Bleurgh...
Feel physically ill at this point. Too...much...foooooooood.
Good food, don't get me wrong. Last night's Chinese, coupled with tonight's Indian, showed me there are great places to eat in this town (even if the service tonight was Victoria-Wood comical!). It's just that I'm not used to eating this much this regularly now, and I feel pretty much like the woman who's on my TV screen right now.
Which doesn't help when she's 'the world's fattest woman,' weighing in at over 74 stone, or more than half a tonne!
Must stop eating like this. Must stop soon! I can practically feel my colon begging for mercy!
Mind you, at the moment, my everything's begging for mercy, and so it d's. But that's because (fanfare please!) - we now have three bookcases built and in situ. We built two of them before going out to eat, and they went together quite quickly. The third one we built after a carb-heavy, sugar-heavy Indian meal (curse you, sweet peshwari naan!), and it was interesting to see the effect it had on us - our co-ordination was off, our ability to perform simple tasks was shot, the air was notsomuch blue as positively toxic, and the damn thing took us about two hours to screw and hammer together.
Clearly, the sugariness of the meal played a critical part in this - two diabetics, hopped up on sweetened coconut, is about the same as two healthy people on weed - mellow, giggly, staring into the middle distance for long periods, distracted, very thirsty etc etc...I guess the only difference is that at no stage in the procedutre did we feel the need to down tools and eat candy.
Also, it becomes screeeeamingly apparent that Tuesday's result is gonna be a bit of a shocker. May well have pushed myself back up to the 16 stone mark with this week of limited exercise and regular eating out. If so, y'know what, that's fine - that's the price you pay for the choices you make, I guess. But soon, dammit...soon, the fight-back begins in earnest.
I guess, when you think about it, it's all in the perspective you use, isn't it? Last time I weighed-in, I'd lost a total of 69 pounds or thereabouts. If you compare that to my pal Sian, who helped us move in here, and who's popping in tomorrow with our goddaughters (the last time we saw them was the memorable occasion in Camden Town), that's a bit more than half her body-weight! I told my pal Jake in Australia what I'd lost so far this week, and he yelped "Damn, man, that's as much as both my legs!" On the other hand, the woman on my TV screen apparently has buttocks that weigh about 120 each (amounting to roughly 240 pounds of pure ass).
So, I've either lost half a Sian, two Jake-legs or a quarter-ass of the fattest woman alive. Except of course, by the time Tuesday comes around, I probably won't have.
But I will have an office I can use, probably for the first time - Awoohoo!
Saturday, 14 January 2012
Prepare the Urban Workout
Ok fine, so score one for the Old Biddy. Woke up at 7 this morning, felt an ache in my hips and thought "Sod it, she can have the lake to herself," then snored some more.
Blood was 4.6 this morning, despite having reduced by one pill and taken onboard some inadvisable late-night carbs last night. So - that seems to work - will continue with the reduced pillage and see what happens.
Did buggerall but work most of the day, and had a great night out with Lee and Rebecca. First time I've seen Rebecca since we came home, and it was pleasingly positive - she kept saying she could see the difference in me and yadda yadda yadda. Did I mention, my friends are fab?
Sadly, made the mistake of a 'mid-week weigh' this morning. Not good, not even remotely. And then we met up tonight for - guess what? - Chinese buffet. And tomorrow night we're out with Ma at one of the only Indian restaurants in this town. So the ahcnces of pulling off a weigh-day upset are looking fairly miniscule...
I know, I know, you've heard this all before and then something goes right. Might this time too, but am not counting on it. By the end of January though, goddammit it, I will have broken the five-stone barrier. This weekend is not about walking my ass off, it's about working my ass of - getting the office set up, and finding that freakin' power cord to the bike! My aim - which d, being the family realist, says is hopelessly ambitious - is to have the office habitable as an office by the end of Sunday. So - lots of toting, shifting, building, re-shifting, the occasional burst of alphabetising...just because...and the like.
Can we say: Urban Workout?
Blood was 4.6 this morning, despite having reduced by one pill and taken onboard some inadvisable late-night carbs last night. So - that seems to work - will continue with the reduced pillage and see what happens.
Did buggerall but work most of the day, and had a great night out with Lee and Rebecca. First time I've seen Rebecca since we came home, and it was pleasingly positive - she kept saying she could see the difference in me and yadda yadda yadda. Did I mention, my friends are fab?
Sadly, made the mistake of a 'mid-week weigh' this morning. Not good, not even remotely. And then we met up tonight for - guess what? - Chinese buffet. And tomorrow night we're out with Ma at one of the only Indian restaurants in this town. So the ahcnces of pulling off a weigh-day upset are looking fairly miniscule...
I know, I know, you've heard this all before and then something goes right. Might this time too, but am not counting on it. By the end of January though, goddammit it, I will have broken the five-stone barrier. This weekend is not about walking my ass off, it's about working my ass of - getting the office set up, and finding that freakin' power cord to the bike! My aim - which d, being the family realist, says is hopelessly ambitious - is to have the office habitable as an office by the end of Sunday. So - lots of toting, shifting, building, re-shifting, the occasional burst of alphabetising...just because...and the like.
Can we say: Urban Workout?
Thursday, 12 January 2012
Orbits
Blood was 3.8 this morning - danger-zoney low. I think tonight I'll only take one of my two remaining pills, and see what happens to the numbers tomorrow.
Got up around seven this morning and left d in bed. I walked up to our local park - Cyfarthfa (don't try and pronounce that unless you're Welsh, you'll sprain at least one vital tongue muscle) - and spent an hour or so walking around its lake. Ma reckons that once around the lake is half-a-mile. I have my doubts that it's quite that far, but it's no pushover either. When I arrived, at 7.23, I was the only walker in the place and it was very dark, the idea of dawn coming slowly in the Valleys, because the Sun has to filter down the slopes to get to us.
After I'd done a couple of laps, I passed a doughty older woman with an umbrella, going in the opposite direction. She nodded to me, I tipped my hat to her and on we went, like atoms circling the centre of the lake, each in our own orbit. We went round another couple of times, tipping hats and nodding and even occasionally sharing a smile or a word. I didn't want to make her feel obliged to say anything to me though, so I kind of deliberately snubbed her once, and then felt like a mean metropolitan bastard for snubbing a woman who'd been perfectly nice to me at every opportunity afforded her by the limited and frankly bizarre nature of our relationship so far. So then - being British - I had to over-compensate and be extra smiley to her on the next trip round. In fact, I started smiling when I saw her coming round the bend, a couple of hundred yards away. And I had to keep it up until she drew close enough to interpret the smile.
Nothing! She blanked me! Clearly, she'd thought we were developing a nice, civilised, hat-tipping, head-nodding, ships-passing-in-the-night kind of relationship, and then wallop! I'd dropped my eyes, I'd broken the social contract between us, and now she was gonna make me suffer for it.
I was still reeling from that when a man with a dog overtook me. I was taken aback. It was like:
"Hold on a minute - where the fuck did he come from?"
I'd gotten so used to the rotational nature of my morning so far, crossing the path of the older woman at two specific points for every lap, it was as if my brain couldn't cope with the idea of any extra variables.
So now there were three of us, plus the dog. Two of us and the dog were going one way round the lake, the older woman who's just dealt me the social death-blow was going the other - clearly, she was the rebel. Right, I thought...Two and a dog onto one...
But, sad as I know this is, another thought bubbled up through my clueless brain...
"I've just got to lap this bastard with the dog once before we take out the old lady. I've got seniority here, pal, you can't come swanning in with your four-legged friend and just own the lake!"
So I did - I put on a burst of speed, passed him once - no acknowledgement, not yet - we're not brothers in arms till you see me next, alright? I passed the old woman again, and this time she smiled!
Fuck! Now I had no idea how to play the social dynamic at all. I returned the smile, thinking "just you wait, grandma, I've got a bastard with a dog on my side of the cycle..."
I hadn't gone more than fifty paces beyond her, and had yet to catch Man With Dog, when a whole new variable entered the scenario. Bigger Man With Fuck-Off Enormous Dog! Going the old biddy's way! Sonofabitch! I sang at him. I don't know why - partly a panic reaction, partly defending my diminishing territory, I think. It probably wouldn't have been quite so weird if the song on my iPod at the time hadn't been The Addams Family Theme.
You've probably never had a fat bloke in a damp hat suddenly sing "They're CREEPy and they're kooky!" at you for no discernible reason while you're out walking your dog, I shouldn't think, but try and imagine you have and picture the look of consternation that would cross your face. Then double it. More importantly, try and imagine the look that would cross your dog's face, in apparent contravention of biological possibility, in those circumstances. The dog might have been big, but clearly it was a wuss-ass. It nearly fell in the lake. Anyhow, I didn't have time to think about them right now - I had Original Man With Original Dog to catch. I didn't exactly run, but I did put on one of those camp-as-tits competitive-walker wiggles, cutting a corner or two to catch him on the back straight. Of course to do that, I had to cross the Brolley Nazi's path once more.
"Windy, isn't it?" she said, with offensive cheerfulness.
"Ah, fuck off Grandma!" - I didn't say it, but the monologue was coursing in my head. I may, just possibly, have clicked my fingers at her, twice, in time with the Addams Family, the details are a little blurred now. But did I catch Original Man With Original Dog? - Fuck yes! I'm not an obsessive, scary dickhead for nothing, you know. I actually slowed down once I knew 'victory' was assured, so I could sing all the way up to him, and at him, and past him. We'd moved on to the Mad About You theme by that point, so he heard me first.
"Tell me why-" I demanded, at least vaguely in tune. "-I love you like I do!"
He looked round, but didn't quite know what to make of this new addition to his day.
"Tell me whoooo!" I sang as I passed him, "can stop my heart as much as you..." And off I went.
I encountered Big Man With Big Dog again of course. I didn't say that Original Man With Original Dog had challenged him to a fight, but you can do a lot with a tilt of the head and an eyebrow when people are watching your every move in case you suddenly sing at them again. And then finally, I encountered the Old Biddy again.
"That's me for today, I think," I said to her cheerfully. I think she got the message.
"You and me - same time, same place tomorrow, bitch - I've got my eye on you..."
It's entirely possible I should 'get out more.' But then again, on the basis of what I've just revealed to you, it's equally possible I should stay the Hell indoors for the safety of myself and others.
Bookshelves for the office arrive tomorrow. Absolutely nowhere productive to put them at the moment. So...that'll be Interesting...
Got up around seven this morning and left d in bed. I walked up to our local park - Cyfarthfa (don't try and pronounce that unless you're Welsh, you'll sprain at least one vital tongue muscle) - and spent an hour or so walking around its lake. Ma reckons that once around the lake is half-a-mile. I have my doubts that it's quite that far, but it's no pushover either. When I arrived, at 7.23, I was the only walker in the place and it was very dark, the idea of dawn coming slowly in the Valleys, because the Sun has to filter down the slopes to get to us.
After I'd done a couple of laps, I passed a doughty older woman with an umbrella, going in the opposite direction. She nodded to me, I tipped my hat to her and on we went, like atoms circling the centre of the lake, each in our own orbit. We went round another couple of times, tipping hats and nodding and even occasionally sharing a smile or a word. I didn't want to make her feel obliged to say anything to me though, so I kind of deliberately snubbed her once, and then felt like a mean metropolitan bastard for snubbing a woman who'd been perfectly nice to me at every opportunity afforded her by the limited and frankly bizarre nature of our relationship so far. So then - being British - I had to over-compensate and be extra smiley to her on the next trip round. In fact, I started smiling when I saw her coming round the bend, a couple of hundred yards away. And I had to keep it up until she drew close enough to interpret the smile.
Nothing! She blanked me! Clearly, she'd thought we were developing a nice, civilised, hat-tipping, head-nodding, ships-passing-in-the-night kind of relationship, and then wallop! I'd dropped my eyes, I'd broken the social contract between us, and now she was gonna make me suffer for it.
I was still reeling from that when a man with a dog overtook me. I was taken aback. It was like:
"Hold on a minute - where the fuck did he come from?"
I'd gotten so used to the rotational nature of my morning so far, crossing the path of the older woman at two specific points for every lap, it was as if my brain couldn't cope with the idea of any extra variables.
So now there were three of us, plus the dog. Two of us and the dog were going one way round the lake, the older woman who's just dealt me the social death-blow was going the other - clearly, she was the rebel. Right, I thought...Two and a dog onto one...
But, sad as I know this is, another thought bubbled up through my clueless brain...
"I've just got to lap this bastard with the dog once before we take out the old lady. I've got seniority here, pal, you can't come swanning in with your four-legged friend and just own the lake!"
So I did - I put on a burst of speed, passed him once - no acknowledgement, not yet - we're not brothers in arms till you see me next, alright? I passed the old woman again, and this time she smiled!
Fuck! Now I had no idea how to play the social dynamic at all. I returned the smile, thinking "just you wait, grandma, I've got a bastard with a dog on my side of the cycle..."
I hadn't gone more than fifty paces beyond her, and had yet to catch Man With Dog, when a whole new variable entered the scenario. Bigger Man With Fuck-Off Enormous Dog! Going the old biddy's way! Sonofabitch! I sang at him. I don't know why - partly a panic reaction, partly defending my diminishing territory, I think. It probably wouldn't have been quite so weird if the song on my iPod at the time hadn't been The Addams Family Theme.
You've probably never had a fat bloke in a damp hat suddenly sing "They're CREEPy and they're kooky!" at you for no discernible reason while you're out walking your dog, I shouldn't think, but try and imagine you have and picture the look of consternation that would cross your face. Then double it. More importantly, try and imagine the look that would cross your dog's face, in apparent contravention of biological possibility, in those circumstances. The dog might have been big, but clearly it was a wuss-ass. It nearly fell in the lake. Anyhow, I didn't have time to think about them right now - I had Original Man With Original Dog to catch. I didn't exactly run, but I did put on one of those camp-as-tits competitive-walker wiggles, cutting a corner or two to catch him on the back straight. Of course to do that, I had to cross the Brolley Nazi's path once more.
"Windy, isn't it?" she said, with offensive cheerfulness.
"Ah, fuck off Grandma!" - I didn't say it, but the monologue was coursing in my head. I may, just possibly, have clicked my fingers at her, twice, in time with the Addams Family, the details are a little blurred now. But did I catch Original Man With Original Dog? - Fuck yes! I'm not an obsessive, scary dickhead for nothing, you know. I actually slowed down once I knew 'victory' was assured, so I could sing all the way up to him, and at him, and past him. We'd moved on to the Mad About You theme by that point, so he heard me first.
"Tell me why-" I demanded, at least vaguely in tune. "-I love you like I do!"
He looked round, but didn't quite know what to make of this new addition to his day.
"Tell me whoooo!" I sang as I passed him, "can stop my heart as much as you..." And off I went.
I encountered Big Man With Big Dog again of course. I didn't say that Original Man With Original Dog had challenged him to a fight, but you can do a lot with a tilt of the head and an eyebrow when people are watching your every move in case you suddenly sing at them again. And then finally, I encountered the Old Biddy again.
"That's me for today, I think," I said to her cheerfully. I think she got the message.
"You and me - same time, same place tomorrow, bitch - I've got my eye on you..."
It's entirely possible I should 'get out more.' But then again, on the basis of what I've just revealed to you, it's equally possible I should stay the Hell indoors for the safety of myself and others.
Bookshelves for the office arrive tomorrow. Absolutely nowhere productive to put them at the moment. So...that'll be Interesting...
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
Dressing For Dinner
Blood this morning was 4.4 - blood control still being good, clearly, despite the rest of me being bad (neither of us could be arsed with the 'eating at home' thing last night, so popped out to the Chinese Buffet again). Today has been largely sedentary (bike cord still in hiding, dammit!), but on the upside - PAYDAY!!!
Payday meant we were able to take our GP referral forms over to the gym tonight.
"Right," said the chunky lad behind the counter. "What this means is you'll go on the programme..."
He said this with the kind of emphasis that meant it should have been "The Programme" - some vast govenrment conspiracy to wipe out Fat Fucks or chemically sterilise us or somesuch.
"The Programme?" I asked, unconsciously capitalising.
"Yeah," he said. "The Programme," he acknowledged my emphasis. "That means you agree to attend two classes a week for sixteen weeks. At the end of the sixteen weeks, you'll be assessed, and if you're accepted, you'll get your membership for half price."
"Rrrright," we said, hanging on to comprehension by our fingernails.
""Here's a list of our classes," he said. "All the ones for GP Referral are marked."
Again, he kind of made that sound like we'd have special third-hand State-owned gym clothes with embroided burger-badges on them to mark us out for death by aerobics, or at the very least social ridicule. Not so much "Unclean!" as "Unfittttt!"
"OK," we said. "And, erm..."
"They'll call you next week," he explained. "They'll arrange your classes with you."
"Right," we said. It was only as we were walking out the door, having gotten so close to the gym and yet remaining so far from its exercisey goodness, that the questions arose in us.
"After sixteen weeks, is the assesment to find out if we're fit enough to be allowed in the gym, or unfit enough to qualify for government assistance?" I asked d. She shrugged.
"Guess we'll find out in sixteen weeks," she said.
"Dinner?" I asked - as it happens, the gym/leisure centre is surrounded by restaurants, and we have a payday tradition of going for a celebratory meal, in honour of having survived for another month(!).
"Dinner," d agreed. We decided on a local Harvester, and went in. d's vaguely in love with the Harvester, because they have an unlimited salad bar and an apparently unending supply of dressings. Equally, she's irritated with Pizza Hut, because they have an apparently killer honey mustard dressing, but are always out of the damn stuff.
We had our meal - including several mini bowlfuls of salad for d - and then she brought me a plate.
An almost entirely empty plate.
Now, those of you who've been with this blog from the start will remember my anti-mayo rant. This was actually merely symptomatic of a loathing for all dressings. Blue cheese - I don't think so. Honey mustard - nice enough in their own worlds, but why you'd mess with them and add the stuff of dressings is beyond me. Thousand Island - get to fuck!
There was dressing on the plate.
"Try it," she said. "I think you'll like it..."
Now, as it happens, there's probably never been a better time to try a line like that on me. I'm undergoing a bizarre period of personal growth, determined to shake off some of my own cynicism, my own pre-conceptions of 'what I do', and 'what I like'. I sprung this on d last night at the Chinese Buffet - she's had a long-standing aim to get me to go horse riding and I'v refused because a) I was officially too heavy for most riding schools, and b) horses are the devil's children, and they know what they're about. But as part of this new spirit of finding new Stuff to be into, I said I'd go riding with her if she wanted. What was probably more - what, in fact, made her clamp her hand to her mouth and say "Really??" three times, as if I was ill, I agreed to go golfing with her. Golf, here in the UK, is the pursuit of the middle-class and higher, and I'm resolutely working class (or even slacker class, given half a chance), so I've categorically said I will never 'betray my roots' and play golf. I say shit like that, hoping to come off all Che Guevarra, and instead coming off all 'wanky tosspiece'. So last night, I told her if she wanted to play golf, I would play golf with her.
The dressing sat on the plate - all red and suspicious. I looked into d's eyes, and figured "Ah, screw it," and dipped in a finger.
"Yum!" I said.
"Yay!" said d. "Now if I could just get you to have some on a bit of lettuce..."
I'm not about to let a challenge like that go unanswered. I got up, got a single piece of lettuce, a single miniscule cube of beetroot, some onion flakes, and a dribble of dressing on a plate, came back and consumed them in one bite.
"Yay!" said d again. "The first salad of 2012!"
Hadn't thought of it like that, but she's right. Look at me, I eat dressing now...
Part of this whole new spirit is to Do More Stuff Together - this being a crucial part of the work-from-Wales plan, and so, dear reader, you find me perched on a stool in my darling's kitchen, as she prepares a chicken and leek pie for tomorrow, and as, together, we've pootled about with our brand new, seriously kick-ass soup maker, making leek and potato soup. Seems to work. Seems to promise the potential to make my own freakin' lunch in future. Seems like a good new plan...
Payday meant we were able to take our GP referral forms over to the gym tonight.
"Right," said the chunky lad behind the counter. "What this means is you'll go on the programme..."
He said this with the kind of emphasis that meant it should have been "The Programme" - some vast govenrment conspiracy to wipe out Fat Fucks or chemically sterilise us or somesuch.
"The Programme?" I asked, unconsciously capitalising.
"Yeah," he said. "The Programme," he acknowledged my emphasis. "That means you agree to attend two classes a week for sixteen weeks. At the end of the sixteen weeks, you'll be assessed, and if you're accepted, you'll get your membership for half price."
"Rrrright," we said, hanging on to comprehension by our fingernails.
""Here's a list of our classes," he said. "All the ones for GP Referral are marked."
Again, he kind of made that sound like we'd have special third-hand State-owned gym clothes with embroided burger-badges on them to mark us out for death by aerobics, or at the very least social ridicule. Not so much "Unclean!" as "Unfittttt!"
"OK," we said. "And, erm..."
"They'll call you next week," he explained. "They'll arrange your classes with you."
"Right," we said. It was only as we were walking out the door, having gotten so close to the gym and yet remaining so far from its exercisey goodness, that the questions arose in us.
"After sixteen weeks, is the assesment to find out if we're fit enough to be allowed in the gym, or unfit enough to qualify for government assistance?" I asked d. She shrugged.
"Guess we'll find out in sixteen weeks," she said.
"Dinner?" I asked - as it happens, the gym/leisure centre is surrounded by restaurants, and we have a payday tradition of going for a celebratory meal, in honour of having survived for another month(!).
"Dinner," d agreed. We decided on a local Harvester, and went in. d's vaguely in love with the Harvester, because they have an unlimited salad bar and an apparently unending supply of dressings. Equally, she's irritated with Pizza Hut, because they have an apparently killer honey mustard dressing, but are always out of the damn stuff.
We had our meal - including several mini bowlfuls of salad for d - and then she brought me a plate.
An almost entirely empty plate.
Now, those of you who've been with this blog from the start will remember my anti-mayo rant. This was actually merely symptomatic of a loathing for all dressings. Blue cheese - I don't think so. Honey mustard - nice enough in their own worlds, but why you'd mess with them and add the stuff of dressings is beyond me. Thousand Island - get to fuck!
There was dressing on the plate.
"Try it," she said. "I think you'll like it..."
Now, as it happens, there's probably never been a better time to try a line like that on me. I'm undergoing a bizarre period of personal growth, determined to shake off some of my own cynicism, my own pre-conceptions of 'what I do', and 'what I like'. I sprung this on d last night at the Chinese Buffet - she's had a long-standing aim to get me to go horse riding and I'v refused because a) I was officially too heavy for most riding schools, and b) horses are the devil's children, and they know what they're about. But as part of this new spirit of finding new Stuff to be into, I said I'd go riding with her if she wanted. What was probably more - what, in fact, made her clamp her hand to her mouth and say "Really??" three times, as if I was ill, I agreed to go golfing with her. Golf, here in the UK, is the pursuit of the middle-class and higher, and I'm resolutely working class (or even slacker class, given half a chance), so I've categorically said I will never 'betray my roots' and play golf. I say shit like that, hoping to come off all Che Guevarra, and instead coming off all 'wanky tosspiece'. So last night, I told her if she wanted to play golf, I would play golf with her.
The dressing sat on the plate - all red and suspicious. I looked into d's eyes, and figured "Ah, screw it," and dipped in a finger.
"Yum!" I said.
"Yay!" said d. "Now if I could just get you to have some on a bit of lettuce..."
I'm not about to let a challenge like that go unanswered. I got up, got a single piece of lettuce, a single miniscule cube of beetroot, some onion flakes, and a dribble of dressing on a plate, came back and consumed them in one bite.
"Yay!" said d again. "The first salad of 2012!"
Hadn't thought of it like that, but she's right. Look at me, I eat dressing now...
Part of this whole new spirit is to Do More Stuff Together - this being a crucial part of the work-from-Wales plan, and so, dear reader, you find me perched on a stool in my darling's kitchen, as she prepares a chicken and leek pie for tomorrow, and as, together, we've pootled about with our brand new, seriously kick-ass soup maker, making leek and potato soup. Seems to work. Seems to promise the potential to make my own freakin' lunch in future. Seems like a good new plan...
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
Before Breakfast
There's a fragment of a saying of which I'm fond - "...before breakfast." Think it originates in Valleys fighting-talk - "I've fought bigger than you before breakfast".
This morning, we got seemingly quite a lot done before breakfast - popped along to register with our new doctor - delightfully straightforward, if I'm honest. She saw us together, went through our meds, gave us details to book appointments with the diabetic nurse and, in d's case, the asthma nurse. She also quickly filled in forms for our gym referrals, so yay! Not sure how much we'll save on our memberships now, but will toddle along after work today and find the Hell out, frankly.
Then we went up to the local Job Centre - spoke to a very friendly guy with more than a little of Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons about him, and he gave us details to help d with her jobseeking now she's here, and also, possibly, to help me with something called tax credit. People-who-don't-know-what-tax-credit-is-say-'pa-huh?' No idea, frankly, but will investigate today.
Went down to our local McDonalds for breakfast - hey, I have my corporate addiction to Starbucks, d was starting to Jones and froth at the mouth for a McDonalds breakfast! But it feels like we ticked a lot of boxes this morning before our first calories hit the system. Look at us, we're Doing Stuff...
And could soon be doing even more. Rabidly addicted Disappearing Fans (see what I did there), if any such creature existed, would probably recall that way back in the first couple of entries, I said I wouldn't run, and I wouldn't play badminton, because of the potential impact on my left ankle, which is full of metal from a mugging fifteen years ago. However, Karen Pulley sent me a text yesterday afternoon. I'd been awake for a faintly ridiculous number of hours by then, and was on a bus heading back to the Valleys.
"Have you ever played badminton?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Shedloads when I was younger. It was how I lost all my weight the first time. Why?"
"Cos I'm interested in playing some," she explained. Said I'd check with the doc today, but that I was well up for it, and so was d.
This morning, I broached the subject with the new doc.
"Would I be OK to do potentially high-impact stuff like badminton?" I said.
She looked at me as though I'd asked whether it'd be ok to wrestle aliens in custard.
"Yeah, of course...could do with the exercise," she said, and moved right the Hell along. So this is me, and this is d, preparing to shuttle cocks, or cock shuttles or whatever the Hell you do - I said I'd played a lot, but it was further back than my memory currently extends, dammit! If we keep this up, we might even wear sweatbands with no sense of irony...
Y'know, I'd like to say that'd never happen, but recently, every time I say something will never happen, it happens almost immediately and with a vengeance, as if to prove to me I have absolutely no idea what the Hell I'm talking about. Which of course should be clear to anyone reading this blog.
Oh wait - Tuesday! You'll be wanting your weigh-in figures, won't you? Well, I still haven't cracked the five stone barrier, but I am slowly inching my way there.
15 stone 8.75 this morning. All of 0.75 lighter than I was this time last week. That said, given that we've had the decadent couple of days in Cardiff for d's birthday this week, this is positively ridiculously good progress from my point of view, so notsomuch on the weeping and wailing and woe-is-meing. 1.25 pounds - should be able to crack that in the week we join the gym, right? Hell, should be able to do that before breakfast tomorrow...
This morning, we got seemingly quite a lot done before breakfast - popped along to register with our new doctor - delightfully straightforward, if I'm honest. She saw us together, went through our meds, gave us details to book appointments with the diabetic nurse and, in d's case, the asthma nurse. She also quickly filled in forms for our gym referrals, so yay! Not sure how much we'll save on our memberships now, but will toddle along after work today and find the Hell out, frankly.
Then we went up to the local Job Centre - spoke to a very friendly guy with more than a little of Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons about him, and he gave us details to help d with her jobseeking now she's here, and also, possibly, to help me with something called tax credit. People-who-don't-know-what-tax-credit-is-say-'pa-huh?' No idea, frankly, but will investigate today.
Went down to our local McDonalds for breakfast - hey, I have my corporate addiction to Starbucks, d was starting to Jones and froth at the mouth for a McDonalds breakfast! But it feels like we ticked a lot of boxes this morning before our first calories hit the system. Look at us, we're Doing Stuff...
And could soon be doing even more. Rabidly addicted Disappearing Fans (see what I did there), if any such creature existed, would probably recall that way back in the first couple of entries, I said I wouldn't run, and I wouldn't play badminton, because of the potential impact on my left ankle, which is full of metal from a mugging fifteen years ago. However, Karen Pulley sent me a text yesterday afternoon. I'd been awake for a faintly ridiculous number of hours by then, and was on a bus heading back to the Valleys.
"Have you ever played badminton?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Shedloads when I was younger. It was how I lost all my weight the first time. Why?"
"Cos I'm interested in playing some," she explained. Said I'd check with the doc today, but that I was well up for it, and so was d.
This morning, I broached the subject with the new doc.
"Would I be OK to do potentially high-impact stuff like badminton?" I said.
She looked at me as though I'd asked whether it'd be ok to wrestle aliens in custard.
"Yeah, of course...could do with the exercise," she said, and moved right the Hell along. So this is me, and this is d, preparing to shuttle cocks, or cock shuttles or whatever the Hell you do - I said I'd played a lot, but it was further back than my memory currently extends, dammit! If we keep this up, we might even wear sweatbands with no sense of irony...
Y'know, I'd like to say that'd never happen, but recently, every time I say something will never happen, it happens almost immediately and with a vengeance, as if to prove to me I have absolutely no idea what the Hell I'm talking about. Which of course should be clear to anyone reading this blog.
Oh wait - Tuesday! You'll be wanting your weigh-in figures, won't you? Well, I still haven't cracked the five stone barrier, but I am slowly inching my way there.
15 stone 8.75 this morning. All of 0.75 lighter than I was this time last week. That said, given that we've had the decadent couple of days in Cardiff for d's birthday this week, this is positively ridiculously good progress from my point of view, so notsomuch on the weeping and wailing and woe-is-meing. 1.25 pounds - should be able to crack that in the week we join the gym, right? Hell, should be able to do that before breakfast tomorrow...
Monday, 9 January 2012
The Hunt
Y'know, some days, some things are just not meant to be...
Of course, the good thing about being an atheist is that you probably don't believe in things not being 'meant to be', so you persevere with the stubbornness of a whack upside the head, and end up getting what you want eventually.
This was, as I've been whinging about for a week now, the first uber-commute day. As I write this, I've been up for twelve hours, and I'm feeling fine. We'll have to see how I feel by the time I get home in about another six and a half, I guess...
The cabbie turned up promptly at 05.15 this morning, and we had a good laugh all the way down to Cardiff. I learned one lesson from this morning - do not eat hot buttered toast at 5 in the morning if you have a longish commute ahead of you - by Cardiff, we were at the dearly beloved 'meaningful fart' stage, and I stole use of the bathrooms on platform 2 of Cardiff Central train station to change wodges before meaningful became disastrous. Still, after that, my system was relatively well behaved all the way to London.
Did I mention there are no Starbucks in Merthyr?
We passed one on the final approach to Victoria Coach Station this morning, and the world of sugar-free, low-fat, decaffeinated pointlessness shimmered before my eyes. I determined to find my way back to the Starbucks we'd passed.
Then a nasty little conscientious voice whispered in my ear:
"If you do that, you'll be late..."
As it happens, I was already later than I'd hoped, due in large part to the Hammersmith Flyover being, as I think they say in technical circles, 'well and truly fucked.' So I forsook the dream of frothy pointlessness and walked on determinedly, actually finding my way to Knightsbridge without any hint of hassle. From a previous lost-getting adventure, I knew there was another Starbucks somewhere around Harrods, but the whisper came back and kicked me in the earhole:
"Late...late and lost, in all probability...on the first day..."
I stiffened my resolve (which I'm reliably informed is not the euphemism it sounds like) and walked on to the office.
Lunchtime came...shortly after my arrival, really speaking. It was probably taking the piss a little to leave the office, but I couldn't resist it - I walked down the Exhibition Road to where I knew there was a Starbucks by South Kensington station. I walked in, gave my order, was just about to hand over my money for my bucket of pointlessness, when there was a bang. And a kerfuffle.
Their milk frother had apparently given up the ghost and died. The guy behind the counter said the closest Starbucks that wasn't the one in which we were standing was at Sloane Square. Fuck that - unfamiliar territory. So I walked back up the Exhibition Road and down Kensington High Street, to another stalwart of my London years. And finally, there, I got myself the frothy wonder, the vision of which had sustained me all morning.
Meh.
It was OK, and I drank it down greedily enough, but somehow I couldn't shake the feeling it wasn't quite as good as the stuff we can now brew up in our own kitchen in our little jewel-box by the Taff...
Tomorrow of course is Tuesday - weigh-in day. It's also 'sign on with a new doctor and try and persuade them to save us money on our gym memberships' day. Wednesday, I'm told, is pay day, which means it's also 'join the gym by hook or by crook' day. Still haven't found the power cord to the exercise bike...it's sitting there, sulking at me again, piled with office detritus. You can almost hear the violin in its vicinity.
'Nobody knows the trouble I've seen...." it seems to croon, endlessly to itself, bereft of sweaty ass to ride it, and aching legs to push it on in its never-ending journey to nowhere. Hopefully though, payday also will mean that Saturday is 'haul a bunch of bookcases into the office' day, which should see the infrastructure of that room completed and the last of its boxes removed. If the cord doesn't then make itself known to us, it might be time to take drastic measures and Send Off For A New One...
Oh, little tweak of the nipples of joy last night - managed to touch my toes, for the first time....I think, ever. Not, of course, from a standing position - I simply don't think my body is evolved to do such a thing, or rather, it is evolved to let me touch my toes....by the provision of knees. But sitting in the bath, I discovered that I was touching my toes with just a little knee-bend. I straightened up and managed to still do it. True, I think I felt something snap in my shoulder as a result, but hey - progress is pain, people...
Which reminds me - nearly time to get the hell out of here and start the return commute...
Of course, the good thing about being an atheist is that you probably don't believe in things not being 'meant to be', so you persevere with the stubbornness of a whack upside the head, and end up getting what you want eventually.
This was, as I've been whinging about for a week now, the first uber-commute day. As I write this, I've been up for twelve hours, and I'm feeling fine. We'll have to see how I feel by the time I get home in about another six and a half, I guess...
The cabbie turned up promptly at 05.15 this morning, and we had a good laugh all the way down to Cardiff. I learned one lesson from this morning - do not eat hot buttered toast at 5 in the morning if you have a longish commute ahead of you - by Cardiff, we were at the dearly beloved 'meaningful fart' stage, and I stole use of the bathrooms on platform 2 of Cardiff Central train station to change wodges before meaningful became disastrous. Still, after that, my system was relatively well behaved all the way to London.
Did I mention there are no Starbucks in Merthyr?
We passed one on the final approach to Victoria Coach Station this morning, and the world of sugar-free, low-fat, decaffeinated pointlessness shimmered before my eyes. I determined to find my way back to the Starbucks we'd passed.
Then a nasty little conscientious voice whispered in my ear:
"If you do that, you'll be late..."
As it happens, I was already later than I'd hoped, due in large part to the Hammersmith Flyover being, as I think they say in technical circles, 'well and truly fucked.' So I forsook the dream of frothy pointlessness and walked on determinedly, actually finding my way to Knightsbridge without any hint of hassle. From a previous lost-getting adventure, I knew there was another Starbucks somewhere around Harrods, but the whisper came back and kicked me in the earhole:
"Late...late and lost, in all probability...on the first day..."
I stiffened my resolve (which I'm reliably informed is not the euphemism it sounds like) and walked on to the office.
Lunchtime came...shortly after my arrival, really speaking. It was probably taking the piss a little to leave the office, but I couldn't resist it - I walked down the Exhibition Road to where I knew there was a Starbucks by South Kensington station. I walked in, gave my order, was just about to hand over my money for my bucket of pointlessness, when there was a bang. And a kerfuffle.
Their milk frother had apparently given up the ghost and died. The guy behind the counter said the closest Starbucks that wasn't the one in which we were standing was at Sloane Square. Fuck that - unfamiliar territory. So I walked back up the Exhibition Road and down Kensington High Street, to another stalwart of my London years. And finally, there, I got myself the frothy wonder, the vision of which had sustained me all morning.
Meh.
It was OK, and I drank it down greedily enough, but somehow I couldn't shake the feeling it wasn't quite as good as the stuff we can now brew up in our own kitchen in our little jewel-box by the Taff...
Tomorrow of course is Tuesday - weigh-in day. It's also 'sign on with a new doctor and try and persuade them to save us money on our gym memberships' day. Wednesday, I'm told, is pay day, which means it's also 'join the gym by hook or by crook' day. Still haven't found the power cord to the exercise bike...it's sitting there, sulking at me again, piled with office detritus. You can almost hear the violin in its vicinity.
'Nobody knows the trouble I've seen...." it seems to croon, endlessly to itself, bereft of sweaty ass to ride it, and aching legs to push it on in its never-ending journey to nowhere. Hopefully though, payday also will mean that Saturday is 'haul a bunch of bookcases into the office' day, which should see the infrastructure of that room completed and the last of its boxes removed. If the cord doesn't then make itself known to us, it might be time to take drastic measures and Send Off For A New One...
Oh, little tweak of the nipples of joy last night - managed to touch my toes, for the first time....I think, ever. Not, of course, from a standing position - I simply don't think my body is evolved to do such a thing, or rather, it is evolved to let me touch my toes....by the provision of knees. But sitting in the bath, I discovered that I was touching my toes with just a little knee-bend. I straightened up and managed to still do it. True, I think I felt something snap in my shoulder as a result, but hey - progress is pain, people...
Which reminds me - nearly time to get the hell out of here and start the return commute...
Sunday, 8 January 2012
Funky Town
Meh...
Today is just funky, in the sense of being 'in a funk', rather than in the 'hot disco stylings' sense of the word.
Which is all very well if you know the source of your funk, but if you don't - if it just descends on you mid-morning and refuses to fuck back off as a good funk should, it's just wasted time being funky that could otherwise have been usefully filled by Cracking the Grand Unified Theory, or Securing World Peace, or Finishing The Next Great British Novel, or Making Love To A Beautiful Woman (NB - helps to be married to one. If you're just picking people up on the street, you're liable to spend at least some of your non-funky time getting slapped. Well, you are around here anyway).
Hell, it's time wasted being funky that could have been better applied cataloguing your spice jars, or unpicking that hideous sweater grandma got you for Christmas and burying the evidence. In fact, even sitting around in your underwear, scratching yourself and watching Big Brother is time probably better spent than beggaring about in a big old pointless funk.
It's not, as I may have mentioned somewhere in that couple of paragraphs of verbal diarrhoea (and yes, my fellow geeks, I too am now pondering whether it's still verbal diarrhoea if you write it down. Probably not, I suspect. Literary diarrhoea?), as though I even had any particular reason to feel funky. Walked up to Ma's this morning in 17 minutes, which, considering the consistent, unremitting uphillness of the journey, wasn't bad. Walked a dog that doesn't belong to either of us, for something to do. Went back to the local park, and walked four times around a surprisingly large lake, to give the legs a bit of a workout. Shifted a bureau - as you do, it's a Sunday thing. Think it's in the new Aprocrypha to the Bible: "And on the seveth day, God rested...and then realised he still had to shift that bureau under the stairs...And the Lord said 'Bugger." Checked on my dad, went shopping, threw some of yesterday's empty boxes into storage, and pretty much snapped at every poor unsuspecting person who crossed my path.
Why? Not even remotely sure.
Could, I guess, have something to do with the impending Monday - first in a line of Mondays when I'll have to be out the door at 5.15AM, to essentially cram a weeksworth of London commuting into the space of one day. Not sure though - I've known this was coming since we started this move, and it's one of the two prices by which the move has been made achievable. Most of me therefore wants to slap down this argument in a fit of 'quitchabitchin' irritation.
Could also, possibly, have something to do with the fact that I woke up this morning having had a porno dream. Yeah, I know, where's the bad, right? Guaranteed, if you asked a thousand men whether they minded having a porno dream, you'd be able to count on one, presumably unoccupied, hand, the number who bitched about it. But then most men, when they have a porno dream, don't dream of trying to write the SCRIPT for one, working on the characters, the pro-feminist sub-plot (porn with good politics, fight the power, Sisters!), the arc...of the story development over three or four movies, and feeling the pressure of the deadline approaching. Essentially, most men, when they have porno dreams, don't fast forward through the good bits!
Oh and in case you're wondering, yes, I did manage to get the pro-feminist dialectic in there before the deadline expired. I like to kid myself I'm a professional, even if only in my dreams...If there was a Joseph in the house, firstly, I'd nick his Technicolour Dreamcoat, cos that thing was cool. Secondly, I'd tell him that if he closes his eyes and draws back the curtain, the only thing he'll see for certain is the back of his own eyelids, and thirdly, I think, I'd get an interpretation from him about overthinking everything to the point of robbing it of any spontaneity or joy. This is something I do (I'm thinking you may have noticed?), and right now, it's robbing me not only of joy, but of sleep, of rest, of contentment, of focus and of any awareness of the world outside my own damned buzzing brain.
Y'know what it's like? It's like those science shows as a kid, where they explained that your brain is so amazing that, to hit a baseball with a baseball bat, it does fantastically advanced mathematics about the speed of the oncoming ball, its pitch, direction, spin and aim, then it does fantastically advanced mathematics about where to move the bat to, with what degree of force, based on desired outcomes of a) hitting the ball, b) hitting it in a particular direction and c) aiming to miss any of the other players and not be called out...and then it sends the right electrical impulses to the right muscles to co-ordinate this activity, based on neuronic pathways that have been formed by previous attempts to do this kind of activity - but it doesn't make you THINK about doing any of it. Doesn't bother you with all the calculation, so as far as you're concerned, you just swing the bat and hit the ball into the outfield.
Right now, I'm stuck in a place where I'm trying to do all the math! Can't seem to help it. Everything that should just be natural, that should be rational or instinctive, I'm analysing the piss out of, trying to understand the deeper meanings of things. And of course, as the TV scientist would probably have gone on to explain, if you try and do all the math, your brain's too busy with all the calculation to send the electrical impulses to the muscles, and you feel the pitch whistle by you, and you're out. That's me right now.
Which I guess is probably a better explanation of a funky day than "Meh, I have to get up early in the morning..."
So...I don't know what to tell you. At nearly 4PM, I've ruined a perfectly good and happy Sunday for myself, and probably everyone who's come into contact with me, for no terribly good or cogent reason beyond the confines of my brain. Part of me now wants to bitchslap myself silly. Part of me on the other hand wants to take my lollipop and go and sit in a corner and sulk, so nehh! And yet another part of me wants to Crack The Grand Unified Theory, Write The Next Great British Novel or Make Love To A Beautiful Woman...
I'm in overanalytical mode, I think the Grand Unified Theory's pretty safe for another day.
d's in the kitchen, busily creating order out of chaos. Besides, in this overthinking mode, I'm probably no good to any beautiful woman!
Soooo...
It was a dark and stormy night...
Today is just funky, in the sense of being 'in a funk', rather than in the 'hot disco stylings' sense of the word.
Which is all very well if you know the source of your funk, but if you don't - if it just descends on you mid-morning and refuses to fuck back off as a good funk should, it's just wasted time being funky that could otherwise have been usefully filled by Cracking the Grand Unified Theory, or Securing World Peace, or Finishing The Next Great British Novel, or Making Love To A Beautiful Woman (NB - helps to be married to one. If you're just picking people up on the street, you're liable to spend at least some of your non-funky time getting slapped. Well, you are around here anyway).
Hell, it's time wasted being funky that could have been better applied cataloguing your spice jars, or unpicking that hideous sweater grandma got you for Christmas and burying the evidence. In fact, even sitting around in your underwear, scratching yourself and watching Big Brother is time probably better spent than beggaring about in a big old pointless funk.
It's not, as I may have mentioned somewhere in that couple of paragraphs of verbal diarrhoea (and yes, my fellow geeks, I too am now pondering whether it's still verbal diarrhoea if you write it down. Probably not, I suspect. Literary diarrhoea?), as though I even had any particular reason to feel funky. Walked up to Ma's this morning in 17 minutes, which, considering the consistent, unremitting uphillness of the journey, wasn't bad. Walked a dog that doesn't belong to either of us, for something to do. Went back to the local park, and walked four times around a surprisingly large lake, to give the legs a bit of a workout. Shifted a bureau - as you do, it's a Sunday thing. Think it's in the new Aprocrypha to the Bible: "And on the seveth day, God rested...and then realised he still had to shift that bureau under the stairs...And the Lord said 'Bugger." Checked on my dad, went shopping, threw some of yesterday's empty boxes into storage, and pretty much snapped at every poor unsuspecting person who crossed my path.
Why? Not even remotely sure.
Could, I guess, have something to do with the impending Monday - first in a line of Mondays when I'll have to be out the door at 5.15AM, to essentially cram a weeksworth of London commuting into the space of one day. Not sure though - I've known this was coming since we started this move, and it's one of the two prices by which the move has been made achievable. Most of me therefore wants to slap down this argument in a fit of 'quitchabitchin' irritation.
Could also, possibly, have something to do with the fact that I woke up this morning having had a porno dream. Yeah, I know, where's the bad, right? Guaranteed, if you asked a thousand men whether they minded having a porno dream, you'd be able to count on one, presumably unoccupied, hand, the number who bitched about it. But then most men, when they have a porno dream, don't dream of trying to write the SCRIPT for one, working on the characters, the pro-feminist sub-plot (porn with good politics, fight the power, Sisters!), the arc...of the story development over three or four movies, and feeling the pressure of the deadline approaching. Essentially, most men, when they have porno dreams, don't fast forward through the good bits!
Oh and in case you're wondering, yes, I did manage to get the pro-feminist dialectic in there before the deadline expired. I like to kid myself I'm a professional, even if only in my dreams...If there was a Joseph in the house, firstly, I'd nick his Technicolour Dreamcoat, cos that thing was cool. Secondly, I'd tell him that if he closes his eyes and draws back the curtain, the only thing he'll see for certain is the back of his own eyelids, and thirdly, I think, I'd get an interpretation from him about overthinking everything to the point of robbing it of any spontaneity or joy. This is something I do (I'm thinking you may have noticed?), and right now, it's robbing me not only of joy, but of sleep, of rest, of contentment, of focus and of any awareness of the world outside my own damned buzzing brain.
Y'know what it's like? It's like those science shows as a kid, where they explained that your brain is so amazing that, to hit a baseball with a baseball bat, it does fantastically advanced mathematics about the speed of the oncoming ball, its pitch, direction, spin and aim, then it does fantastically advanced mathematics about where to move the bat to, with what degree of force, based on desired outcomes of a) hitting the ball, b) hitting it in a particular direction and c) aiming to miss any of the other players and not be called out...and then it sends the right electrical impulses to the right muscles to co-ordinate this activity, based on neuronic pathways that have been formed by previous attempts to do this kind of activity - but it doesn't make you THINK about doing any of it. Doesn't bother you with all the calculation, so as far as you're concerned, you just swing the bat and hit the ball into the outfield.
Right now, I'm stuck in a place where I'm trying to do all the math! Can't seem to help it. Everything that should just be natural, that should be rational or instinctive, I'm analysing the piss out of, trying to understand the deeper meanings of things. And of course, as the TV scientist would probably have gone on to explain, if you try and do all the math, your brain's too busy with all the calculation to send the electrical impulses to the muscles, and you feel the pitch whistle by you, and you're out. That's me right now.
Which I guess is probably a better explanation of a funky day than "Meh, I have to get up early in the morning..."
So...I don't know what to tell you. At nearly 4PM, I've ruined a perfectly good and happy Sunday for myself, and probably everyone who's come into contact with me, for no terribly good or cogent reason beyond the confines of my brain. Part of me now wants to bitchslap myself silly. Part of me on the other hand wants to take my lollipop and go and sit in a corner and sulk, so nehh! And yet another part of me wants to Crack The Grand Unified Theory, Write The Next Great British Novel or Make Love To A Beautiful Woman...
I'm in overanalytical mode, I think the Grand Unified Theory's pretty safe for another day.
d's in the kitchen, busily creating order out of chaos. Besides, in this overthinking mode, I'm probably no good to any beautiful woman!
Soooo...
It was a dark and stormy night...
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