Tufty the Squirrel Boy

I've started Grazing.

In case none of you know what that means with a capital G, it's a service you buy where you choose foods you like, and they send you a boxful of it...as regularly as you like. Pal of mine called Tori - with whom I used to work till she went on to far better things - was the first person I knew to do this, and at the time I thought she was barking mad and had more money than sense. Then my pal Mae (who should probably get Frequent Mention Miles for this blog by now) started rabbitting about them and offering vouchers and the like, so I figured I'd give it a go. Now of course, there are different 'levels' of Grazing you can do - they have 'types' of boxes, such as a 'nibble box' - which you can get crammed with chocolate-coated loveliness and the like...and then there's the kind of Grazing I'm doing.

The kind of Grazing I'm doing should probably come with a German accent, a colonic irrigation pipe and a sneer. It's heavyweight 'for your own good' kind of Grazing. Nuts, seeds, things that once were fruit and now resemble the inernal organs of small furry creatures after half an hour in an airing cupboard. Just call me Tufty the Squirrel Boy...

To be fair, the first box was free (thanks to the voucher from Mae), so I've been chowing my way through it all day. And it has to be said, as far as nuts, seeds, and desicated fruits are concerned, it's been lovely. Of course, d made a hugely good point halfway through the day, wandering in with a big chunky tupperware box of fruits and seeds and nuts that she'd made up, and from an earlier version of which she had dutifully made me metabolism boosters when this project began. Before I...erm...sort of...started forgetting to take them in to work with me.

Ahem.

So anyway, that's been the main content of my day - chewing. I know, hard life, innit? Of course, you all know enough by now to know that it's a Saturday, and the creeping cold seaweed-like panic has begun to stretch itself over me about Tuesday's weigh-in. This week, I probably have more cause for concern than normal, as I've done absolutely nothing in the way of exercise until last night, and have had several hefty meals - pizzas, Chinese and the like. But here's the thing. I'm not that worried. I think, probably, there'll have been some slipback, and I know it'll mean more work for more weeks and yadda yadda yadda, but I'm not gripped by the terror and the panic and the urge to wail, as I have been previously.

Now, don't get me wrong - I've been using a particular magic unguent that goes by the name of Sudocreme all week on the leg-burns, and last night I got back on the bike again, finally. Perhaps it's a slight measure of subconscious panic that I turned up the dial a further notch, but subconscious panic, but like subconscious emotions of all kinds, I can handle. If it becomes conscious panic, I'll let you know. Today, I managed thrity miles, which wasn't too shabby, and certainly helped concentrate the mind...inbetween the chewing.

d picked up on a couple of other themes of the week when I stumbled out of bed this morning too.
"Goddammit, your tits are disappearing..." was one of her first lines to me this morning, and when I popped into her kitchen between ten-mile stints (of cycling, I should say, not of chewing), she said "Wow...you're getting younger."
"What can I tell you honey, my body's a Tardis," I said, grinning at the chance to quote myself.
"Yeah," she muttered. "And I'm starting to feel like River Song..."
Madness of course. In the first instance, she's already a stone and a half ahead of me in the weighloss stakes. And in the second, she's hotter than River Song any day, my girl.