washing machine is that it was dead. This...was a dead...washing machine.

Its replacement was due to arrive and be fitted between 10am-2pm. And indeed, it arrived at about 11.
"Oh," said the delivery guy. "Right..." he said, looking at the connector we had. "So, connection's not gonna happen today then. Sorry sir, you need an extended pipe...and we don't have one. Need to call a plumber sir. B-bye now..."

So we had a new, alive washing machine, and no pipe to stick in it. Called our friendly neighbourhood plumber, who said he'd be here "this afternoon".

So then the afternoon became about "waiting for the plumber". Got a chunk more of To-Do List crossed off, which was useful, but didn't want to get on the bike until he'd gone, because to answer the door all sweaty and demented wouldn't have worked. So when the plumber showed up, and stayed, and stayed, I was holding out for a 20 minute gym blast at the end of it all. As it turned out, he didn't leave till nearly 5. At which point I was doing the math: Choir at 7, plus needing to do some exercise, and shower, and eat....tick tock, tick tock...Instead of the gym, I went and biked, and then did all those things on my mini-list. Then choir. Now home and pretty much ready to snore.

Ah, now - tomorrow of course is weigh-in day, but in fact may not be - going to walk with Ma first thing, and then going up to her place for the day. So there may not be a chance to fit the weigh-in...in, as it were. If not, for one week only, weigh-in day will be Friday.

The Bloody Reckoning

I really don't know what the Hell is happening to me. I trained briefly as a lawyer, and have made a living as a British journalist. So why on Earth should telling a lie have bothered me so much?

As I say, I have no answer to that. All I know is that lying to my optical photographer bothered me. I tried to test my blood last night after dinner.
"Oh, now you wanna talk to me?" said my testing kit. "Well you can just fuck off!" It humphed, turned away from me and flashed its "Abbbbbsolutely no battery left whatsoever, except the smidgen it takes to tell you this" light at me, bitterly.
"I'm sorry," I weaseled. "I'll buy you new batteries tomorrow...honest I will..." It's possible I even stroked it a little - I forget things, it means never having to take the Fifth.

Got back to walking this morning with Ma - did five revolutions of the lake, stopped off at Tescos and picked up two of the most expensive, plush, velvet-lined batteries I could find for my testing kit. Got home and slid them into place.

"Ohhhh," said the testing kit. "You old charmer you. OK, whaddayou want?"
"Wanna know my blood sugar level, please," I said. "I mean, if you're not too busy, y'know, I know it's been a while..."
The kit rolled its entirely anthropomorphic eyes at me, and said "OK, give us your thumb then..."
I pricked. I bled. The kit took a sip, ran it round its mouth and made swishing motions.
"Hmm..." it said eventually. "Not a bad little vintage. A little on the sluggish side, but all in all, I've tasted much worse from you..."
"Cool, I said. "Can you...y'know...give me a number?"
"8.0," it said after a little more consideration. I smiled. It was right. Clearly there's work to do, as this was a reading after exercise, but I was expecting a reckoning somewhere in the 20s (for the Americans here, diabetic control over here is measured between 4 and 7...ish...)

So the bloody reckoning begins again right here. Back to the gym tomorrow morning. And no, for those who are still wondering, the hearing still hasn't come back. Which remains incredibly infuriating, but I simply can't afford to not do anything any more - have to get on with things.

The Foothill Feeling

Went for retinopathy screening today. It's actually amazing to me how comfortably, and easily lying comes to me these days.
"So your diabetes, it's under control at the moment, the pills?"
"Oh yes," I said, casually. It should be clear from the fact that I haven't posted a blood reading in  the longest time that I have no idea how my diabetes is progressing in its interminable, rancid course to ultimately destroy "me". I shrugged, shoved my chin onto the rest, and got my eyeballs photographed.

Biked when I came home. d's suggestion - I couldn't work for an hour or so, as I couldn't make out letters even on my big screen. Had a fried breakfast at ASDA beforehand though, and a cereal lunch, and tonight a pasta meal, so there's been a fair amount of uphill against which to peddle today.

That's how this feels right about now. Like setting off on a long, long uphill bike ride, and being down among the foothills, with just a bike and the will to climb.

Sigh...

The Carvery Rejection

Went for a carvery lunch with Ma and d, to celebrate Ma's birthday yesterday.

Had a fairly big plate of roasted lunch, and then decided to go back for seconds.
Thankfully, there was quite a queue to get to the carvery, and during the shuffling, overheated journey there, the plateful settled in my stomach.
"What the hell am I doing?" I asked myself. "I'm just lining up for plate two because plate two is right there, available to me..."

I got out of the line and went back to the table.

I'm not sure what that says about me - or indeed if you can extrapolate anything from it. Taking something just because it's available sounds like the behaviour not of an addict but, for example, of a philanderer or a banker, but on the other hand, what is "seizing the day" if not taking whatever is there, available to you?

Bottom line, I'm not a philanderer, or a banker, and I'm sick to death of feeling like a goddamned addict. The spirit, if you'll excuse the airy-fairy expression, of this Disappearing business is not being defined by the urge to eat. Not being everything that people assume comes with being a fat fuck. Time to put down the plate again, people. Agreed with Ma to begin the walking again on Tuesday morning. From walking, to biking, to gymming, we begin again, semi-deaf or not.

Tomorrow's a weird one. Off to the health centre in the morning for diabetic retinopathy screening...which means I won't be able to see for a while. Whiiiiich is just peachy. My left ear will be my main sensory organ for a while tomorrow...Maybe I should walk sideways, left lobe to the world...

The Quiet Revolution

So - got on the bike for the first time in weeks yesterday. Today, haven't eaten a great deal - but have kept the metabolism going throughout the day with low cal snacks. This is not some grand "Right, must lose a stone this week" plan. It's more a kind of "Ahem...point of order, metabolism..." plan.

In fact, apart from dinner (spicy pork stew over noodles), probably I've had more calories as coffee today than in any other form. Had birthday coffee with Ma first thing, then went to meet my mate Lee at Costas for two buckets of pointlessness and a good solid catch-up.

Strapped my walking boots on to do all this - talk about good intentions - but by the time I'd drunk that much coffee, there was a certain degree of urgency about getting back home. Let's see whether the quiet revolution can continue and - probably more to the point - whether I can make it count come Thursday's weigh-in.

The Anniversary Depression

Happy Disappeariversary, one and all...

In other news - meh.
Two years ago today, as I recall, I started on this adventure. In the first year, I lost five and a half stone. In the second year, I basically put between two and a half and three of them back on.
Feels rotten, frankly.

This of course comes on the back of what is now two and a half weeks of being able to do no bloody exercise, thanks to this Labyrinthitis lark. Got back on the bike this morning. Felt pretty much like a sop to my conscience.

Had a St David's Day concert with the choir tonight, though couldn't sing at it, cos not being able to hear anything in one year, and having a kind of pressurised static electricity in the ear in response to loud noises really plays merry hell with your singing.Still got dressed up in the gear though. d inspected me at one point.
"Hmm," she said.
"I know," I agreed. The blazer that's part of the outfit wouldn't...quite...do up. "Something must once more be done, clearly," I said. "Something wants to be done." Time to stop fannying about, evidently, and just get the Hell back on with it. I'm not falling over any more - time to get my walking boots back on. And my gym shorts. And...Stuff...

Something else's been bugging me for a while too. When I didn't get the job at interview this week, everybody said that nevertheless my performance had "raised my profile significantly". The point, really is that I thought it was already pretty high, but clearly I've been deluding myself. And part of me wonders if part of why I don't have the profile I deserve is tied up in people's image of me.

When I was down in the 15 stone zone, I was taking clothes seriously for the first time in years, because I had options, and because things fit me, right off the shelf. Over the last year, I've pretty much drifted back to slovenliness and comfort and the dreaded sweatpants.
What's more, a couple of weeks back, when my pal Sally-Anne was pissed out of her head (in vino veritas?), she said I came across as "a lazy, miserable fucker"...
Now miserable I'm happy with - it's part of my pose as much as anything. But lazy bothered me more thn I ever thought it would. I've always cultivated that impression too (though being called lazy by a woman with one role when I currently have no fewer than seven was an interesting experience). I think I'm coming to an age when I don't particularly want to adhere to the stereotypes I've built for myself, and I think some of them are inherent in my shape and my size.
So, while tomorrow doesn't exactly see another relaunch, it does see another teeth-gritting, up-and-at'em-let's-just-DO-this re-energisation. I'm fed up of being this way...about as fed up as I was two years ago today when I decided to start this whole palaver.

Game well and truly on...