Shaving Father Christmas

Alright, what the Hell happened there?

So, seriously, if you’re really obsessive or have a reasonable memory, you’ll recall the history of last week. Monday – 16 stone 3. Friday – 16 stone 4.5. Today, for this week’s official weigh-in…

16 stone 0.25.

Seriously?? 4.25 pounds in three days? That’s way outside the ‘healthy weightloss’ remit of this project. It also makes absolutely zero sense, inasmuch as I haven’t got on the bike since I came home on Friday. Haven’t done a long walk. Have done precisely buggerall in the way of actively trying to lose weight, if I’m honest, and last night, had an Italian, largely bread-based meal. Sooooo what the Hell???

Of course…I did have a shave yesterday. Now, of course, I’m not dumb enough to think this is behind anything, but it was getting to a point of critical mass. Can I just say – December is not the month to be a fat, occasionally jolly bloke with a full bushy beard and only the vaguest of holes where your mouth should be. Kids on tubes get utterly spellbound, and you can actually hear their conniving little brains as they work out that they’ve just seen Santa on his way to work, and that they’d better be extra specially nice, certainly, but also extra specially noisy to make sure he doesn’t forget them when The Time Comes.

So yesterday, I had a professional beard trim, and am now much more confident of which hole the sound is coming out of (to paraphrase Ruby Wax). But four pounds of hair? I think not.

  

If I wanted to pile on the pseudo-science, I’d expostulate (you might have noticed, I do that sometimes. It’s a habit. I have many.) that maybe the seriously nipple-popping weather we’ve been having lately has something to do with it. It would make some weird sort of mathematical sense, wouldn’t it, that your system had to burn more calories just to function normally in ridiculously cold weather?

(Shrugs) Could be bollocks of course, but all I know is that I’m now so close to the 4.5 stone barrier, the 16 stone barrier and, perhaps most importantly, the halfway point I can practically taste it!

Mind you, having said that, you’d think I’d have been in a better mood all day, really. Haven’t been – have been snappy and growly and generally a pain in the universe’s ass all day long.

Mind you, I have been in Nottingham.

Not that this should be taken as in any way meaning I have a problem with Nottingham. I like Nottingham a lot – as a city, it seems to make sense to me (to the extent that I could navigate around it without issue today, which, as we know, I can’t do in London after living there for nearly a decade!). I’ve just, I think, been snarly and growly because…well, firstly because I’m so close, and yet can’t smoke the triple-cigar of official celebration – 4.5 stone, 16 stone, halfway: that, finally, will be a fat cigar of accomplishment, and the kind of celebration I put off at three stone and four stone. So close, but not yet quite there. Growl.

Plus of course, it has to be remembered that much of the rest of the planet is populated by fuckwits. I’ve been run over, line-jumped, frog-marched, frozen and made to take an interest in buses today, and all while being acutely aware that the box-run is now THIS WEEKEND, and that d’d be at home alone this evening, so it doesn’t feel like I’m pulling my not-inconsiderable weight. Clearly though, it’s another of those things that needs to be accepted and growled about and then gotten the Hell over and moved on from. Everything’s positive right now – Disappearing, the move…wow, that was a short definition of Everything, wasn’t it? How many days do we have left before the Euro implodes, anybody still counting? And apparently we’re ‘back’ in recession (note for the linguists and pedants – does being back in recession mean we’re in a re-recession?)…but, y’know, apart from imminent financial collapse, and allegedly some Mayans thousands of years ago predicting people they neither knew, nor in fact gave a fuck about, would stop existing next year, everything in my personal garden is pretty damn rosy right now, so as d would say, time to grab my ass and get happy.

So this is me – grabbing handfuls of wobbly buttock and singing a happy song!

Princesses United

See, there have always been two parts to being a journalist. Part One, I'm reeeeeeallly freakin' good at, cos part one is finding out interesting stuff, and knowing it. Part two...the whole bit about telling anyone the stuff you know....nnnnotsomuch.

This came home to me tonight, when, with d and I having lived in this city together for seven years, and my having known Brenda (you remember Brenda? She's a really cool pal of mine who works on the same floor - I've blogged about her before) for four or five or possibly even stretching back to six, I finally got them together in a room.

See - I've known d is wonderful, and I've known Brenda's wonderful, and I've known that, if I got them together, it'd be love at first words...I just haven't particularly told either of them fact three in this list. Wellll, I sort of have, but the pace of metropolitan living kinda washes words away in the checking off of Stuff To Do. When I got them together tonight (well, I say I did this, I only half did it really, Brenda and I determined to do it, dammit, to finally stop the flow of Stuff and turn our friendship into a proper couple-thing), it was magical. We went to Strada on High Street Kensington.

Can't honestly remember if I've told you about this before. But anyone who remembers the Paradiso Lost post, about the place we were going to hold our wedding reception, will remember that at the last minute (or rather, with ten days to go!), we turned our back on Paradiso, and went somewhere else entirely. Where we went was Strada in Richmond. We didn't even know it was part of a chain, we were so blown away by the food, the welcome, the space above the restaurant. And we had a fantastic reception. It was only later that we realised there were Stradas everywhere, and since I work in Kensington, the HSK branch has long been a local favourite for us, so tonight ticked one more slightly sad memory off our Farewell Tour list. But mostly, it was fantastic to enjoy Brenda's company outside of work, to finally meet Gerry, her bloke (whose existence, and life and progress in my friend's affections into the pride of place in her life, I've charted excitedly over meetings in corridors and halls and occasionally in doorways and lifts), and to see d and Brenda enjoy each other's company and stories.

See, you'll have heard of gaydar - the instinctive recognition of same. What no-one tells you is there's a similar recognition between comfy couples. Couples who are happy and comfy and funny together, as long as they share a wavelength, will know other couples who are happy and comfy and funny together. And stick a couple of them together, and what you get is the kind of evening that frustrates the bejeesus out of waiters, as the talk overtakes the eating, and you only tear yourself away eventually cos you have to get up in the morning and go to freaking Nottingham.

In a way, I feel kind of guilty about introducing d to these truly fabulous people now. It's sort of compounding an issue she's feeling already. She's made some great friendships while she's been here in London. Yuen, and 'DQ' and a couple of others (not including Tig of course, with whom she was friends before she got here). But recently, very recently, she's gained a really great pal in Caroline, and there's a kind of kick-in-the-teethness about having discovered her now, and thennnnn buggering off. I feel pretty much like a pantomime villain, carring Rapunzel off to a Valley-shaped tower just when she's found, if not her prince, then at least a really cool Princess she can hang out with, swapping Princess stories of balls and Princes and frogs and incompetent fairy godmothers and the like.

And tonight, I reckon she found another Princess. Well, I know she did, cos I know Brenda's quality. But when we parted, d whispered "Wow, she's just like Annie..." - which, short of "Wow, she's just like Lori" is the highest praise she can give. Of course, they say 'better late than never', and I'm pretty much sure that these two will now form bonds of their own, without the necessity of me as a bridge, and we as a foursome will go forward, with visits and Skyping and suchlike fun. But still, feels like I should shake a fist at the audience, stroke a comedy beard and cackle "Bwahahahahaaaa..." as I fling d over my shoulder and drag her home to Wales.

Oh...and a sidenote, for those who are wondering about the ongoing career of our Chinese woman - of whom I happen to know there are a few - we came home tonight to find the lid of our garbage bin flung open and boxes flung hither...and possibly even yon...in our front garden. So - we either have pretty musclebound urban foxes, or that cheeky bint is scavenging for more bags and rucksacks and bloody wardrobes. I'm thinking of setting traps tomorrow, just to see what we can catch. Hey - it's still a while till payday, and it brings out the Urban Trapper in me. May have to dig my Davy Crockett cap out of a box, just to get into the swing of it.

But for now, have to crawl into my couch. Nottingham ho, my liege!

Spoonfuls of Sugar

There's an old saying: "When life gives you lemons, unless you've got a shitload of sugar, you're gonna have a mouth like a cat's arse."
Today's been the kind of day to make me realise how sweet my life actually is.

My pal Sian, last time we spoke, was keen to impress on me the need for ready cash next Saturday, for the toll bridge into Wales, which with any luck we'll need to cross a couple of times. So today, we took our big savings-tin (shaped like a Pepsi can) of shrapnel-coins to the local store, where there's a machine that takes such coins and gives you real, useable cash in return. We raised a good amount, and picked out enough random silver besides to give us a bag of bridge-cash. Spoonful of sugar #1.

We popped to Argos, to return some unused boxes in return for, ideally, some replacement archive boxes. None to be had hereabouts, which pretty much put the kybosh on any packing progress we had in mind, Still, we got credit on a voucher-card, so come Wednesday I'll be able to pick some up in Kensington, and the packing can continue, 'for free' as it were, without forcing us to lay out more money for the boxes we need. Spoonful of sugar #2.

Then we went, full of dreams and schemes and the like, along to John Lewis at Westfield, and meandered for hours among the fragments of our future. We played 'which crockery would you choose?' and, unusually for us, found we were in perfect agreement. And planning the pieces that we like, and will have to save and work for, and will feel pride in our gradual, life-building accomplishments...Spoonful of sugar #3.

"By the way...you're looking very handsome today," said d out of nowhere. That's always sweet to hear in itself, but in my case, it's...something more. The object when I started all this was to become a Disappearing Man, but somewhere along the line, what's happened has been deeper and rather more profound. I've become something of a Metamorphosed Man. The making of peace with Merthyr, the seeming to grow into my skin at 40, and...something less definable, something to do with knowing who I am and what I want and how to get it, has made me someone who feels profoundly different to the man I was when I began. I haven't mentioned this before, because it's seemed too odd, but my clothes have grownup recently. I've always been a scruffy human being, and relished it as part of the Journalist-schtick. There's also been a fat bloke element there - my costume has usually been slogan T-shirts, because slogan T-shirts can be guaranteed to come in XXXL, because they're marketed at, among others, 'Comic Book Guy' from the Simpsons, and guys of a similar size who do nothing in the way of exercise and sit in basements all day playing World of Warcraft. But now they seem irrelevant and childish to me, like a skin I've sloughed. Of course, in one way, that's mightily inconvenient, as they comprise the vast majority of clothes I own. But, as it happened, today I was in a newish combination - polo shirt, Disappearing Coat, very newly-acquired 'man-scarf'. And clearly, d likes me as a moderately Disappeared Grown-Up. 'Since I am crept in favour with myself,' as Richard III says in the Shakespeare play, "I will maintain it to some little cost..." Which, in this case, translates as 'Holy Heck, I look like a Grown-Up now, and my wife likes it. Come pay day, time to invest in some Grown-Up Clothes that fit..."
Definitely, a big heaping spoonful of sugar there.

Spoke to my mother tonight, and things are going well with the new flat. More immediately importantly, my dad was prescribed a steroid treatment, and appears to be feeling much more like himself than he's been of late. Spoonful of sugar #5.

And then tonight, I went to say my own farewell to London comedy-going. Went to see a funny, picky, nerdy Irish comedian called Ed Byrne. Second time I've seen him in Hammersmith, first time in the Apollo. Great fun, including drunken particle physicists, inappropriate clothing on teenage boys, pro-woman, pro-fat-fuck routines, and the staggering inappropriateness of the phrase 'sleeping like a baby'. Had a great time, and resigned myself to shifting my occasional comedy-gigging to Cardiff with the greatest of ease, and came home, keen to see my girl's face again, and to share her space, and to snuggle by proxy on our individual couches.

Best spoonful of sugar all day, that coming home.

Of course, there's fun to be had with the idea of a life so full of sugar being owned by a diabetic Disappearer, but the point is, a day like today adds fuel to the fire, and salt to the taste of life. Which I'll admit to needing in the week coming up, because there's a Hell of a lot that needs doing, or redoing, in the next five days.

Mmm....suuuugar....

A Day of Three Halves

If there’s such a thing as a day of three halves, then this was it. Kicking off half one, I did a weigh-in, which I’m prepared to count as this week’s official one.

16 stone 4.5.

You may remember on Monday, I weighed in as 16 stone 3, but didn’t count it cos I was ‘full’. This morning was 16 stone 4.5…erm…empty, as it were. So yes, my week of hotel living has not only cost us a shedload of cash (non-refundable…humph!), but has also cost me at least a pound and a half of progress. Mind you, there’s another, proper weigh-in on Tuesday, so I guess I have a couple of days to improve on that.

The first half of the day was the ‘working our asses off’ half. d worked the kitchen, packing and wrapping a bunch of bulky implements and culinary magic-makers. As per usual, I got to sit in the living room and do minimum-impact packing in the living room. Did about…three boxfuls. We came together to dismantle an old computer that can’t be thrown out cos it’s full of important stuff like wedding photos. I untangled it and transported it to d’s packing station, she packed it, I transported it to the bedroom/boxroom. Then, jointly whinging about the pain we’d landed ourselves in, we quit.

Oh, should mention – we finally caught up with our pal Linda today. She works at the local pharmacy, and became a reader of this blog pretty much after being bitch-whipped by d one day, in her friendly pimp-my-ass-out way. Still, fair play to the girl, Linda’s apparently still reading, cos when we popped in, she already knew about our Farewell Tour, and the countdown to the Disappearing Welshman. Was good to see her, and we arranged to pop back in for a proper farewell two weeks today, the day before d leaves for good.

The second half of the day was the ‘laugh our asses off’ half. Didn’t add this into the calendar a couple of days ago, because, quite frankly, so much is going on, I pretty much forgot it. But we’ve long had tickets to our ‘farewell to London Theatre’. It was a combination of circumstances that made us choose the show that was going to fill that place in our heads for the rest of time. Essentially, d introduced me to a movie, a good few years ago, thinking that it was brilliant, and also figuring it would be my kind of thing. It sooooo was. It was a movie called Noises Off. It’s a fantastic farce, that shows the front and back of the stage during the production of a farce within a farce, as it goes through a run. As it happened, there was a production of the play (on which the movie was based) starting at the Old Vic on the 1^st December, so I went ahead and booked it.

Couldn’t have been a better choice, frankly. Neil Simon said of farce that by the end, the audience should be almost as exhausted as the cast, who by that point should be on oxygen support. Noises Off is a farce in three acts – act one gives you a good solid bunch of gags, but more than that, it’s a set up for the really fantastic business of act two. Act two tonight was where the oxygen tents should have been wheeled into the theatre. Act two was so busy, with a stageful of actors in perfect harmony, like a balletful of laughs. Act three, which shows the disintegration of the actors’ brains and relationships into complete on-stage anarchy, was fantastic too, but by that point, we were all exhausted from laughing at act two. It was a great farewell to the joy that the West End can bring to any day, and we’re still laughing about it as I write this.

The third half of the day kicked off when we got home. We couldn’t get in.

We couldn’t get in because an entire column of boxes, stacked in the hallway long before we started turning the bedroom into our storage room, had finally given up the ghost, and collapsed, spilling their innards all the way down the hall.

Soooo – that’ll be me buying some more boxes tomorrow then, and repacking the buggers. Could have done without this financial and temporal setback to cap the day, but it’s pretty much like the pound and a half of weight re-gain. It’s just one more little bugger of a thing, to be understood, gotten around and gotten the Hell on with.

So – if you’ll excuse me, it’s couch-time. Catch you tomorrow, after the boxarama.

All Together Now...

On the first Disappearance, my true love sent to me, a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the second Disappearance, my true love sent to me, two meals a day and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the third Disappearance, my true love gave to me, three Xenicals, two meals a day, and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the fourth Disappearance, my true love gave to me, four falls downstairs, three Xenicals, two meals a day and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the fifth Disappearance, my true love gave to me - FIVE WALKED MILES!...four falls downstairs, three Xenicals, two meals a day and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the sixth Disappearance, my true love sent to me, six morning lay-ins, FIVE WALKED MILES!...four falls downstairs, three Xenicals, two meals a day and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the seventh Disappearance, my true love sent to me, seven tries at swimming,  six morning lay-ins, FIVE WALKED MILES!...four falls downstairs, three Xenicals, two meals a day and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the eighth Disappearance,  my true love sent to me, eight de-caffs (milk in), seven tries at swimming,  six morning lay-ins, FIVE WALKED MILES!...four falls downstairs, three Xenicals, two meals a day and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the ninth Disappearance, my true love sent to me, nine happy dances,  eight de-caffs (milk in), seven tries at swimming,  six morning lay-ins, FIVE WALKED MILES!...four falls downstairs, three Xenicals, two meals a day and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the tenth Disappearance, my true love sent to me, ten weigh-ins weeping,  nine happy dances,  eight de-caffs (milk in), seven tries at swimming,  six morning lay-ins, FIVE WALKED MILES!...four falls downstairs, three Xenicals, two meals a day and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the eleventh Disappearance, my true love sent to me, eleven bakers piping, ten weigh-ins weeping,  nine happy dances,  eight de-caffs (milk in), seven tries at swimming,  six morning lay-ins, FIVE WALKED MILES!...four falls downstairs, three Xenicals, two meals a day and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

On the twelfth Disappearance, my true love sent to me, twelve fat blokes punning,  eleven bakers piping, ten weigh-ins weeping,  nine happy dances,  eight de-caffs (milk in), seven tries at swimming,  six morning lay-ins, FIVE WALKED MILES!...four falls downstairs, three Xenicals, two meals a day and a slip-back of nearly five pounds.

The Advent of Disappearing

It’s December! Already!

Who the Hell ordered that, I have no place to put it. And no time either, come to that...

Seriously, today is of course the first day of Advent, when, religious hoo-ha notwithstanding, kids all round the civilised world start waking up their parents far before they’re wise to open the doors of their advent calendar, snaffle an extra mouthful of cheap chocolate and wind themselves just that little bit further up in the countdown to CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISTMAAAAAAAAASSSSS!!!

Have to tell you, now being a Disappearing Man in two senses of the word – Disappearing through weightloss and Disappearing from London – I pretty much have my own advent calendar to think about.

Today? I opened the door on the final day of this conference, and the first people apparently came to look around our flat, cos we’re not going to be there after this month.

Tomorrow? The cooker and the dishwasher arrive in our new place. Also, new carpets.

Third and Fourth – our last free weekend to pack and a long-booked appointment Sunday night with comedian Ed Byrne in Hammersmith.

Fifth? Two things – copy deadline for my magazine and meal out with Brenda (see back a couple of entries) and Gerry.

Sixth? I’m in Nottingham all day.

Eighth? Downstairs flooring in the new place.

Ninth? D’s last day of work in London, and a meeting with my step-brother and his wife.

Tenth? Eleventh? The Box run with Sian and a big big van.

Twelfth? Seminar in London all day.

Fifteenth? Works Christmas lunch.

Eighteenth? Movers, and d leaves home. For good.

Twenty-first? My folks’ 26^th anniversary, and for any Pagans in the audience, Winter Solstice.

Twenty-third – I leave London, and go home.

In between which, all the organisations I’ve already rung/written to/emailed to say we’ll be moving have to be rung and written to and emailed again because they couldn’t do anything on their systems until it was December. Am hoping that by the time we move in properly in January, we’ll have phone service and TV service and broadband and all the palaver that one needs if one’s gonna sit on one’s ass at home all day. So – onnnn we go.

In purely Disappearing terms, have found myself doing stupid things all day – nipping looks in mirrors and pulling my shirt tight, and frowning. Bottom line – I look noticeably bigger and rounder at the end of this week than I did at the beginning of it. Friend of mine who’s also been at this conference pretty much shrugs this sort of thing off, and says “it’s conference week – just gotta say ‘fuck it!’” And any other year but this year, I’d have laughed, and agreed, and gotten stuck in. But this year, just saying ‘fuck it’ means probably falling significantly backward and have it all to do again. Which is more than a little dispiriting, but at this point, while not exactly saying ‘fuck it,’ I am prepared to say ‘don’t have time to go all neurotic about it, back to normal tomorrow.’ Back, also, to my standard meds tomorrow (have been off them since Monday and Tuesday respectively, with the exception of the Xenical, which continue to make their presence staggeringly felt). So – on the second day of Christmas, my true love will bring to me, a return to normali-ty....

Oh, footnote – finally got to the gym tonight – did a thousand and some-odd calories of biking. Quite enjoyed getting back to it...cos I’m getting a bit sick about things like this. So much so, am aiming (said he, in the full understanding that people will raise an eyebrow and go “ah-huh?”) to get up at about six tomorrow and do an hour down there before breakfast.  Fun, huh? This is the life of a Disappearing Man with far too little time left on his hands...

Rule One

When you've worked for the same people for six years, and schmoozing is part of the job description (hey - it's a journo thing), there's one golden rule to not forget.
Rule One - your office/the event/the swanky restaurant they go to and where you grudgingly shuffle along to is not your home.

This evening, there was a big conference dinner (yep, another night of much food, no gym!). I went along, because although schmoozing's not technically in my job description, they do drum you out of the journalist's union if you have an opportunity to schmooze, and pass it up. It's kind of an unwritten rule - first day of journo school, they give you your magic bile-pencil, your moralectomy and your iron liver.

Anyhow, so I went along. And it became quickly obvious how much of a picky prick I've turned into since...well, I can't pretend this is only since I started Disappearing, but I'm ignoring reality for the sake of the story (they teach you that on day two of journo school - watch the Levenson enquiry if you don't believe me). So basically, just the picky prick I've always been, thrown into sharp relief by the ease and accommodation of everyone else around me...mild-mannered sonsofbitches as they are.

The starter was salmon and horseradish. I almost threw it across the room like a toddler. The veggie option was a cheesy sweet onion tart. Yum. They brought me the veggie main. It was some sad looking mushrooms in pastry. They brought steaming succulent lamb to almost everyone else on the table. I had to be physically restrained from flicking mushrooms at the waiter till they showed me the protein. Dessert...dessert was a glorious orange chocolate fondant. I pulled it to me like a lover...bent low over the steaming, rich, gooey glory of the pudding...

...and sniffed like a cokehead doing a line.
There were a series of blinking eyes all around the table. The buzz of conversation didn't stop, exactly, it just suddenly seemed a lot further away as everyone on my table peered, wordless, as the dessert-sniffing pervert.

"Ahem..." I said. "Anyone want a second dessert? Barely...erm...used..."

Strange to relate, no-one was that keen. It sat there, inches away from me, for the next half-hour, till a disconsolate waiter came and took it away to the Underworld of Unloved Desserts.
It was replaced a few moments later by a steaming hot cup of dark black coffee.
"Erm, excuse me," I said, snagging the waiter. "Do you do de-caff?"
"You need to leave now sir," siad his look. "Before I kill you with this coffee spoon and a sharpened biscotti."

See - bad things happen if you forget Rule One.
Sigh.
On to tomorrow, and the end of this conference madness.