Yesterday, as you know, was a good day - at least when it started. A five pound loss in a week is mad, and actually against the ethos of this experiment (the slow and steady approach), but I figure weeks when I don't lose anything, or put on, are technically against the ethos of this experiment too, so an occasional bump in the ratings, I'm gonna let slide if that's OK with you guys? Good, thought so, moving on...
So I went to St Pancras to check in for the Eurostar to Brussels.
"You're too early," said the cheerful soul in the perspex box. "Come back in half an hour."
I came back in half an hour, after paying through the nose for two measly pieces of bread and some ruined scrambled eggs (don't get me on over-garnishing - I have a mini-vendetta against parsley and those who throw it onto every damn thing!). Although there, I did notice something that's been happening almost sneakily, more and more often to me. I left about half of it - in fact, everything that didn't fit on a piece of bread. Yes, to some extent, I left some of it because it was nasty and spoiled, and if I'm honest, I probably left a little more of it because of the snotty, practically Parisian attitude of the staff - cos, yeah, that'll show 'em! - but all in all, I think it was the creeping evil worm of Kate Moss that has started making me do it. You remember that nasty, insidious, probably depressingly true but mean-spirited line about 'nothing tasting as good as skinny feels'? Hate the line, personally, but have started to leave food on my plate because somewhere in the back of my brain, something that works like a virus or a worm is doing the maths in my subconscious brain, and even though this was never supposed to be a strictly calorie-Gestapo experiment, it's there in the background, translating food into calories, and calories into biking - or more hoenstly, calories into fat that needs to be biked into non-existence every single day...
Ahem. Where the Hell was I? Oh yeah, St Pancras. Anyhow, had my half-a-miserable-breakfast, went back, smiled at the perspex lady and she let me leave the country. When I got to Brussels a couple of hours later, I met my fellow journos and we were herded to our first appointment...
Did I mention it was Brussels?
Our first appointment was at the Haagen Dazs cafe, with a free tab. "Please eat whatever you want, my pliable English journalist friends, then write nice things about us" was the pitch. So I sat there, eating nothing, drinking nothing, wanting to stuff cones up people's noses and choke them on their waffles, and generally grinding my teeth to a pulp. They took us to the launch, and we sat, and we asked questions, and they didn't answer us, so we asked them again, and they still didn't answer us and we got huffy and determined to maybe not write such nice things about them after all. I'd actually teamed up with an old pal - and indeed an old boss - of mine, Andrew, and we spent a good few mintues when the launch was over...pretty much asking each other the questions that our hosts wouldn't answer, and pretty much agreeing that they hadn't answered them. We went to the after-launch reception, and I looked at glasses of champagne, and the translator in my head remembered Croatia, and how deceptively calorie-heavy wine can be, and made me pick up glass after glass of water. There were canapes, but they turned out to be balls of cheese with a sliver of ham on, or slices of cucumber, or some weird presumably salmon-pink goo cut into squares and stuck on a cocktail stick.
"Sod it," I thought, "I'll pick something up at the station."
Except at the station, it appeared that half of Brussels was determined to ge tthe Hell out of Brussels and the - oh yeah, did I mention - sweltering heat. I'd thought that by buggering off out of London, I'd be leaving the heat behind.
Non. Apparently, while we were sitting there being cheerfully blathered at, London had a couple of Hellacious but therapeutically cooling thunderstorms. Brussels - notsomuch. Damp, sweaty armpit-patches appeared to be part of the city's uniform yesterday. So anyway, everybody seemed to think it was a pretty fine idea to get the Hell out of Dodge, meaning the lines at immigration and customs were long and snakey. When we finally got through, Andrew and I, as one journo, headed to the only cafe there was behind the lines. Except of course, everybody who was damp and sweaty and weary of Brussels was also pretty damn peckish. So we got back into the line and shuffled forward again, past lines of empty shelves. There was a salad that appeared to have been sweating there since 1978. And there were apples. I thought about it, but to be honest, I wasn't sure I could be buggered to bring out my plastic to pay a Euro and a half for an apple.
Of course, this was Brussels, Belgium. There was one other option, food-wise.
There was a chocolate shop.
So I ended up back at the overpriced, snotty French cafe, ordering a bowl of soup and a coffee. Also picked up some fresh fruit and ate it on the way home at about 10.30 at night. All in all, I've had far worse days on this experiment, and the weigh-in news buoyed a day of the most eeeeevil and glorious temptations. The thing is, I'm no longer sure that sweet things are my biggest temptation. I have a feeling that my biggest temptation now is the mind-worm that is potentially going to drive me - and those around me - absolutely insane with streams of numbers and calculations and translations and the never-ending voice of calorific pedantry. The Dark Side is not so much calling again as whispering, quietly, behind all the scenes of my life.
Oh Christ, I'm being held mental hostage by Kate Moss.
Well, that's a cheerful end to the day...
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