Y'know sometimes how you start off with one strong idea about how the day is going to go, and then, practically before you've got the sleep out of your eyes, the world whacks you upside the head and says "Think again there bucko!"
Today was one of those days.
Today was gonna be all about something which, now, I'll tell you about tomorrow. Got to my bus-stop this morning - blisters stopped walk...again! - and was happily listening to some comedy on my iPod when an old geezer shuffled up to me. Long coat, scruffy stubble, flat cap, egg-stains around the upper lip, stench of old smoke and stale drink on him, and, when he opened his mouth, as it turned out, only a couple of deep yellow (borderline orange) teeth in his head.
"You got a phone?" he rasped at me. I reluctantly unplugged myself from the comedy stylings of Tim Minchin (about whom, trust me, more at another time).
"Sorry?" I asked.
"You got a phone?" he demanded, more irritated now.
"Yyes," I said.
"Got credit?"
"Yyyyes?" I said, wondering when we were going to get on to pertinent details like my mother's maiden name or my first pet.
"Gimme it?"
Fortunately, and for this I must give him credit, he did include the question-mark, making it rather more pathetic than threatening.
"Nnnno," I chose, after, for no logical reason I can now imagine, appearing to give it some considered thought. (Could I be more stereotypically British?)
"Will you ring mine?" he asked, his second gambit firmly re-establishing us on a more familiar plane.
"You want me...to call you?" I asked, making sure I had this right. "While I'm here....talking to you?"
"Yeah," he said, rummaging in his pockets.
"Riiiight," I said. I couldn't in all honesty tell you I was comfortable with this, but on the other hand, there appeared no polite way of getting out of it.
He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. Then unfolded it more. This was no scrap of paper with his number scrawled on it. It was a full sheet of foolscap, with the numbers printed on it in thick black ink 20 points or more high.
"Call me," he demanded, that note of expectation back in his voice. Almost against my will, but without any reason not to, I did as he asked.
"'sit ringin'?" he demanded, once I'd begun the call to who-the-fuck-knew-where.
"Think so," I said. He grabbed the phone out of my hand and held it up to his ear.
"Oh yeah," he said. "Fuckin' Vodafone...s'always the same, innit?"
The same as what, I wasn't sure. Certainly it wasn't turning out to be the same as anything for me so far this morning.
"Answer the fuckin' phone, ya dozy..." he shouted into the phone. I tried not to imagine the ingredients of the spittle that was probably dissolving through the phone's casing as we spoke.
Then he handed the phone back to me, and I ended the call.
"That's women for you, innit? Eh?"
"Err...is it?"
"Bloody Chinese women," he added, just to stir the pot a little more.
"S'me wife, innit?" he said, pulling out a passport photo of what indeed seem to be a youngish Chinese woman.
"You wear 'em out, they can't get up inna mornin'," he vouchsafed, grinning.
"Ah," I said, blinking rather rapidly at this point just to keep myself afloat in what might generously have been described as 'the conversation'.
"What bus you gettin'?" he demanded.
I don't know what compelled me, but I told him the truth - anything to Plaistow. Fortunately, he wasn't going my way, and we parted company after some more choice opinions - his, clearly, not mine - on buses, the new stations they were building, and how there was never a bus when you needed one (which was clearly false - one had turned up while I was calling him, and we'd both had to let it go, locked as we were in the Chinese woman drama).
So now, on my phone log, there's a mysterious morning call to what presumably is a real, young, probably rather confused Chinese woman, which in other circumstances could have been all sorts of bad.
Still, she hasn't called back, so we're probably fine...
Blood was 5.0 this morning, and as I say, my right foot's blistered to buggery again, so I'll be doing bog-all on it till we leave on Friday. So much for the best laid plans of mice and Disappearing Men.
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
8 Mile
Before we get the day's business out of the way, final words on the oatmeal diet. More oatmeal last night, blood this morning, 5.0. Was telling my mother about all this, like I'd discovered the secret of eternal youth, and she laughed down the phone at me.
"Yeah, that's well known," she said. "Something about the goo that comes out of porridge oats when you cook them bonds with sugars or some-such. It's recommended on the GI Diet (Glucose Index, if that's as new to you as it was to me). So nehh - I'm not mental after all.
Well, not on the porridge thing, anyway.
Had a nice life-affirming moment this morning. My boss has been off for a month (which is the kind of thing bosses can do, apparently. Note to self: REALLY, work for yourself!), so when I walked in this morning he sort of exploded.
"Tony! My God man, where've you gone? That regime of yours is definitely working!"
He must want something - he's probably gonna cancel Christmas or somesuch. If the other shoe drops any time soon, I'll letcha know.
But, on the positive side, his reaction does underline a basic truth about today.
That's a loss of 3.75 pounds this week, but more importantly, to Brits anyway, I've smashed the three-stone weightloss barrier. Three stone, 2.25 pounds, actually - which, if you happen to have my kind of brain, means only 11.75 pounds away from the four stone barrier! Or, put another way, four more weeks exactly like this one would put me over four stone. Not that I expect that to happen for a second, but that's the maths for you. On the same principle, two more weeks exactly like this, and I'll be weighing in at 16 stone some-odd, rather than 17 stone some-odd. That'll be pretty cool.
Well Hell, let's take a moment and say THIS is pretty cool. After 2.5 stone, I felt like I'd done the training-wheel section, and 3 stone would be the first proper, grown-up, big-boy marker. So awoohoo for the first proper, grown-up, big-boy marker. I've done a third of the journey in a half of the original allotted time. Feels damn good.
People appear to be queuing up to give me analogues of my progress so far. My mother mentioned this morning that I've now lost the equivalent of 88 packets of butter (in Britain. I can make no comparison for countries that sell butter in sticks). It's not a huge figure, but you could still make a fairly decent model pyramid out of it, and then, in my case, walk away and leave it behind.
Friend of mine this morning likened it to my normal ten-mile nightly bike-ride. This, she said, was the 3.3 mile stage. Another friend always told me it got easier after the first third, which between them, make up an interesting analogy to me at the minute, because currently, I do 3.5 miles on level 10 of the bike's resistance, and the remaining 6.5 on level 8, so that has a certain resonance to me - although it could all too easily lead me to believe that the hard bit is over, which is a dangerous conceit for me.
And while in a meeting this morning, I found myself idly calculating. If a marathon is 26 miles (I'm not quibbling about a couple of hundred yards, frankly), then at the moment, I've done 8.66 miles of it. Only 17.32 miles to go.
That really didn't help, in terms of my day, but it's probably the most realistic analogue I've found so far. Still a long long way to go, but we have at least done eight and two third miles that we'll never have to do again. So, if we've done the one-third stage, the next big marker is the halfway point (13 miles of the marathon, or 4.5 stone of weightloss). This is a cool way for me to think about it, because I'm past the 3 stone point, about a third of a way to the 3.5 stone point, then the 4 stone barrier will be another celebration, leaving me just another half-stone before it's major celebration time and we've gone half way.
Now, back to business. As I've mentioned before, I'm going on holiday. The holiday actually starts this coming Saturday. Up till then, I'll be able to post daily entries as expected. After that comes a week of uncertain net access, though I'll still be writing an entry a day. Will upload them en masse when I can get some wifi signal, and date them accordingly. After that, back to semi-normal service - daily posts will be resumed. BUT - this is my last weigh-in until the 20th of September, on the grounds that weigh-ins have to be done on a consistent set of scales to be official, and I'll be away from those scales until that date. Three Tuesdays from now - even assuming a standard two-pound weightloss per week, I should have said goodbye to 17s by the time we next do this weigh-in lark.
Under no circumstances quote me on that!
"Yeah, that's well known," she said. "Something about the goo that comes out of porridge oats when you cook them bonds with sugars or some-such. It's recommended on the GI Diet (Glucose Index, if that's as new to you as it was to me). So nehh - I'm not mental after all.
Well, not on the porridge thing, anyway.
Had a nice life-affirming moment this morning. My boss has been off for a month (which is the kind of thing bosses can do, apparently. Note to self: REALLY, work for yourself!), so when I walked in this morning he sort of exploded.
"Tony! My God man, where've you gone? That regime of yours is definitely working!"
He must want something - he's probably gonna cancel Christmas or somesuch. If the other shoe drops any time soon, I'll letcha know.
But, on the positive side, his reaction does underline a basic truth about today.
Weigh-in: 17 stone 5.25!!!
That's a loss of 3.75 pounds this week, but more importantly, to Brits anyway, I've smashed the three-stone weightloss barrier. Three stone, 2.25 pounds, actually - which, if you happen to have my kind of brain, means only 11.75 pounds away from the four stone barrier! Or, put another way, four more weeks exactly like this one would put me over four stone. Not that I expect that to happen for a second, but that's the maths for you. On the same principle, two more weeks exactly like this, and I'll be weighing in at 16 stone some-odd, rather than 17 stone some-odd. That'll be pretty cool.
Well Hell, let's take a moment and say THIS is pretty cool. After 2.5 stone, I felt like I'd done the training-wheel section, and 3 stone would be the first proper, grown-up, big-boy marker. So awoohoo for the first proper, grown-up, big-boy marker. I've done a third of the journey in a half of the original allotted time. Feels damn good.
People appear to be queuing up to give me analogues of my progress so far. My mother mentioned this morning that I've now lost the equivalent of 88 packets of butter (in Britain. I can make no comparison for countries that sell butter in sticks). It's not a huge figure, but you could still make a fairly decent model pyramid out of it, and then, in my case, walk away and leave it behind.
Friend of mine this morning likened it to my normal ten-mile nightly bike-ride. This, she said, was the 3.3 mile stage. Another friend always told me it got easier after the first third, which between them, make up an interesting analogy to me at the minute, because currently, I do 3.5 miles on level 10 of the bike's resistance, and the remaining 6.5 on level 8, so that has a certain resonance to me - although it could all too easily lead me to believe that the hard bit is over, which is a dangerous conceit for me.
And while in a meeting this morning, I found myself idly calculating. If a marathon is 26 miles (I'm not quibbling about a couple of hundred yards, frankly), then at the moment, I've done 8.66 miles of it. Only 17.32 miles to go.
That really didn't help, in terms of my day, but it's probably the most realistic analogue I've found so far. Still a long long way to go, but we have at least done eight and two third miles that we'll never have to do again. So, if we've done the one-third stage, the next big marker is the halfway point (13 miles of the marathon, or 4.5 stone of weightloss). This is a cool way for me to think about it, because I'm past the 3 stone point, about a third of a way to the 3.5 stone point, then the 4 stone barrier will be another celebration, leaving me just another half-stone before it's major celebration time and we've gone half way.
Now, back to business. As I've mentioned before, I'm going on holiday. The holiday actually starts this coming Saturday. Up till then, I'll be able to post daily entries as expected. After that comes a week of uncertain net access, though I'll still be writing an entry a day. Will upload them en masse when I can get some wifi signal, and date them accordingly. After that, back to semi-normal service - daily posts will be resumed. BUT - this is my last weigh-in until the 20th of September, on the grounds that weigh-ins have to be done on a consistent set of scales to be official, and I'll be away from those scales until that date. Three Tuesdays from now - even assuming a standard two-pound weightloss per week, I should have said goodbye to 17s by the time we next do this weigh-in lark.
Under no circumstances quote me on that!
Monday, 29 August 2011
Camden Town
See - not to obsess about this, but had oatmeal last thing last night - blood this morning was 4.8. d had NO oatmeal, blood was 13.8. Case closed on the oatmeal diet, not gonna keep on about it any more...
Honest...
Oh, now before we begin in earnest, one of my pack of Karens (Karen Pulley, in this case), once told me, early on in this experiment, that the Disappearing Man blog was a thing that many women would probably identify with, only "you're a bit more honest than I probably would be about some things..."
If you happen to be at all squeamish...this is probably not the entry for you. Look away now if you don't want to know the score, as they used to say on the football results before my weekly Doctor Who injection. This...this is not gonna be pretty.
Today was a bizarre mixture of temptation and mortification. My god-daughters were in town.
No, of course that's not the reason for either the temptation or the mortification. Eww. Stick around and I'll tell you.
So, both my god-daughters, and their mother, came in for a day in London with d and I. d and I had time for breakfast before we met them, so we popped to McDonalds, and I had oatmeal. I know - quelle surprise, right? I also, like a good little Disappearing Man, took my pills...including my morning Xenical. (Xenical, for those who haven't been keeping up, is the drug that grabs hold of fat molecules in anything you eat, and tells them, in no uncertain terms, to get the fuck out).
We went to meet the girls, who, being too cool by half wanted to go to Camden. We went. While we were walking around, my insides were gurgling, but not, I thought, to any particular effect. When the girls decided they were hungry, we went for lunch. There are many food stalls in Camden Market, and Epona (the younger of my god-daughters), particularly wanted to sit at what, I have to admit, was a dead cool serving counter - the seats were all defunct scooters. Now, as it happened, mine had a black leather seat, with some of the leather torn off and the cream-coloured foam padding exposed.
The rumbling in my innards continued, and by the end of the meal I also needed to pee. I got up to find the bathrooms.
"Erm..." said d.
She blinked.
"Are you...erm...leaking, honey?" she asked.
"Not that I know of," I assured her. "Why?"
She pointed to the bike seat. The black leather was glistening in a suspiciously oily way, and the exposed foam padding had a dark orange stain on it.
"Nah," I said, grinning. "That's just Camden, honey. The grottiness is part of the charm."
"I dunno," said my skeptical wife. "That oil looks...kinda fresh. Go take your rubbish to the bin. I'll...erm...spot you."
I did. She did.
"Yep," she confirmed. "It's you."
"Arse," I said.
"Yes dear," she agreed. I hurried off to find the bathroom. She was right. My underwear was soaked with horrid oily orange...ness, that had leaked through my jeans, and stained the bike seat (Sorry, by the way - if you go to Camden, avoid the ass-juice scooter!). How it had done that without me at least knowing about it is rather complicated.
You see, normally, you must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a fart is just a fart. But sometimes, when taking Xenical, a fart is more like a raspberry that your arse blows - feels like a fart, sounds like a fart, acts more or less like a muck spreader. One of my gurgles had apparently been such a raspberry. I wiped everything down as best I could (including the underwear itself), made myself as presentable as possible and headed back out to meet d. She handed me a bottle of water.
"Ah, just the job," I said. "I need to take my second Xenical..."
Yeah. I know.
That is to say, I know now! In the interests of honest reporting, I should tell you that d did raise her eyebrows at me.
"Seriously?" she said. "After what just happened to you, you're gonna take another of those pills...now?"
Note to self - listen to the wife - she's more often than not the one carrying the family brain.
Oh, incidentally - lunch? Chicken Fajita. That's chicken, sour cream, sauce, guacamole, cheese...
Next stop after Camden was Forbidden Planet, up by Seven Dials. I should say that, following my morning gurgle, I had fashioned what in other circumstances would probably be described as an anal sanitary napkin, but which, being the accomplished wordsmith you all know me to me, I call a Wodge, and basically padded myself up against any, surely unlikely, recurrence of the morning's nightmare.
Did I mention the chicken the sour cream, the sauce, the guacamole, the cheese...?
So - Forbidden Planet. Brianna, the elder of the two god-daughters is a huge Harry Potter and Who fan, and her younger sister, Epona, is apparently a talented artist, keen to get into the comic-drawing business. So the Planet had something to appeal to them both. As for me - chance to wallow in my geekness? Not too shabby for Tony. I'd done my first circuit when I met back up with d.
"Hey, I just thought," she said, waving her swanky newish smartphone at me, "great opportunity to try out the barcode-scanner app - go and scan the bejeesus out of the Harry Potter stuff for B, y'never know, might be cool for Christmas-"
BAM!
My ass belched.
"Ohhh God," I murmured, now attuned to the raspberrying sensation.
"What?" she said.
"Gotta go," I explained. "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go..."
"Go!" she said, catching on.
I accosted - which is a polite way of saying "practically rugby-tackled" a spotty young assistant as he bounded down the stairs, full of life's optimism and vigour.
"Scuse me," I demanded, squelching slightly from leg to leg. "Is there a bathroom in the store?"
"Err...no sir - there's plenty of cafes across the road-"
I was already limping out, crossing the road, cursing the Metropolitan mindset that said "Sure, come, spend your money, but don't dare use our bog-roll".
There must have been something of an air of desperation about me (at least, I hope that's all the air that was about me), because cafe-owner after cafe-owner denied having anything so plebian and downright useful as a "bathroom" on the premises, so I John-Wayned my way further and further away from the Planet, looking for that great British institution, the pub.
Found one a few streets away, called The Crown. I've always been something of a Republican (in the anti-Monarchy sense of the word), so I think it's fair to say I've never been so glad to see The Crown in my life. The gents bathroom was down a narrow winding wooden staircase, of the kind you see in horror movies leading to padded basements from which the protagonist never returns. The staircase ran beneath a low beam, with a sign on it saying "Low Beam - Mind Your Head" - which would have been a great and useful warning, had I seen it before I banged my head on it. Not having had a lot of luck going downstairs lately, I steadied myself.
No Time! screamed my wretched underwear, and I scuttled down the last few steps. The gents bathroom was basically a store cupboard, with one stall and two urinals. It was empty. As I locked the door of the stall behind me, a nagging down played through my mind. If the toilet's out of order, or if there's no paper...
It wasn't. There was. I pulled down my jeans, reached back...
My Wodge was soaked right through and bright, j'accuse, orange. It dropped into the bowl with a splat that said "I shouldn't have to put up with this shit, you know!"
My ass, frankly, exploded again...and again...and again. I did the re-mopping, re-drying.
Then I heard the outside door open. There was someone else waiting to use the stall. It opened again. There was a word or two of, if not conversation, then at least acknowledgment of each other's existence. I stood up, flushed...
And a bright orange, greasy paper jellyfish rose up the bowl at me, seeming to expand with every second, the water like an over-oily bolognaise, filling the bowl to the brim.
Nooooooo! I wept inside my skull. There were blokes out there, waiting to use the toilet, who now a) wouldn't be able to, and b) would know, absolutely, that I was responsible for their predicament. There's a wholly inaccurate truism (does that make it a falsism?) that says there are no atheists in foxholes. As I say, that's completely untrue, but let me tell you, I came close this afternoon to proving that there are no atheists in pub toilets when faced with angry impatient men who need to shit and a giant oily octopus that's flooded the only bowl.
Fortunately, as I was contemplating bashing my head against the toilet wall, feigning amnesia and pretending no knowledge of the nightmare in the bowl behind me, something in the pipes gurgled (the toilet's pipes, I should say, not my own this time), and swallowed the evil orange jellyfish down to sewage Hell. I raised my eyes to the skies, not so much to say Thank You, as to darkly mutter You're Taking The Piss Now, You Know That?
It seemed as good a time to leave as I was going to get, so I unbolted the door.
Both the men were standing at the urinals. They hadn't even wanted to use the toilet.
Seriously, We Need To Talk About Your Sense Of Humour...I thought, in a vaguely upwardly direction. I made my way back to the Planet (no, I didn't even buy a drink in The Crown. Yes, I really am that cheap). Brianna came pelting in after me.
"We're not here any more," she explained. I thought about explaining right back that surely we were, or there wouldn't have been a here for us to not be in, but decided against it.
"Been looking for you," she said. "We're at a cafe across the road."
As it happened, "we" were at the first cafe I'd tried, the one where the surly, burly, hairy man behind the counter had pronounced "no sir, we have no bathroom," with an inflection that made it sound like "get out of here now, scumbag, before I set the dogs on you."
"Who's up for ice-cream?" said d.
You know, I love my wife dearly and with all my heart, but sometimes, jussssst sometimes, I think we need to talk about her sense of humour too. Anyhow, it turned out everybody was up for ice-cream, so we walked back down towards Trafalger Square, to the ice-cream parlour we discovered the night of Much Ado. Everybody had cones. I banged my head softly on the counter, nearly broke a couple of nails, and ordered a de-caff latte...which was just peachy. Fun and frolics ensued with the Lions of Trafalgar Square, and we took the girls and their mother back to Waterloo to catch their train home. Before getting our own tube, d popped to the bathroom at Waterloo. I wandered round a big open sweet stall...sniffing. Interestingly, I could make out the distinct aromas of the coconut mushrooms, the cola bottles, the licourice whips and so on. Then I caught a gang of kids on the other side of the stall eyeing me suspiciously, and it dawned on me that a nearly-40-year-old fat bloke going around sniffing a sweet stall was probably one of the more disturbing images they'd encountered in their callow, innocent lives.
I wandered off, trying to affect an air of Nothing To See Here...
I almost whistled, but thought better of it at the last moment.
We came home, and I threw my horribly mistreated clothes in the washing machine and jumped in the shower. Then I jumped on here to write this.
Now I'm jumping off again and jumping on the bike.
Hey, whaddaya want from me? It is Monday night, after all!
Oh, and by the way: Stool softeners tonight? Nnnnnnot so much!
Honest...
Oh, now before we begin in earnest, one of my pack of Karens (Karen Pulley, in this case), once told me, early on in this experiment, that the Disappearing Man blog was a thing that many women would probably identify with, only "you're a bit more honest than I probably would be about some things..."
If you happen to be at all squeamish...this is probably not the entry for you. Look away now if you don't want to know the score, as they used to say on the football results before my weekly Doctor Who injection. This...this is not gonna be pretty.
Today was a bizarre mixture of temptation and mortification. My god-daughters were in town.
No, of course that's not the reason for either the temptation or the mortification. Eww. Stick around and I'll tell you.
So, both my god-daughters, and their mother, came in for a day in London with d and I. d and I had time for breakfast before we met them, so we popped to McDonalds, and I had oatmeal. I know - quelle surprise, right? I also, like a good little Disappearing Man, took my pills...including my morning Xenical. (Xenical, for those who haven't been keeping up, is the drug that grabs hold of fat molecules in anything you eat, and tells them, in no uncertain terms, to get the fuck out).
We went to meet the girls, who, being too cool by half wanted to go to Camden. We went. While we were walking around, my insides were gurgling, but not, I thought, to any particular effect. When the girls decided they were hungry, we went for lunch. There are many food stalls in Camden Market, and Epona (the younger of my god-daughters), particularly wanted to sit at what, I have to admit, was a dead cool serving counter - the seats were all defunct scooters. Now, as it happened, mine had a black leather seat, with some of the leather torn off and the cream-coloured foam padding exposed.
The rumbling in my innards continued, and by the end of the meal I also needed to pee. I got up to find the bathrooms.
"Erm..." said d.
She blinked.
"Are you...erm...leaking, honey?" she asked.
"Not that I know of," I assured her. "Why?"
She pointed to the bike seat. The black leather was glistening in a suspiciously oily way, and the exposed foam padding had a dark orange stain on it.
"Nah," I said, grinning. "That's just Camden, honey. The grottiness is part of the charm."
"I dunno," said my skeptical wife. "That oil looks...kinda fresh. Go take your rubbish to the bin. I'll...erm...spot you."
I did. She did.
"Yep," she confirmed. "It's you."
"Arse," I said.
"Yes dear," she agreed. I hurried off to find the bathroom. She was right. My underwear was soaked with horrid oily orange...ness, that had leaked through my jeans, and stained the bike seat (Sorry, by the way - if you go to Camden, avoid the ass-juice scooter!). How it had done that without me at least knowing about it is rather complicated.
You see, normally, you must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a fart is just a fart. But sometimes, when taking Xenical, a fart is more like a raspberry that your arse blows - feels like a fart, sounds like a fart, acts more or less like a muck spreader. One of my gurgles had apparently been such a raspberry. I wiped everything down as best I could (including the underwear itself), made myself as presentable as possible and headed back out to meet d. She handed me a bottle of water.
"Ah, just the job," I said. "I need to take my second Xenical..."
Yeah. I know.
That is to say, I know now! In the interests of honest reporting, I should tell you that d did raise her eyebrows at me.
"Seriously?" she said. "After what just happened to you, you're gonna take another of those pills...now?"
Note to self - listen to the wife - she's more often than not the one carrying the family brain.
Oh, incidentally - lunch? Chicken Fajita. That's chicken, sour cream, sauce, guacamole, cheese...
Next stop after Camden was Forbidden Planet, up by Seven Dials. I should say that, following my morning gurgle, I had fashioned what in other circumstances would probably be described as an anal sanitary napkin, but which, being the accomplished wordsmith you all know me to me, I call a Wodge, and basically padded myself up against any, surely unlikely, recurrence of the morning's nightmare.
Did I mention the chicken the sour cream, the sauce, the guacamole, the cheese...?
So - Forbidden Planet. Brianna, the elder of the two god-daughters is a huge Harry Potter and Who fan, and her younger sister, Epona, is apparently a talented artist, keen to get into the comic-drawing business. So the Planet had something to appeal to them both. As for me - chance to wallow in my geekness? Not too shabby for Tony. I'd done my first circuit when I met back up with d.
"Hey, I just thought," she said, waving her swanky newish smartphone at me, "great opportunity to try out the barcode-scanner app - go and scan the bejeesus out of the Harry Potter stuff for B, y'never know, might be cool for Christmas-"
BAM!
My ass belched.
"Ohhh God," I murmured, now attuned to the raspberrying sensation.
"What?" she said.
"Gotta go," I explained. "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go..."
"Go!" she said, catching on.
I accosted - which is a polite way of saying "practically rugby-tackled" a spotty young assistant as he bounded down the stairs, full of life's optimism and vigour.
"Scuse me," I demanded, squelching slightly from leg to leg. "Is there a bathroom in the store?"
"Err...no sir - there's plenty of cafes across the road-"
I was already limping out, crossing the road, cursing the Metropolitan mindset that said "Sure, come, spend your money, but don't dare use our bog-roll".
There must have been something of an air of desperation about me (at least, I hope that's all the air that was about me), because cafe-owner after cafe-owner denied having anything so plebian and downright useful as a "bathroom" on the premises, so I John-Wayned my way further and further away from the Planet, looking for that great British institution, the pub.
Found one a few streets away, called The Crown. I've always been something of a Republican (in the anti-Monarchy sense of the word), so I think it's fair to say I've never been so glad to see The Crown in my life. The gents bathroom was down a narrow winding wooden staircase, of the kind you see in horror movies leading to padded basements from which the protagonist never returns. The staircase ran beneath a low beam, with a sign on it saying "Low Beam - Mind Your Head" - which would have been a great and useful warning, had I seen it before I banged my head on it. Not having had a lot of luck going downstairs lately, I steadied myself.
No Time! screamed my wretched underwear, and I scuttled down the last few steps. The gents bathroom was basically a store cupboard, with one stall and two urinals. It was empty. As I locked the door of the stall behind me, a nagging down played through my mind. If the toilet's out of order, or if there's no paper...
It wasn't. There was. I pulled down my jeans, reached back...
My Wodge was soaked right through and bright, j'accuse, orange. It dropped into the bowl with a splat that said "I shouldn't have to put up with this shit, you know!"
My ass, frankly, exploded again...and again...and again. I did the re-mopping, re-drying.
Then I heard the outside door open. There was someone else waiting to use the stall. It opened again. There was a word or two of, if not conversation, then at least acknowledgment of each other's existence. I stood up, flushed...
And a bright orange, greasy paper jellyfish rose up the bowl at me, seeming to expand with every second, the water like an over-oily bolognaise, filling the bowl to the brim.
Nooooooo! I wept inside my skull. There were blokes out there, waiting to use the toilet, who now a) wouldn't be able to, and b) would know, absolutely, that I was responsible for their predicament. There's a wholly inaccurate truism (does that make it a falsism?) that says there are no atheists in foxholes. As I say, that's completely untrue, but let me tell you, I came close this afternoon to proving that there are no atheists in pub toilets when faced with angry impatient men who need to shit and a giant oily octopus that's flooded the only bowl.
Fortunately, as I was contemplating bashing my head against the toilet wall, feigning amnesia and pretending no knowledge of the nightmare in the bowl behind me, something in the pipes gurgled (the toilet's pipes, I should say, not my own this time), and swallowed the evil orange jellyfish down to sewage Hell. I raised my eyes to the skies, not so much to say Thank You, as to darkly mutter You're Taking The Piss Now, You Know That?
It seemed as good a time to leave as I was going to get, so I unbolted the door.
Both the men were standing at the urinals. They hadn't even wanted to use the toilet.
Seriously, We Need To Talk About Your Sense Of Humour...I thought, in a vaguely upwardly direction. I made my way back to the Planet (no, I didn't even buy a drink in The Crown. Yes, I really am that cheap). Brianna came pelting in after me.
"We're not here any more," she explained. I thought about explaining right back that surely we were, or there wouldn't have been a here for us to not be in, but decided against it.
"Been looking for you," she said. "We're at a cafe across the road."
As it happened, "we" were at the first cafe I'd tried, the one where the surly, burly, hairy man behind the counter had pronounced "no sir, we have no bathroom," with an inflection that made it sound like "get out of here now, scumbag, before I set the dogs on you."
"Who's up for ice-cream?" said d.
You know, I love my wife dearly and with all my heart, but sometimes, jussssst sometimes, I think we need to talk about her sense of humour too. Anyhow, it turned out everybody was up for ice-cream, so we walked back down towards Trafalger Square, to the ice-cream parlour we discovered the night of Much Ado. Everybody had cones. I banged my head softly on the counter, nearly broke a couple of nails, and ordered a de-caff latte...which was just peachy. Fun and frolics ensued with the Lions of Trafalgar Square, and we took the girls and their mother back to Waterloo to catch their train home. Before getting our own tube, d popped to the bathroom at Waterloo. I wandered round a big open sweet stall...sniffing. Interestingly, I could make out the distinct aromas of the coconut mushrooms, the cola bottles, the licourice whips and so on. Then I caught a gang of kids on the other side of the stall eyeing me suspiciously, and it dawned on me that a nearly-40-year-old fat bloke going around sniffing a sweet stall was probably one of the more disturbing images they'd encountered in their callow, innocent lives.
I wandered off, trying to affect an air of Nothing To See Here...
I almost whistled, but thought better of it at the last moment.
We came home, and I threw my horribly mistreated clothes in the washing machine and jumped in the shower. Then I jumped on here to write this.
Now I'm jumping off again and jumping on the bike.
Hey, whaddaya want from me? It is Monday night, after all!
Oh, and by the way: Stool softeners tonight? Nnnnnnot so much!
Sunday, 28 August 2011
Are You There 40, It's Me Tony
See - definitive proof - didn't have oatmeal last night. Blood this morning was 6.2. Oatmeal is a blood sugar depressant, I tell ya.
Annnyway, how the Hell are we all? I was reminded of a Douglas Adams quote tonight while on the bike.
"Well, the hours are good. Though now you come to mention it, most of the minutes are pretty lousy..."
It struck me that when all this is over and I'm whatever size and whatever activity level I'm going to be at the end of it all, I'll look back on it fondly, with laughter and memories and wry smiles at all the mails of support. I have a feeling I won't actually remember how bloody, back-snappingly, life-drainingly hard some of it feels while I'm actually doing it. See - the hours will be good, even though most of the minutes are pretty lousy. Knew a lot more than he thought he did, that man.
It was as I was thinking about all this, to ignore the small numbers on the bike's milometer and the nauseating boredom of effective exercise, that 40 tapped me on the shoulder and shuffled into the room.
I've always maintained that age is just a convenient number we attach to ourselves based on hard available evidence - it's a day count, basically, not an energy count, an enthusiasm count or anything else. Nothing dramatically wonderful, nor dramatically awful, has to happen to you simply because you reach birthdays with a zero at the end of them.
And it was while I was thiniking that that 40 coughed, respectfully, like Jeeves in the PG Wodehouse stories, and murmured "Actually sir, I think you'll find you're talking bollocks..."
"I say, 40," I thought, getting perhaps rather too much into character. "Are you sure?"
40 reminded me of what happened as I approached my 30th birthday (which would be ten years ago, for those not good with the maths or just not keeping up). My "list of stuff to do" had some fairly typically 30ish stuff on it - "have at least my first drum lesson," "get published within a year," and "save the world" were notable additions as I approached the not-really-so-freakin'-big-after-all-3-0.
On my 30th birthday, I was taken for the first, and, probably mercifully for civilisation as a whole, my last ever drum lesson, so the day had at least a sense of box-ticking satisfaction to it. And the whole "save the world" thing manifested itself as a growing restlessness working for corporate entities. I wanted to go off and be part of something bigger than myself - and not really that long afterwards, I got a job at a trade union, and then a charity, to fulfill the urge that had started growing in me on the upswing to my thirtieth birthday.
As I pedalled tonight, I examined my ambitions for 40. "Get a Kindle," seemed to burn bright among them, not even so much because of a craving for the gadget itself, but because the alternative is packing up all my books and lugging them to our new home, wherever and whenever we move. Seemed a very 40ish ambition, that. Bollocks to rock and roll rebellion and making a big noise, just give me a comfy chair and a Kindle...
"Get published within a year" is still there, irritating away like an itch that won't shut the Hell up till it finally gets scratched. And in place of the world-saving, which by the way, I'm soooo over, something I've never had an inkling to do till now has surfaced.
"Work for yourself," it says. "Put something out into the world, regularly, that people like, and are prepared to pay for. A humorous magazine, probably."
Now, I have no idea where that came from, but it surfaced in me last time I was home in Merthyr, a sudden urge to - as it originally announced itself to me - "Do a Ben Franklin". Nooooo idea if it's feasible, especially in this climate. Although of course it could be argued that this climate is precisely when people might be most prepared to pay for a regular, guaranteed, better-than-freakin'-lolcatz laugh. So who knows? I only know that when I got the urge to 'save the world,' I did it in a fashion that was good enough at least for my brain. So - might be one to watch, that.
And finally, as I opened my eyes and saw the numbers had grown agreeably on the bike, I realised another thing. As much as anything, this is why I'm doing all this - why I'm enjoying the hours and loathing some of the minutes, and doing the bloody things anyway: If life begins at 40...you've got to be there. You've got to be able to take advantage of everything you've learned, and put it to use. You've got to live, and be reasonably healthy (within the scope of your body's abilities), or you haven't got what it takes to do what you want to do.
And so I carried on pedalling.
Annnyway, how the Hell are we all? I was reminded of a Douglas Adams quote tonight while on the bike.
"Well, the hours are good. Though now you come to mention it, most of the minutes are pretty lousy..."
It struck me that when all this is over and I'm whatever size and whatever activity level I'm going to be at the end of it all, I'll look back on it fondly, with laughter and memories and wry smiles at all the mails of support. I have a feeling I won't actually remember how bloody, back-snappingly, life-drainingly hard some of it feels while I'm actually doing it. See - the hours will be good, even though most of the minutes are pretty lousy. Knew a lot more than he thought he did, that man.
It was as I was thinking about all this, to ignore the small numbers on the bike's milometer and the nauseating boredom of effective exercise, that 40 tapped me on the shoulder and shuffled into the room.
I've always maintained that age is just a convenient number we attach to ourselves based on hard available evidence - it's a day count, basically, not an energy count, an enthusiasm count or anything else. Nothing dramatically wonderful, nor dramatically awful, has to happen to you simply because you reach birthdays with a zero at the end of them.
And it was while I was thiniking that that 40 coughed, respectfully, like Jeeves in the PG Wodehouse stories, and murmured "Actually sir, I think you'll find you're talking bollocks..."
"I say, 40," I thought, getting perhaps rather too much into character. "Are you sure?"
40 reminded me of what happened as I approached my 30th birthday (which would be ten years ago, for those not good with the maths or just not keeping up). My "list of stuff to do" had some fairly typically 30ish stuff on it - "have at least my first drum lesson," "get published within a year," and "save the world" were notable additions as I approached the not-really-so-freakin'-big-after-all-3-0.
On my 30th birthday, I was taken for the first, and, probably mercifully for civilisation as a whole, my last ever drum lesson, so the day had at least a sense of box-ticking satisfaction to it. And the whole "save the world" thing manifested itself as a growing restlessness working for corporate entities. I wanted to go off and be part of something bigger than myself - and not really that long afterwards, I got a job at a trade union, and then a charity, to fulfill the urge that had started growing in me on the upswing to my thirtieth birthday.
As I pedalled tonight, I examined my ambitions for 40. "Get a Kindle," seemed to burn bright among them, not even so much because of a craving for the gadget itself, but because the alternative is packing up all my books and lugging them to our new home, wherever and whenever we move. Seemed a very 40ish ambition, that. Bollocks to rock and roll rebellion and making a big noise, just give me a comfy chair and a Kindle...
"Get published within a year" is still there, irritating away like an itch that won't shut the Hell up till it finally gets scratched. And in place of the world-saving, which by the way, I'm soooo over, something I've never had an inkling to do till now has surfaced.
"Work for yourself," it says. "Put something out into the world, regularly, that people like, and are prepared to pay for. A humorous magazine, probably."
Now, I have no idea where that came from, but it surfaced in me last time I was home in Merthyr, a sudden urge to - as it originally announced itself to me - "Do a Ben Franklin". Nooooo idea if it's feasible, especially in this climate. Although of course it could be argued that this climate is precisely when people might be most prepared to pay for a regular, guaranteed, better-than-freakin'-lolcatz laugh. So who knows? I only know that when I got the urge to 'save the world,' I did it in a fashion that was good enough at least for my brain. So - might be one to watch, that.
And finally, as I opened my eyes and saw the numbers had grown agreeably on the bike, I realised another thing. As much as anything, this is why I'm doing all this - why I'm enjoying the hours and loathing some of the minutes, and doing the bloody things anyway: If life begins at 40...you've got to be there. You've got to be able to take advantage of everything you've learned, and put it to use. You've got to live, and be reasonably healthy (within the scope of your body's abilities), or you haven't got what it takes to do what you want to do.
And so I carried on pedalling.
Saturday, 27 August 2011
Under Pressure, My Ass!
Blood was 4.8 this morning - proving, if anyone's interested, that late-night porridge, in small doses - not such a bad thing for the blood sugar. Who knew? There's probably a research grant I'm failing to take advantage of. Maybe I could write a thesis - "Porridge Rocks, And I'll Deck Anyone Who Says Different: Experiments In Consequential Oatmeal."
No?
Anyhow, d was still almost ridiculously sick this morning, so I did a quick drug run to the pharmacy. Did you know you can't get cough medicine with Codeine any more? Buggered if I did, but apparently, and I quote, "People abused it."
How the fuck desperate have you got to be to think "I'm down on my luck, nothing much is going my way...time to get high on Codeine!"?
Maybe I'm showing my age now - maybe Codeine and Alcopops are the latest craze down the rave bars...
If so, it's just too sad for words, isn't it? Makes you want to give the little mentalists some money for Crack, just so long as we can have freakin' cough medicine that works!
Anyhow, that little trip of about 200 steps all told is about as energetic as I got all day. The long and the short of it is I have a lot to do before we go away on Friday (did I mention - was gonna be going on Tuesday: now going on Friday, as the result of a surgeon's mother up and irresponsibly dying at an inconvenient moment. Don't suppose anyone needs a one-way ticket to Methyr on Tuesday, do they?), but most of what I have to do involves not actually moving very much at all - most of it is writing to do by deadlines. Which has meant that as d regained her mojo throughout the day...and then lost it again as evening came...I've been pretty much immune to everything she's done. Which has turned out to be a Hell of a lot - she's boxed up an almost insane amount of the kitchen, adding even more to the refugee chic of our lives in this flat. And all the while, I've been sitting here, growing carbuncles on my ass, writing. In my defence, it's stuff that has to be done, and may yet have a positive effect on our lives, but it's enough to make you feel more than a little crappy when your poorly sick wife is doing what would, by any sane and sober observer, be called 'the hard graft.'
Paused, briefly, to watch the new Dr Who of course. Any thoughts? Quite liked it as episodes go - not exactly inconsequential, but hardly sturm and drang. Best line - probably have to go with Rory again - "Hitler - in the cupboard!"
That'll be appearing on T-shirts soon, I guarantee it.
But that was pretty much a brief sojourn from 'sitting on my ass' to 'laying on my ass.' Hardly what you'd call demanding stuff. Of course, I did my daily hour of cycling, and now, as the clock screams towards 11PM, I'm kinda tempted to do another.
Still, if I'm learning anything on this journey, it's how to resist temptaion. Instead, I think I may go and do some thoroughly arduous 'laying in bed scratching myself.' And, hopefully, some proper writing - some me-time, not-boring, not-deadlined writing. For reasons that will be clear to absolutely none of you, (except, now I think about it, Tig), Gallileo Gallilei won't leave me the Hell alone. Which is probably just as well.
Enigmatic, eh?
Hope so - I've got an Enigmatic Bollocks quota to make you know, and I'm behind schedule - I have to say twelve enigmatic, pretentious things by this time Monday. I'm sure I'll make it, but still, another deadline. It's all pressure, this life you know...
No?
Anyhow, d was still almost ridiculously sick this morning, so I did a quick drug run to the pharmacy. Did you know you can't get cough medicine with Codeine any more? Buggered if I did, but apparently, and I quote, "People abused it."
How the fuck desperate have you got to be to think "I'm down on my luck, nothing much is going my way...time to get high on Codeine!"?
Maybe I'm showing my age now - maybe Codeine and Alcopops are the latest craze down the rave bars...
If so, it's just too sad for words, isn't it? Makes you want to give the little mentalists some money for Crack, just so long as we can have freakin' cough medicine that works!
Anyhow, that little trip of about 200 steps all told is about as energetic as I got all day. The long and the short of it is I have a lot to do before we go away on Friday (did I mention - was gonna be going on Tuesday: now going on Friday, as the result of a surgeon's mother up and irresponsibly dying at an inconvenient moment. Don't suppose anyone needs a one-way ticket to Methyr on Tuesday, do they?), but most of what I have to do involves not actually moving very much at all - most of it is writing to do by deadlines. Which has meant that as d regained her mojo throughout the day...and then lost it again as evening came...I've been pretty much immune to everything she's done. Which has turned out to be a Hell of a lot - she's boxed up an almost insane amount of the kitchen, adding even more to the refugee chic of our lives in this flat. And all the while, I've been sitting here, growing carbuncles on my ass, writing. In my defence, it's stuff that has to be done, and may yet have a positive effect on our lives, but it's enough to make you feel more than a little crappy when your poorly sick wife is doing what would, by any sane and sober observer, be called 'the hard graft.'
Paused, briefly, to watch the new Dr Who of course. Any thoughts? Quite liked it as episodes go - not exactly inconsequential, but hardly sturm and drang. Best line - probably have to go with Rory again - "Hitler - in the cupboard!"
That'll be appearing on T-shirts soon, I guarantee it.
But that was pretty much a brief sojourn from 'sitting on my ass' to 'laying on my ass.' Hardly what you'd call demanding stuff. Of course, I did my daily hour of cycling, and now, as the clock screams towards 11PM, I'm kinda tempted to do another.
Still, if I'm learning anything on this journey, it's how to resist temptaion. Instead, I think I may go and do some thoroughly arduous 'laying in bed scratching myself.' And, hopefully, some proper writing - some me-time, not-boring, not-deadlined writing. For reasons that will be clear to absolutely none of you, (except, now I think about it, Tig), Gallileo Gallilei won't leave me the Hell alone. Which is probably just as well.
Enigmatic, eh?
Hope so - I've got an Enigmatic Bollocks quota to make you know, and I'm behind schedule - I have to say twelve enigmatic, pretentious things by this time Monday. I'm sure I'll make it, but still, another deadline. It's all pressure, this life you know...
Friday, 26 August 2011
A Snapey Sort of Day
Blood of 5.4 this morning.
In other news, the Second Coming of the Lord was announced today by the biggest freaking deluge since Noah and the gang went mountain-surfing.
Now then...Walking in the rain...Two words:
Fuck...
NO!
That is to say, I always used to enjoy walking in the rain, in the days when I thought, to paraphrase Steven Moffat, that sad was "happy for deep people". And indeed, sometimes still today I enjoy a good meander in the rain (as I've mentioned once or twice during the course of this experiment), but on days like today, when the raindrops feel like freezing bully-fingers - no. After all, that's why I have a big-ass bike taking up half my living room; precisely so there's an alternative to traipsing through the pissing-down rain, and/or the snow, or the plague of frogs if need-be.
Today though has been precisely the kind of washed-out, mean-eyed, Snape-spirited day to try the patience of saints, and as I think we can all agree, I'm not one at the best of times.
The kind of pissing-down watercolour day on which your office is pretty much guaranteed to have a fire drill, meaning you're forced to stand about getting soaked while your existence is confirmed. The kind of day when every single option in the canteen brings its own practically morbid level of horribleness into your life. The kind of day when, if you're d, your lurgi descends to new levels of Voldemort-croaking, cough-till-you-nearly-pass-out crimson-faced grimness, and where, if you're me, a simple trip from a doorway to a bus-stop makes one of your favourite tee-shirts so soggy you put a thumb through it trying to pluck it off your frozen-flabbed frame.
I finally got on the bike when we got home, but tonight it wasn't a jolly romp through calorific dissolution. Tonight it was a slog through evil-fuckery, the bike growling and laughing simultaneously at my numb, protesting limbs. I finished my 500 calories, and then did what Denis Leary calls "the fuck-you dance," flashing V-signs at the illuminated screen.
It wasn't till I came out of the shower that the whole thing clicked into place.
"It is wrong to be craving oatmeal?" said d.
"Thankyou!" I breathed, relieved that apparently, it wasn't too stupid to say.
"Day hasn't felt right cos we didn't come home and have oatmeal." - We'd gone and had chicken instead, in case you're enthralled by such details.
"If I go make some, will you turn off the computer and come to bed?" she croaked at me, faux-seductively. I nodded, and she disappeared. A series of distant coughs later, she came bearing bowls. And as I gobbled down the gloopy glorious stuff, the warmth of it worked where everything else - and there's been plenty of good news today, incidentally - had failed. The world feels better now, with a weekend ahead and inspiration for writing re-inspired by my fellow Disappearing Friend, Tig, and Other Stuff to do that will make our world materially better.
See - don't underestimate the power of porridge, it makes the world a warmer, nicer place. Eat more porridge...
Just a suggestion.
In other news, the Second Coming of the Lord was announced today by the biggest freaking deluge since Noah and the gang went mountain-surfing.
Now then...Walking in the rain...Two words:
Fuck...
NO!
That is to say, I always used to enjoy walking in the rain, in the days when I thought, to paraphrase Steven Moffat, that sad was "happy for deep people". And indeed, sometimes still today I enjoy a good meander in the rain (as I've mentioned once or twice during the course of this experiment), but on days like today, when the raindrops feel like freezing bully-fingers - no. After all, that's why I have a big-ass bike taking up half my living room; precisely so there's an alternative to traipsing through the pissing-down rain, and/or the snow, or the plague of frogs if need-be.
Today though has been precisely the kind of washed-out, mean-eyed, Snape-spirited day to try the patience of saints, and as I think we can all agree, I'm not one at the best of times.
The kind of pissing-down watercolour day on which your office is pretty much guaranteed to have a fire drill, meaning you're forced to stand about getting soaked while your existence is confirmed. The kind of day when every single option in the canteen brings its own practically morbid level of horribleness into your life. The kind of day when, if you're d, your lurgi descends to new levels of Voldemort-croaking, cough-till-you-nearly-pass-out crimson-faced grimness, and where, if you're me, a simple trip from a doorway to a bus-stop makes one of your favourite tee-shirts so soggy you put a thumb through it trying to pluck it off your frozen-flabbed frame.
I finally got on the bike when we got home, but tonight it wasn't a jolly romp through calorific dissolution. Tonight it was a slog through evil-fuckery, the bike growling and laughing simultaneously at my numb, protesting limbs. I finished my 500 calories, and then did what Denis Leary calls "the fuck-you dance," flashing V-signs at the illuminated screen.
It wasn't till I came out of the shower that the whole thing clicked into place.
"It is wrong to be craving oatmeal?" said d.
"Thankyou!" I breathed, relieved that apparently, it wasn't too stupid to say.
"Day hasn't felt right cos we didn't come home and have oatmeal." - We'd gone and had chicken instead, in case you're enthralled by such details.
"If I go make some, will you turn off the computer and come to bed?" she croaked at me, faux-seductively. I nodded, and she disappeared. A series of distant coughs later, she came bearing bowls. And as I gobbled down the gloopy glorious stuff, the warmth of it worked where everything else - and there's been plenty of good news today, incidentally - had failed. The world feels better now, with a weekend ahead and inspiration for writing re-inspired by my fellow Disappearing Friend, Tig, and Other Stuff to do that will make our world materially better.
See - don't underestimate the power of porridge, it makes the world a warmer, nicer place. Eat more porridge...
Just a suggestion.
Thursday, 25 August 2011
Please, Sir...
Blood this morning was 5.3.
Yawn.
Did an improptu, unofficial weigh-in this morning...just because. Did a little happy dance after that, but clearly, not gonna tell you why - still have plennnty of opportunities to mess up the happy dance between now and Tuesday.
Made my nurse's jaw drop this morning, when she was talking about exercise, and I told her I semi-regularly walk from Stratford to Aldgate. Her jaw literally dropped open, and she squealed. Then, she did it again. Annnnd then again. Apparently, she thinks I'm mental. (Shrugs). So that was fun.
But mostly today I want to talk about a shift in my addiction.
Many of you will know I've taken to eating oatmeal (or porridge, for the Brits) for breakfast of a morning, for the whole low-cal, slow-release carbiness of it.
What perhaps is becoming slightly sick and weird is that I've started having it for dinner too.
I don't knoq what to tell you, it's like the Oatmeal Fairy has come and waved her wand around my taste-buds. And yes, I know there's still a world of glorious protein out there, but right now, it's very often the only thing I'm crrrrraving when I come home. Today, certainly, has been a two-bowl day.
And I know what you're all gonna say.
"Wow, dude, but oatmeal's pure carb, with milk in, way to eat healthy...NOT!"
Yeah, well, point 1 - it's whole grain and as I say, relatively low calorie (specially when made, as we do, with semi-skimmed milk), point 2, it's slow-release, so you feel good and full for a food long while, therefore subverting the urge to snack, point 3, it's not like that's ALL I'm eating - still trying to have a proper lunch and fruit throughout the day for vitamins and all that crazy healthy stuff, and finally, and I think most importantly, point 4, bite me. Bite my lily-white ass.
Ahhh, feel better now I've got that out of my system.
I do know of course that one does not get to good health by an overdose of oatmeal, and I daresay it's probably an infantile phase I'm going through - having come face to face with all the hidden sugars and carb-counts and calories in most of my beloved breakfast cereals, it's a kind of 'inner-child' equivalent of having nothing but ice-cream, I think, while still paying at least lip-service to Disappearing principles (such as they are).
I'll get past this obsession...really I will...I'm fairly confident Oatmeal doesn't screw you up, but even if it does, I can handle it...Just need to revel a while, then master my 'Inner Oliver' and push on down.
Incidentally, you know I've been wittering on about my upcoming two-week holiday out of web-range? Well, it now looks like what I'll actually be having is one week out of web-range, and a second week walking the hills and valleys of South Wales, so you won't all have to tear your hair out and go mad with missing my daily gibberish.
See, don't say I never do anything for you...
Yawn.
Did an improptu, unofficial weigh-in this morning...just because. Did a little happy dance after that, but clearly, not gonna tell you why - still have plennnty of opportunities to mess up the happy dance between now and Tuesday.
Made my nurse's jaw drop this morning, when she was talking about exercise, and I told her I semi-regularly walk from Stratford to Aldgate. Her jaw literally dropped open, and she squealed. Then, she did it again. Annnnd then again. Apparently, she thinks I'm mental. (Shrugs). So that was fun.
But mostly today I want to talk about a shift in my addiction.
Many of you will know I've taken to eating oatmeal (or porridge, for the Brits) for breakfast of a morning, for the whole low-cal, slow-release carbiness of it.
What perhaps is becoming slightly sick and weird is that I've started having it for dinner too.
I don't knoq what to tell you, it's like the Oatmeal Fairy has come and waved her wand around my taste-buds. And yes, I know there's still a world of glorious protein out there, but right now, it's very often the only thing I'm crrrrraving when I come home. Today, certainly, has been a two-bowl day.
And I know what you're all gonna say.
"Wow, dude, but oatmeal's pure carb, with milk in, way to eat healthy...NOT!"
Yeah, well, point 1 - it's whole grain and as I say, relatively low calorie (specially when made, as we do, with semi-skimmed milk), point 2, it's slow-release, so you feel good and full for a food long while, therefore subverting the urge to snack, point 3, it's not like that's ALL I'm eating - still trying to have a proper lunch and fruit throughout the day for vitamins and all that crazy healthy stuff, and finally, and I think most importantly, point 4, bite me. Bite my lily-white ass.
Ahhh, feel better now I've got that out of my system.
I do know of course that one does not get to good health by an overdose of oatmeal, and I daresay it's probably an infantile phase I'm going through - having come face to face with all the hidden sugars and carb-counts and calories in most of my beloved breakfast cereals, it's a kind of 'inner-child' equivalent of having nothing but ice-cream, I think, while still paying at least lip-service to Disappearing principles (such as they are).
I'll get past this obsession...really I will...I'm fairly confident Oatmeal doesn't screw you up, but even if it does, I can handle it...Just need to revel a while, then master my 'Inner Oliver' and push on down.
Incidentally, you know I've been wittering on about my upcoming two-week holiday out of web-range? Well, it now looks like what I'll actually be having is one week out of web-range, and a second week walking the hills and valleys of South Wales, so you won't all have to tear your hair out and go mad with missing my daily gibberish.
See, don't say I never do anything for you...
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
The Disappearing Masses
Blood was 5.3 this morning. Intrigued? Yeah, me neither - next!
d forwarded me an email today, from someone named Abbie. I don't know Abbie, never met the girl in my life, but she works in the same place as d. This confirms for me what I've pretty much always known - screw agents, I'll never have a better pimp than my wife.
Not that this was the point of course. The point was that I've never met Abbie, and yet, apparently, she reads this blog. I've only got 12 actual, official followers - for which, thanks - but I've known for a while that the readership of this mad experiment is bigger and broader than that. Ended up on a press trip with my old boss, and he referenced the blog. Picking up meds at the local pharmacy, d...what's the phrase...enthusiastically suggested...to our friend behind the counter that she read it. The guy who prints my day-job magazine reads it, and so does my ex-colleague who eworks with him...and so it goes on, this deliciously invisible network of Disappearers. I'm grateful for you all - this long since stopped being just a diary for me, it's become a driver, a disciplinarian, a sounding board, a flag for funny or curious or just plain weird incidents that happen to me day-to-day. And it's kinda cool to know you're out there, even in these odd little momentary ways.
Abbie had mailed d to say she'd enjoyed yesterday's blog, and that, apparently, I made morning train journeys enjoyable.
Had to laugh at that. I'd had one of those morning journeys that you have every now and then that make you wonder why, exactly, you put up with this shit and don't live on an island somewhere. People walking through me, other people jabbing their umbrellas into my groin, and all of us scurrying like rats in a horror movie, filled with our own importance. Kinda made we wonder what would happen if, next time I had one of those mornings, I stood up, struck a pose and shouted "Don't be jabbing me, beeeatch! I can make this shit enjoyable you know! Or NOT, if you piss me off!"
"...Today, a fat furry Welshman was stabbed to death on the District Line by disgruntled commuters..."
Turned out Abbie herself is a Disappearing Woman - she's doing Slimming World, and doing bloody well at it too - she was going for her weigh-in tonight, hoping to have lost her next two pounds, because she too is tickling a border - her 4 stone border (non-Brits, talk amongst yourselves, means a lot to us!). She said that if she gets to that border, she gets a treat - a hot chocolate.
I drifted off into a brief little fantasy about swimming through a lake of hot chocolate with my mouth open, but you've got to appreciate the power of treats. Now of course, it's a matter of record that I can't do treats, cos I'd turn them from treats into regularities, and collapse any semblance of will power on my part, but treats as a principle are fabulous - every time you hit a landmark, you feel like a treat, and it's a principle I use in the biking - except, being me, the treat I award myself for doing a mile is...not having to do that mile any more...
It occurs to me I may need remedial treat-training.
But the point, really, is to say a big what-up and you all rock to all Disappearing Folk everywhere, whatever method you use, and to those who read my rambling into what would otherwise be a digital wall. Some people have even - rather terrifyingly, I have to say - told me they're 'inspired' by this blog. Well I'm inspired by you lot. Inspired, and driven, and determined to push the Bastard Stubbornness that's in me to new, productive levels every day.
So...thanks for that.
d forwarded me an email today, from someone named Abbie. I don't know Abbie, never met the girl in my life, but she works in the same place as d. This confirms for me what I've pretty much always known - screw agents, I'll never have a better pimp than my wife.
Not that this was the point of course. The point was that I've never met Abbie, and yet, apparently, she reads this blog. I've only got 12 actual, official followers - for which, thanks - but I've known for a while that the readership of this mad experiment is bigger and broader than that. Ended up on a press trip with my old boss, and he referenced the blog. Picking up meds at the local pharmacy, d...what's the phrase...enthusiastically suggested...to our friend behind the counter that she read it. The guy who prints my day-job magazine reads it, and so does my ex-colleague who eworks with him...and so it goes on, this deliciously invisible network of Disappearers. I'm grateful for you all - this long since stopped being just a diary for me, it's become a driver, a disciplinarian, a sounding board, a flag for funny or curious or just plain weird incidents that happen to me day-to-day. And it's kinda cool to know you're out there, even in these odd little momentary ways.
Abbie had mailed d to say she'd enjoyed yesterday's blog, and that, apparently, I made morning train journeys enjoyable.
Had to laugh at that. I'd had one of those morning journeys that you have every now and then that make you wonder why, exactly, you put up with this shit and don't live on an island somewhere. People walking through me, other people jabbing their umbrellas into my groin, and all of us scurrying like rats in a horror movie, filled with our own importance. Kinda made we wonder what would happen if, next time I had one of those mornings, I stood up, struck a pose and shouted "Don't be jabbing me, beeeatch! I can make this shit enjoyable you know! Or NOT, if you piss me off!"
"...Today, a fat furry Welshman was stabbed to death on the District Line by disgruntled commuters..."
Turned out Abbie herself is a Disappearing Woman - she's doing Slimming World, and doing bloody well at it too - she was going for her weigh-in tonight, hoping to have lost her next two pounds, because she too is tickling a border - her 4 stone border (non-Brits, talk amongst yourselves, means a lot to us!). She said that if she gets to that border, she gets a treat - a hot chocolate.
I drifted off into a brief little fantasy about swimming through a lake of hot chocolate with my mouth open, but you've got to appreciate the power of treats. Now of course, it's a matter of record that I can't do treats, cos I'd turn them from treats into regularities, and collapse any semblance of will power on my part, but treats as a principle are fabulous - every time you hit a landmark, you feel like a treat, and it's a principle I use in the biking - except, being me, the treat I award myself for doing a mile is...not having to do that mile any more...
It occurs to me I may need remedial treat-training.
But the point, really, is to say a big what-up and you all rock to all Disappearing Folk everywhere, whatever method you use, and to those who read my rambling into what would otherwise be a digital wall. Some people have even - rather terrifyingly, I have to say - told me they're 'inspired' by this blog. Well I'm inspired by you lot. Inspired, and driven, and determined to push the Bastard Stubbornness that's in me to new, productive levels every day.
So...thanks for that.
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Tickling The Border
Tuesday, blah, weigh-in, blah.
17 stone 9.25 - WTF?!
Y'see, people are bound to be thinking by now that I deliberately low-ball expectations on a Monday night, just so I can turn up on Tuesday all triumphant and woohooing. I don't. I'm just really that freakin' clueless...
So - a loss of 1.75 pounds on last week. 1.75, not 2. Gotta tell ya, that irks me just a little bit. Yeah, I know, last night I said I'd be happy to just stay stationery, but it's the somehow-slightly-meanness of the thing that is irksome. It's like someone offered you a whole carot, and then when you went ot bite it...
No, wait a second, that analogy only works for rabbits and my mother.
It's like someone offered you a whole eclair, and then when you went to bite it, they drew it back, Lucy-from-Peanuts style, and left you with just half an eclair.
Still, on the hey nonny nonny side, half an eclair is better than a bagfull of carrots. And in my case, 1.75 pounds means I'm, perversley enough, just 1.75 pounds away from the three stone barrier. So steady as she goes, with perhaps a little more ass-kick this week, and I should reach that border before the end of August.
I was just talking to d about that. The end of August will mean I've been doing this mad, mad thing for six whole months now. Half the time I originally alloted for it. And, if I can break the three stone in that time, it'll be a third of the way to my ideal weight. Again, two ways of looking at that - the Woe is me route which says I've only gone a third of the way in a half of the time, or the proof of Stubborn Bastardy concept route, putting beyond reasonable doubt the fact that I can do good work if I put my mind, my will and the sanity of those who love me to it. Definitely choosing the hey nonny nonny path at this point.
Plus of course there's the small detail that I actually started out trying to lose only 7.4 stone (104 pounds - 2 pounds a week over 52 weeks), rather than the 9 stone it would take to get me to my ideal weight. On the original estimates, by the end of the first six months I should of course have lost 52 pounds. If I manage to lose the three stone by then, I'll actually have lost 42 of those pounds - putting me just five weeks behind schedule. And I have a couple of weeks by the sea coming up - lots of walking on soft sand, rather than hard, blister-irritating, city streets. So who knows what might happen?
Definitely, then, a hey nonny nonny kind of day. Notwithstanding, am still Man-Flu'd to buggery, and, as perhaps was inevitable, given she has sinuses made of stinging nettles, it looks increasingly likely that d is now succumbing to this...what I think it would be fair to call...Bastard Lurgi. Time to start passing round the Vicks-bong, I think...
17 stone 9.25 - WTF?!
Y'see, people are bound to be thinking by now that I deliberately low-ball expectations on a Monday night, just so I can turn up on Tuesday all triumphant and woohooing. I don't. I'm just really that freakin' clueless...
So - a loss of 1.75 pounds on last week. 1.75, not 2. Gotta tell ya, that irks me just a little bit. Yeah, I know, last night I said I'd be happy to just stay stationery, but it's the somehow-slightly-meanness of the thing that is irksome. It's like someone offered you a whole carot, and then when you went ot bite it...
No, wait a second, that analogy only works for rabbits and my mother.
It's like someone offered you a whole eclair, and then when you went to bite it, they drew it back, Lucy-from-Peanuts style, and left you with just half an eclair.
Still, on the hey nonny nonny side, half an eclair is better than a bagfull of carrots. And in my case, 1.75 pounds means I'm, perversley enough, just 1.75 pounds away from the three stone barrier. So steady as she goes, with perhaps a little more ass-kick this week, and I should reach that border before the end of August.
I was just talking to d about that. The end of August will mean I've been doing this mad, mad thing for six whole months now. Half the time I originally alloted for it. And, if I can break the three stone in that time, it'll be a third of the way to my ideal weight. Again, two ways of looking at that - the Woe is me route which says I've only gone a third of the way in a half of the time, or the proof of Stubborn Bastardy concept route, putting beyond reasonable doubt the fact that I can do good work if I put my mind, my will and the sanity of those who love me to it. Definitely choosing the hey nonny nonny path at this point.
Plus of course there's the small detail that I actually started out trying to lose only 7.4 stone (104 pounds - 2 pounds a week over 52 weeks), rather than the 9 stone it would take to get me to my ideal weight. On the original estimates, by the end of the first six months I should of course have lost 52 pounds. If I manage to lose the three stone by then, I'll actually have lost 42 of those pounds - putting me just five weeks behind schedule. And I have a couple of weeks by the sea coming up - lots of walking on soft sand, rather than hard, blister-irritating, city streets. So who knows what might happen?
Definitely, then, a hey nonny nonny kind of day. Notwithstanding, am still Man-Flu'd to buggery, and, as perhaps was inevitable, given she has sinuses made of stinging nettles, it looks increasingly likely that d is now succumbing to this...what I think it would be fair to call...Bastard Lurgi. Time to start passing round the Vicks-bong, I think...
Monday, 22 August 2011
Plaaaaaaague!
Blood this morning, after only a short walk, was down to 4.7. If this keeps up, I may have to reduce my diabetic meds again, which would be a positive move.
I really don't want to get on the scales tomorrow. I don't expect progress per se, I'm hoping at least to have not gone up. There is, though, a distinct sense of toys hovering in the air above my pram right now, and the urge to throw them out is growing.
Of course, this could be the snot talking.
Yep, Man-Flu has well and trully stricken me. I'm bored of sniffing, and sneezing, and drinking water like it's going out of fashion to keep my throat from scratching, and generally just...waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Unclean, unclean, lurgified yeti in the rooooooom.
As it happens, almost everyone in my office has been similarly stricken - Sally-Anne, who's hopped up to the eyeballs on anti-biotics, Nick, the bookkeeper, who came back off his holidays today sneezing and spluttering and generally spreading the snot-love. Even Peter, the boss, is apparently laid up with lurgi - although he's not actually in the building, because, with a consummate style, he apparently has gotten sick while still ON his vacation. So we're all shuffling around like tormented souls on a ship of the damned, with only Colin, our administrator, currently immune. Naturally, we've all been coughing over him as much as possible today - we're into solidarity in a big way, y'know - one out, all out and all that jazz.
There's nothing I want to do more right now than go and curl up in bed, with lots of fluids and a teddy bear, and just shiver my timbers till morning. Then realise it's morning, pull the blankets over my Man-Flu'd head and sleep till tomorrow night.
Nnnnnoooot gonna happen. Ten miles of cycling before I go anywhere, and I simply don't have time to be sick this week - I have a magazine to finish, two freelance projects to do, a several-thousand-word prestige commission to complete, and set-up for my next magazine to do before I go to South Wales next Tuesday, to be there when my dad goes in for surgery. Oh, and ideally of course, some basement-clearing to do on the weekend, cos I never got there yesterday as I was planning. What's more, my friend Tig, who in her own way was responsible for getting d and I together, is reading chunks of my novel at a time, for feedback - I sent her the first 43 pages on Friday, and she's already demanding more. So I sent here the next 50 today...but the thing is, I'm rewriting great chunks after that, so if she gets done with this 50, I'll have nothing to send her unless I also, somewhere in the middle of all this, manage to do some novel-work. Still, this is good, I work muuuuuch better when things are mental and I have absolutely zero time to pull things out of my ass (in a non-Xenical way).
I could just do without the Man-Flu this week, that's all...
(Rings pathetic tiny leper-bell weakly, shuffles off to the bike of damnation).
I really don't want to get on the scales tomorrow. I don't expect progress per se, I'm hoping at least to have not gone up. There is, though, a distinct sense of toys hovering in the air above my pram right now, and the urge to throw them out is growing.
Of course, this could be the snot talking.
Yep, Man-Flu has well and trully stricken me. I'm bored of sniffing, and sneezing, and drinking water like it's going out of fashion to keep my throat from scratching, and generally just...waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Unclean, unclean, lurgified yeti in the rooooooom.
As it happens, almost everyone in my office has been similarly stricken - Sally-Anne, who's hopped up to the eyeballs on anti-biotics, Nick, the bookkeeper, who came back off his holidays today sneezing and spluttering and generally spreading the snot-love. Even Peter, the boss, is apparently laid up with lurgi - although he's not actually in the building, because, with a consummate style, he apparently has gotten sick while still ON his vacation. So we're all shuffling around like tormented souls on a ship of the damned, with only Colin, our administrator, currently immune. Naturally, we've all been coughing over him as much as possible today - we're into solidarity in a big way, y'know - one out, all out and all that jazz.
There's nothing I want to do more right now than go and curl up in bed, with lots of fluids and a teddy bear, and just shiver my timbers till morning. Then realise it's morning, pull the blankets over my Man-Flu'd head and sleep till tomorrow night.
Nnnnnoooot gonna happen. Ten miles of cycling before I go anywhere, and I simply don't have time to be sick this week - I have a magazine to finish, two freelance projects to do, a several-thousand-word prestige commission to complete, and set-up for my next magazine to do before I go to South Wales next Tuesday, to be there when my dad goes in for surgery. Oh, and ideally of course, some basement-clearing to do on the weekend, cos I never got there yesterday as I was planning. What's more, my friend Tig, who in her own way was responsible for getting d and I together, is reading chunks of my novel at a time, for feedback - I sent her the first 43 pages on Friday, and she's already demanding more. So I sent here the next 50 today...but the thing is, I'm rewriting great chunks after that, so if she gets done with this 50, I'll have nothing to send her unless I also, somewhere in the middle of all this, manage to do some novel-work. Still, this is good, I work muuuuuch better when things are mental and I have absolutely zero time to pull things out of my ass (in a non-Xenical way).
I could just do without the Man-Flu this week, that's all...
(Rings pathetic tiny leper-bell weakly, shuffles off to the bike of damnation).
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Having A Stroke
See, this is the thing about ignorance.
It's pretty...erm...blissy. I've been stroking down my belly for the last week, feeling kinda groovy, because it's felt noticeably smaller and flatter than the generalised "Before". Decided this morning to do a weigh-in, just to see what's going on. Saw it. Nod bad, but nowhere near as good as it had 'felt' like.
Normally of course, with the death of ignorance, you'd expect the death of bliss. Haven't felt that yet - I guess it'll be interesting to see what happens to my trigger-tripping brain over the next few days, but certainly as of now, I'm fine.
I think the sensation of progress in an information-vaccuum is interesting in itself - it's like being blind, I guess, and having to rely on a non-visual interpretation of the world. It's also potentially dangerous of course, because right now, I feel pretty damn good. So there's the danger of increasing complaceny, of losing the drive to push the numbers down, because of feeling good and satisfied. Interestingly delicate balance, this 'mental health and yet still driven' thing. And of course, there's that little niggle of logic that says "this isn't how you got here in the first place....you got here by being demented and whipped through the numbers by obsessive compulsion and living on the Dark Side.'
Sigh...To go mental and make progress, or to not go mental and not make progress...that's a pretty pathetic question. Not gonna think about it in too much detail till at least Tuesday. And certainly not going mental on our holiday - our holiday is for fun and relaxation (and admittedly, walking).
What I would like to do is add a different exercise element to the regime. Slightly foiled in that, because, with our multifarious packing, there isn't a room in the flat that has a Disappearing Man'sworth of floorspace to allow for flailing 'Oh Christ, I'd forgotten how hard sit-ups could be' exercise-desperation. So - back on the bike I guess. Woo...hoo...
It's pretty...erm...blissy. I've been stroking down my belly for the last week, feeling kinda groovy, because it's felt noticeably smaller and flatter than the generalised "Before". Decided this morning to do a weigh-in, just to see what's going on. Saw it. Nod bad, but nowhere near as good as it had 'felt' like.
Normally of course, with the death of ignorance, you'd expect the death of bliss. Haven't felt that yet - I guess it'll be interesting to see what happens to my trigger-tripping brain over the next few days, but certainly as of now, I'm fine.
I think the sensation of progress in an information-vaccuum is interesting in itself - it's like being blind, I guess, and having to rely on a non-visual interpretation of the world. It's also potentially dangerous of course, because right now, I feel pretty damn good. So there's the danger of increasing complaceny, of losing the drive to push the numbers down, because of feeling good and satisfied. Interestingly delicate balance, this 'mental health and yet still driven' thing. And of course, there's that little niggle of logic that says "this isn't how you got here in the first place....you got here by being demented and whipped through the numbers by obsessive compulsion and living on the Dark Side.'
Sigh...To go mental and make progress, or to not go mental and not make progress...that's a pretty pathetic question. Not gonna think about it in too much detail till at least Tuesday. And certainly not going mental on our holiday - our holiday is for fun and relaxation (and admittedly, walking).
What I would like to do is add a different exercise element to the regime. Slightly foiled in that, because, with our multifarious packing, there isn't a room in the flat that has a Disappearing Man'sworth of floorspace to allow for flailing 'Oh Christ, I'd forgotten how hard sit-ups could be' exercise-desperation. So - back on the bike I guess. Woo...hoo...
Drake Day
So much to say about today.
Firstly, it's August 20th. Seven years ago today, d came over from the States, to live. On emonth and nine days later, we were married. So happy Augustiversary people!
Went out after oatmeal this morning, to see a show called Potted Potter, as mentioned yesterday. We were slightly disconcerted to find out we were allllmost the only two adults unaccompanied by at least one screaming child. Of course, we should have realised this would be the case in advance, because the show was put on by two children's TV presenters. But the show was well pitched, with lots for the kids, and quite a handful for the parents and other adults too. So sue us, we played volleyball-quidditch, had panto-style laughs, and enjoyed a little satire to boot.
We pretty much decided that today was a tourist-day, so we decided not to go home until after the evening show we were booked to see. So we had a wander round in the rain, had a lunch at our standard Tex-Mex place off Trafalgar Square (The Texas Embassy, if you're interested). The idea was to have a good solid meal but not to feel stuffed. That worked, then we went book-shopping, which is always enjoyable.
However, before we'd actually picked anything up at Waterstones Trafalgar Square, my stomach was cramping. Jussssst about made it to the head of the line for the bathroom when all Hell broke loose, and I lost the little lunch-bulge I'd gained at the Embassy. More wandering, more book-browsing (we finally picked some up - rationalising them as a holiday expense - at Waterstones Fleet Street), then d had a similar attack, and we had to find somewhere that was a) open, and b) had a working bathroom. Prets in the City are all generally closed on the weekend. A Costa was open, but had a broken bathroom. A pub we tried was closed, so she too only just made it into the bathrooms at a second pub, while I broke 'pub law' by intently studying the wine list and buying absolutely nothing.
Decided, as is our occasional wont, to have a bus adventure - got on a random bus (this time, if you want to know, a 172 to Brockley Rise), just to see a new part of the city. As well as which, d slept, I read some Stephen King. In Brockley, the driver threw us off, but we pretty much begged, and he picked us back up immediately, and took us back to the heart of the city. Had a light bite at a Cafe Rouge, then realised that all our adventuring had left us pushed for time to get to Middle Temple Hall for a performance of The Tempest. As it turned out...very short of time. We saw signs for the show all around the perimeter of the building, but ended up having to walk all the way around it, sneaking by security...who fortunately, weren't there, and then adventuring our way around something of a maze within the Temple complex to find it. We got to our seats with about two minutes to spare.
For those who think it's a bit weird that this self-avowed atheist is going to Temples to watch shows, relax your pretty little head - This particular Temple is where barristers in the UK are called to the Bar - it's a legal institution going back to at least 1500. It's also, incidentally, where Shakespeare's Twelfth Night was first performed. Ever. Anywhere.
Antic Disposition's production was....OK. Prospero was engaging, Aeriel was genuinely mesmerising, Miranda was frankly annoying and inaudible by turns, and perhaps the most pleasingly odd thing about it all was that a tall, lanky young man with a big chin played Trinculo the Jester...apparently as the Eleventh Doctor Who. I'm not kidding - tweedy suit, red bow tie, demented hair and a fez! Not to mention a thoroughly 'drunken giraffe' approach to movement that has become practically signature.
More interesting than the play or the performance though was the location itself. It's difficult not to be overawed by Middle Temple Hall. Certainly, we failed. Portraits of kings and lawyers going back through the ages stare down at you from most walls - including a giant genuine Van Dyck portrait of Charles I that was right behind us the whole time. A table hand-carved from a single enormous piece of oak pretty much ran the width of the room, and was sailed up the Thames on the order of Elizabeth I, and had to be brought into the building before the building was completed, because it would never be able to get in once the walls were up. That, we learned rather casually, was 500 years old.
Then there was the really impressive stuff. Several signatories of the American Declaration of Independence were called to the Bar there at Middle Temple Hall, for instance. Did I already mention the Twelfth Night thing? OK, get this - there's a desk there, made from a part of The Golden Hind. Sir Francis Drake's Golden Hind. In fact, as it turns out, this is the desk on which barristers are admitted to the Bar in this country.
A little intimate history for you. No-one seems exactly sure what it is, but my dad (technically my step-dad, so there's no blood thread to me, but he's the only dad I have left, so excuse me if I don't split hairs...or indeed heirs) has some sort of lineal connection to Sir Francis. My folks' house is full of replica Golden Hinds (my mother rolled her eyes last Christmas, when we added to the collection). So to be in the same room as a piece of the actual ship - not the big replica on display in the city - was strangely moving, and we wished he could be here with us to put his hand on the thing - which incidentally is both beautiful and impressive, not a little intimidating and heavy with both weight and meaning. It was like touching not only world history, but possibly-tangential but deeply meaningful family history too.
"Wow," we said to each other as we finally stumbled out into the dark and headed home.
"Just wow..."
We're going to carry on like this for quite a few days, I imagine. Just ignore us, we're Drake-struck.
Firstly, it's August 20th. Seven years ago today, d came over from the States, to live. On emonth and nine days later, we were married. So happy Augustiversary people!
Went out after oatmeal this morning, to see a show called Potted Potter, as mentioned yesterday. We were slightly disconcerted to find out we were allllmost the only two adults unaccompanied by at least one screaming child. Of course, we should have realised this would be the case in advance, because the show was put on by two children's TV presenters. But the show was well pitched, with lots for the kids, and quite a handful for the parents and other adults too. So sue us, we played volleyball-quidditch, had panto-style laughs, and enjoyed a little satire to boot.
We pretty much decided that today was a tourist-day, so we decided not to go home until after the evening show we were booked to see. So we had a wander round in the rain, had a lunch at our standard Tex-Mex place off Trafalgar Square (The Texas Embassy, if you're interested). The idea was to have a good solid meal but not to feel stuffed. That worked, then we went book-shopping, which is always enjoyable.
However, before we'd actually picked anything up at Waterstones Trafalgar Square, my stomach was cramping. Jussssst about made it to the head of the line for the bathroom when all Hell broke loose, and I lost the little lunch-bulge I'd gained at the Embassy. More wandering, more book-browsing (we finally picked some up - rationalising them as a holiday expense - at Waterstones Fleet Street), then d had a similar attack, and we had to find somewhere that was a) open, and b) had a working bathroom. Prets in the City are all generally closed on the weekend. A Costa was open, but had a broken bathroom. A pub we tried was closed, so she too only just made it into the bathrooms at a second pub, while I broke 'pub law' by intently studying the wine list and buying absolutely nothing.
Decided, as is our occasional wont, to have a bus adventure - got on a random bus (this time, if you want to know, a 172 to Brockley Rise), just to see a new part of the city. As well as which, d slept, I read some Stephen King. In Brockley, the driver threw us off, but we pretty much begged, and he picked us back up immediately, and took us back to the heart of the city. Had a light bite at a Cafe Rouge, then realised that all our adventuring had left us pushed for time to get to Middle Temple Hall for a performance of The Tempest. As it turned out...very short of time. We saw signs for the show all around the perimeter of the building, but ended up having to walk all the way around it, sneaking by security...who fortunately, weren't there, and then adventuring our way around something of a maze within the Temple complex to find it. We got to our seats with about two minutes to spare.
For those who think it's a bit weird that this self-avowed atheist is going to Temples to watch shows, relax your pretty little head - This particular Temple is where barristers in the UK are called to the Bar - it's a legal institution going back to at least 1500. It's also, incidentally, where Shakespeare's Twelfth Night was first performed. Ever. Anywhere.
Antic Disposition's production was....OK. Prospero was engaging, Aeriel was genuinely mesmerising, Miranda was frankly annoying and inaudible by turns, and perhaps the most pleasingly odd thing about it all was that a tall, lanky young man with a big chin played Trinculo the Jester...apparently as the Eleventh Doctor Who. I'm not kidding - tweedy suit, red bow tie, demented hair and a fez! Not to mention a thoroughly 'drunken giraffe' approach to movement that has become practically signature.
More interesting than the play or the performance though was the location itself. It's difficult not to be overawed by Middle Temple Hall. Certainly, we failed. Portraits of kings and lawyers going back through the ages stare down at you from most walls - including a giant genuine Van Dyck portrait of Charles I that was right behind us the whole time. A table hand-carved from a single enormous piece of oak pretty much ran the width of the room, and was sailed up the Thames on the order of Elizabeth I, and had to be brought into the building before the building was completed, because it would never be able to get in once the walls were up. That, we learned rather casually, was 500 years old.
Then there was the really impressive stuff. Several signatories of the American Declaration of Independence were called to the Bar there at Middle Temple Hall, for instance. Did I already mention the Twelfth Night thing? OK, get this - there's a desk there, made from a part of The Golden Hind. Sir Francis Drake's Golden Hind. In fact, as it turns out, this is the desk on which barristers are admitted to the Bar in this country.
A little intimate history for you. No-one seems exactly sure what it is, but my dad (technically my step-dad, so there's no blood thread to me, but he's the only dad I have left, so excuse me if I don't split hairs...or indeed heirs) has some sort of lineal connection to Sir Francis. My folks' house is full of replica Golden Hinds (my mother rolled her eyes last Christmas, when we added to the collection). So to be in the same room as a piece of the actual ship - not the big replica on display in the city - was strangely moving, and we wished he could be here with us to put his hand on the thing - which incidentally is both beautiful and impressive, not a little intimidating and heavy with both weight and meaning. It was like touching not only world history, but possibly-tangential but deeply meaningful family history too.
"Wow," we said to each other as we finally stumbled out into the dark and headed home.
"Just wow..."
We're going to carry on like this for quite a few days, I imagine. Just ignore us, we're Drake-struck.
Friday, 19 August 2011
The Bear Paw
Walked my 4.5 miles this morning, and when I got into the office, my blood was 6.0, which was moderately irritating, if I'm honest. However, I'm still feeling the vibe of last night - "turning all your sounds of woe to hey nonny nonny" - so happy to move on. Unfortunately, by the time I got in tonight, something else had become apparent.
Blisters. More damn blisters.
The original blisters have left a dark spot on the left-most edge of my right footpad, just beneath the big toe. Now I have two new developing blisters, next to it. It looks like a little bear paw-print on my foot. I look like I should come from Steiff!
All very cute and all that, but kinda puts my evening biking on the back burner. Fortunately, tomorrow was always gonna be busy anyway - by virtue of forgetting over time that we'd booked cheap tickets to one thing, we actually booked cheap tickets to another thing too. So tomorrow morning, we're back in the city for a show called Potted Potter - all the Harry Potter books in about 70 minutes. Then tomorrow night, we're at another Shakespeare show - The Tempest this time, in a great medieval location. So lots of running around, but thankfully no concentrated walking. And Sunday's all about the basement - I'm gonna go down there with a vaccuum and do...Something. So more in terms of strenuous housework-style exercise than the walking. How this affects Tuesday, no-one knows yet, and in the spirit of hey nonny nonny, I genuinely am not worried right now. It'll be what it'll be. If nothing else, I feel slimmer, though slimer than when is a moot point - slimmer than "Before" is good enough for me at the moment, while still obviously striving to push the figures down. If I can lose two pounds a week for the next two weeks, I'll have cracked the three stone barrier before disappearing on holiday, where there is much walking to be done, but most of it is on sand.
Mind you, maybe the bear-paw blisters are a good sign...(whaddaya want from me, I'm reaching here!). The kids story I submitted to agents last week is all about a little bear. So yeah, maybe it's a Sign of Something...
Or maybe it's just a pain in the ass. Ah well, hey nonny nonny!
Blisters. More damn blisters.
The original blisters have left a dark spot on the left-most edge of my right footpad, just beneath the big toe. Now I have two new developing blisters, next to it. It looks like a little bear paw-print on my foot. I look like I should come from Steiff!
All very cute and all that, but kinda puts my evening biking on the back burner. Fortunately, tomorrow was always gonna be busy anyway - by virtue of forgetting over time that we'd booked cheap tickets to one thing, we actually booked cheap tickets to another thing too. So tomorrow morning, we're back in the city for a show called Potted Potter - all the Harry Potter books in about 70 minutes. Then tomorrow night, we're at another Shakespeare show - The Tempest this time, in a great medieval location. So lots of running around, but thankfully no concentrated walking. And Sunday's all about the basement - I'm gonna go down there with a vaccuum and do...Something. So more in terms of strenuous housework-style exercise than the walking. How this affects Tuesday, no-one knows yet, and in the spirit of hey nonny nonny, I genuinely am not worried right now. It'll be what it'll be. If nothing else, I feel slimmer, though slimer than when is a moot point - slimmer than "Before" is good enough for me at the moment, while still obviously striving to push the figures down. If I can lose two pounds a week for the next two weeks, I'll have cracked the three stone barrier before disappearing on holiday, where there is much walking to be done, but most of it is on sand.
Mind you, maybe the bear-paw blisters are a good sign...(whaddaya want from me, I'm reaching here!). The kids story I submitted to agents last week is all about a little bear. So yeah, maybe it's a Sign of Something...
Or maybe it's just a pain in the ass. Ah well, hey nonny nonny!
Thursday, 18 August 2011
Hey Nonny Nonny
Blood was 4.8 this morning, after pizza dinner last night and absolutely no walking this morning.
Absolutely no walking this morning, I hear you sardonicaly mutter, way to be committed. Let me just remind you about the whole FALLING DOWN THE STAIRS incident of last night, and add that it really puts a crimp in your walking schedule, alright?
However, buoyed by the low blood result, I seem to have rather over-compensated - porridge, couple of bread rolls, pineapple and grapes throughout the day, bowl of soup with more bread at lunch, cheeseburger for dinner. Still, buggerall in the way of walking.
Ask me if I give a fuck.
No, really, go on, ask me.
Don't make me stoop to ventriloquism, because you know I have no dignity left to speak of after my postings on the workings of my innards.
(Sigh)
(Drinks a glass of water).
Tony, do you give a fuck?
Glad you asked, and no I don't!
Why not? Very simple - tomorrow's schedule is more my own than normal, so I'll be back on the walking early in the morning, and I'm re-embracing positivity and ignorance, because mad as it seems, they appear to work. What's more, I just had the arse-kickingest of kickarse nights in the West End. David Tennant (acknowledged as Britain's greatest stage actor of his generation, Catherine Tate (acknowledged by my wife after tonight's performance as 'Britain's Lucille Ball,' than which no praise comes higher), William Shakespeare (who, on reflection, is doing alright considering he's been dead for more than 400 years). Throw them together with a practically pitch-perfect cast in support and what you have is...
Well let me put it this way. Sell your grandma - she's had her fun. Sell your children - they'll only grow up and marry someone stupid and be a massive disappointment. Sell your limited edition working replica solid gold sonic screwdriver if you absolutely have to, and get there. See this show. See it while you're alive, or you'll just spend the rest of time revolving in your grave that you missed it.
Let me put it another way. We have a table of all the shows we've seen in London (cos we're just that hip and groovy). For comedy with bite and impact, nothing has previously been able to touch a little-known show called On The Ceiling (if it's ever performed near you, go see that too, it's fabulous). For sheer blow-your-socks-off talent and entertainment, nothing has previously been quite able to touch John Barrowman in La Cage Aux Folles (my wife, who hadn't been a particular fan of his screen work, said nothing but "Wow..." for three consecutive days after seeing it).
Tonight topped them both. Tate stamping her presence on her Beatrice early was magnificent. Tennant stealing the stage from his very first entrance was hilarious. Their respective "discovery-that-the-other-loves-them" scenes I'm not going to tell you much about, because, difficult as it is to spoiler a play that's at least four centuries old, telling you too much would ruin them for you. We nearly passed out with laughter. Twice. And on and on and on it went, building and building into laugh after laugh. Seriously, sell a major organ, just get there.
I'm gonna dance a hey nonny nonny till it's time to sleep...ach, who am I kidding, it's already time to sleep...and then get back on the walking jag tomorrow. It's impossible to feel neurotic or demented or Dark Sided on a night like this. Sigh no more, Disappearers, sigh no more...
(Sigh)
What a night...
Absolutely no walking this morning, I hear you sardonicaly mutter, way to be committed. Let me just remind you about the whole FALLING DOWN THE STAIRS incident of last night, and add that it really puts a crimp in your walking schedule, alright?
However, buoyed by the low blood result, I seem to have rather over-compensated - porridge, couple of bread rolls, pineapple and grapes throughout the day, bowl of soup with more bread at lunch, cheeseburger for dinner. Still, buggerall in the way of walking.
Ask me if I give a fuck.
No, really, go on, ask me.
Don't make me stoop to ventriloquism, because you know I have no dignity left to speak of after my postings on the workings of my innards.
(Sigh)
(Drinks a glass of water).
Tony, do you give a fuck?
Glad you asked, and no I don't!
Why not? Very simple - tomorrow's schedule is more my own than normal, so I'll be back on the walking early in the morning, and I'm re-embracing positivity and ignorance, because mad as it seems, they appear to work. What's more, I just had the arse-kickingest of kickarse nights in the West End. David Tennant (acknowledged as Britain's greatest stage actor of his generation, Catherine Tate (acknowledged by my wife after tonight's performance as 'Britain's Lucille Ball,' than which no praise comes higher), William Shakespeare (who, on reflection, is doing alright considering he's been dead for more than 400 years). Throw them together with a practically pitch-perfect cast in support and what you have is...
Well let me put it this way. Sell your grandma - she's had her fun. Sell your children - they'll only grow up and marry someone stupid and be a massive disappointment. Sell your limited edition working replica solid gold sonic screwdriver if you absolutely have to, and get there. See this show. See it while you're alive, or you'll just spend the rest of time revolving in your grave that you missed it.
Let me put it another way. We have a table of all the shows we've seen in London (cos we're just that hip and groovy). For comedy with bite and impact, nothing has previously been able to touch a little-known show called On The Ceiling (if it's ever performed near you, go see that too, it's fabulous). For sheer blow-your-socks-off talent and entertainment, nothing has previously been quite able to touch John Barrowman in La Cage Aux Folles (my wife, who hadn't been a particular fan of his screen work, said nothing but "Wow..." for three consecutive days after seeing it).
Tonight topped them both. Tate stamping her presence on her Beatrice early was magnificent. Tennant stealing the stage from his very first entrance was hilarious. Their respective "discovery-that-the-other-loves-them" scenes I'm not going to tell you much about, because, difficult as it is to spoiler a play that's at least four centuries old, telling you too much would ruin them for you. We nearly passed out with laughter. Twice. And on and on and on it went, building and building into laugh after laugh. Seriously, sell a major organ, just get there.
I'm gonna dance a hey nonny nonny till it's time to sleep...ach, who am I kidding, it's already time to sleep...and then get back on the walking jag tomorrow. It's impossible to feel neurotic or demented or Dark Sided on a night like this. Sigh no more, Disappearers, sigh no more...
(Sigh)
What a night...
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Downstairs And Soggy
A day of interesting walking, all in all - did my occasional 4.5 miles this morning, with an extra little twinge - Got to Aldgate station and they told me the Circle Line (which I use) wasn't running westbound. Had to walk BACK the way I'd come to get a District Line. Can't tell you how weirdly wrong that felt, but there you go. When I got back to the previous station, the staff there told me the staff at Aldgate East must have been smoking crack - the Circle Line was running jusssst fine. Goddamnsonofabitch...The walk itself felt good and comfortable though and seemed faster than normal - about one hour twenty, rather than one hour forty, which it was when I started doing the extended walks. So - progress there.
Had to get out of work a little early, because I had to meet d at Bromley-by-Bow. We were going to be some of the hardy souls to do the last evening Olympic Walk this year. Essentially, this was a big PR exercise for London 2012, but one where you paid to be lied to, while taken close to, but not into, some of the Olympic venues in East London.
"Make sure you get twenty quid, so we can pay for the walk," said d when I left this morning. I hadn't got it by the time I left the office, and I'll be honest, having worn my walking boots into work, I'd unlaced them and done the day without them. So I grabbed them, and laced them loosely when I left.
Got a bus down to High Street Kensington, and, pressured for time, had to make a decision between crossing the road to a cashpoint, or having a brainwave.
I had a brainwave. There's a Marks & Spencers at the station, and having used it many a time, I remembered there was a cashpoint in the basement of the store. I nipped down the first flight of stairs to the basement. Tripped. Fell over, down the stairs. Came to a somewhat undignified stop on a bigger, middle platform. Got up, dusted myself down, lifted one foot.
Fell down the second set of stairs.
Know what happens when you fall down two sets of stairs with your hand out to stop yourself? I look like a highly amateurish self-harmer, as though I've been hacking away at my right wrist with a butter knife and positively vegan energy-levels.
The real kicker, I suppose, was that when I got to the basement, I discovered the cashpoint was actually on the ground floor.
I fell again, this time while in the process of getting on a tube, barrelling forward from foot to foot and slamming the now-bleeding right wrist against the window. Sat my ass down at the first available opportunity and re-tied the laces.
Got off at Bromley-by-Bow and was surprised to see d get off a couple of carriages ahead of me. We got up to street level.
"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, "What've you done to your arm?!"
See...the thing about my girl is that the concern was genuine, but the instinct to care made her grab the arm and squeeze. My eyes popped out on cartoon-character-stalks and I winced...rather loudly.
We started the tour, walking from Bromley-by-Bow back to Stratford (an ironic inversion of part of my morning journey). About a quarter of the way along the walk...the heavens opened. We walked on, getting wetter, and wetter, while the guide told us about the great legacy the Olympics would leave, and a tall European man became the real entertainment, invading the guide's space, and ultimately complaining that he was getting wet, and sodding off.
After about an hour and a half, the guide had led us into what appeared to be scrubland in the middle of nowhere. Annnnd that was it, he announced, smiling, turning on his heel and striding rapidly into the distance and disappearing. Kinda stopped being fun at that point, and d and I squelched back to Pudding Mill Lane, to Stratford, and to home. The thought of cooking, or indeed, of washing anything up, defeated us - pizza night. Sod it, not worrying, done about six miles of walking, that'll do for today.
Tomorrow - probably should do the walking in the morning again, because tomorrow night, we're out at the theatre - we're talking Tennant, Tate and Shakespeare - Much Ado About Nothing. Awoo...ow...hoo...ow. Gonna go rest my wrist in a hot bath, and go to sleep. Ow...
Oh, blood was 5.9 this morning after 4.5 miles. Oh and while I'm here, just a quick "thankyouverymuch" to Elvis Presley, who died almost three and a half decades ago today. And a much deeper, more multi-layered, complex "thank you" to Lori, d's 'soul sister', who kept her safe through a horrible childhood, and made her laugh, and gave her hope, and who continues to do all of that and more to this day, her somethingth-but-not-tellin'-ya birthday. We love you girly.
Had to get out of work a little early, because I had to meet d at Bromley-by-Bow. We were going to be some of the hardy souls to do the last evening Olympic Walk this year. Essentially, this was a big PR exercise for London 2012, but one where you paid to be lied to, while taken close to, but not into, some of the Olympic venues in East London.
"Make sure you get twenty quid, so we can pay for the walk," said d when I left this morning. I hadn't got it by the time I left the office, and I'll be honest, having worn my walking boots into work, I'd unlaced them and done the day without them. So I grabbed them, and laced them loosely when I left.
Got a bus down to High Street Kensington, and, pressured for time, had to make a decision between crossing the road to a cashpoint, or having a brainwave.
I had a brainwave. There's a Marks & Spencers at the station, and having used it many a time, I remembered there was a cashpoint in the basement of the store. I nipped down the first flight of stairs to the basement. Tripped. Fell over, down the stairs. Came to a somewhat undignified stop on a bigger, middle platform. Got up, dusted myself down, lifted one foot.
Fell down the second set of stairs.
Know what happens when you fall down two sets of stairs with your hand out to stop yourself? I look like a highly amateurish self-harmer, as though I've been hacking away at my right wrist with a butter knife and positively vegan energy-levels.
The real kicker, I suppose, was that when I got to the basement, I discovered the cashpoint was actually on the ground floor.
I fell again, this time while in the process of getting on a tube, barrelling forward from foot to foot and slamming the now-bleeding right wrist against the window. Sat my ass down at the first available opportunity and re-tied the laces.
Got off at Bromley-by-Bow and was surprised to see d get off a couple of carriages ahead of me. We got up to street level.
"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, "What've you done to your arm?!"
See...the thing about my girl is that the concern was genuine, but the instinct to care made her grab the arm and squeeze. My eyes popped out on cartoon-character-stalks and I winced...rather loudly.
We started the tour, walking from Bromley-by-Bow back to Stratford (an ironic inversion of part of my morning journey). About a quarter of the way along the walk...the heavens opened. We walked on, getting wetter, and wetter, while the guide told us about the great legacy the Olympics would leave, and a tall European man became the real entertainment, invading the guide's space, and ultimately complaining that he was getting wet, and sodding off.
After about an hour and a half, the guide had led us into what appeared to be scrubland in the middle of nowhere. Annnnd that was it, he announced, smiling, turning on his heel and striding rapidly into the distance and disappearing. Kinda stopped being fun at that point, and d and I squelched back to Pudding Mill Lane, to Stratford, and to home. The thought of cooking, or indeed, of washing anything up, defeated us - pizza night. Sod it, not worrying, done about six miles of walking, that'll do for today.
Tomorrow - probably should do the walking in the morning again, because tomorrow night, we're out at the theatre - we're talking Tennant, Tate and Shakespeare - Much Ado About Nothing. Awoo...ow...hoo...ow. Gonna go rest my wrist in a hot bath, and go to sleep. Ow...
Oh, blood was 5.9 this morning after 4.5 miles. Oh and while I'm here, just a quick "thankyouverymuch" to Elvis Presley, who died almost three and a half decades ago today. And a much deeper, more multi-layered, complex "thank you" to Lori, d's 'soul sister', who kept her safe through a horrible childhood, and made her laugh, and gave her hope, and who continues to do all of that and more to this day, her somethingth-but-not-tellin'-ya birthday. We love you girly.
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
The Morning After
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....
Well, if yesterday was a negligee day, today is a day for a long, smug, how-was-it-for-you-dear cigarette. Blood this morning was 4.9, which is moderately interesting for my fellow vampires, but overall is just a hair short of normal. My weigh-in this morning revealed this week's weight as:
17 stone 11 pounds - down about 2.25 pounds on last week. So, you see, bitch as I may have done from time to time, trying to not stress and freak out at intervening numbers seems to be the way to go.
But then...
Well, then came some conflicting information.
I should say, for those who are in to the twisty-turniness of all this, this morning's weigh-in was done in a state of fullness: try as I might, there was no emptying me out this morning before I had to get out the door and show up for work. So, yay, happy happy joy joy, 17 stone 11 full, I was happy with that.
As it happened though, I had to go to see the nurse tonight to get my Xenical prescription refilled (an oversight based on the fact that...well, based on the fact that I can't count, more than anything, meant I was down to my last pill). I saw the nurse, and she weighed me. Now - you know as well as I know that only my home scales actually counts in this endeavour - they're the scales that mock and taunt me, they're the scales against which every weigh-in has been measured, and so they're the scales against which all judgments of actual progress must be made.
We probably know each other well enough by now for you to understand that when I do my weigh-ins, I'm nekkid as a newborn (after all, I'm so obsessive about whether I'm full or empty, you knew I wouldn't add any extraneous clothing weight to the mix, right?). I'd like to think you also know me well enough to know that when I weigh in the nurse's office, I don't strip naked and let it all hang...well...down, I suppose, rather than out.
So - naked and full at the start of the day on the home scales, 17 stone 11. Woohoo. Clothed, and having had a big lunch and a Xenical attack during the day, on the nurse's scale, I was...erm...less.
I mean, substantially less. Looked about 17 stone 7 to me.
"111," she muttered approvingly. I looked at her blankly.
"Kilos," she explained.
"What does that mean in the old money?" I asked, unwilling to believe the often-biased, or at least unreliable, evidence of my own eyes.
"I have absolutely no idea," she said, helpfully. I figured I'd come home and look it up.
I came home and looked it up. 111Kg is apparently 244 pounds. If you do the maths, that works out at 17 stone (238 pounds), plus six extra pounds.
That's a whole pound and a half underneath my three-stone weightloss barrier. With clothes. In the early evening. As opposed to 3.5 pounds shy of that three-stone target, without clothes, in the morning.
So - abbbbsolutely every weasely instinct in my body is pleading with me to use the nurse's scales, to let them count, to do a little happy dance of serious weightloss.
But you know, and I know, I'm not going to do that. I can't - it smacks too much of taking extraordinary measures to finesse the results (says the man who's previously taken stool softeners to flush himself out on a weigh-in morning - consistency? Notsomuch).
The results are what they are when I record them on a Tuesday morning. On the home scales.
And let's be honest here - after a couple of weeks of stagnation and dementia, 2.25 pounds is good enough for me.
Of course, this does raise another issue. You remember me telling you I'm gonna be away for a fortnight in early September? As it happens, the last weigh-in I'm going to do for a while is two weeks today. Then I'm off in Amroth, twinned with Nowheresville, for that two weeks. I've been thinking all along that I'm going to take a bathroom scales from my mother's house, and do at least pseudo-weigh-ins while on holiday.
Not gonna happen. I don't, in all honesty, think there'd be any point - If I'm only accepting readings on the home scales as valid, then that's that - I'm going to go away, and not know which direction I'm going in for those two weeks. So there. I can do this. Without driving my increasingly long-suffering wife completely up the wall.
I'm sure I can.
Well, I think I can, anyway...
Well, if yesterday was a negligee day, today is a day for a long, smug, how-was-it-for-you-dear cigarette. Blood this morning was 4.9, which is moderately interesting for my fellow vampires, but overall is just a hair short of normal. My weigh-in this morning revealed this week's weight as:
17 stone 11 pounds - down about 2.25 pounds on last week. So, you see, bitch as I may have done from time to time, trying to not stress and freak out at intervening numbers seems to be the way to go.
But then...
Well, then came some conflicting information.
I should say, for those who are in to the twisty-turniness of all this, this morning's weigh-in was done in a state of fullness: try as I might, there was no emptying me out this morning before I had to get out the door and show up for work. So, yay, happy happy joy joy, 17 stone 11 full, I was happy with that.
As it happened though, I had to go to see the nurse tonight to get my Xenical prescription refilled (an oversight based on the fact that...well, based on the fact that I can't count, more than anything, meant I was down to my last pill). I saw the nurse, and she weighed me. Now - you know as well as I know that only my home scales actually counts in this endeavour - they're the scales that mock and taunt me, they're the scales against which every weigh-in has been measured, and so they're the scales against which all judgments of actual progress must be made.
We probably know each other well enough by now for you to understand that when I do my weigh-ins, I'm nekkid as a newborn (after all, I'm so obsessive about whether I'm full or empty, you knew I wouldn't add any extraneous clothing weight to the mix, right?). I'd like to think you also know me well enough to know that when I weigh in the nurse's office, I don't strip naked and let it all hang...well...down, I suppose, rather than out.
So - naked and full at the start of the day on the home scales, 17 stone 11. Woohoo. Clothed, and having had a big lunch and a Xenical attack during the day, on the nurse's scale, I was...erm...less.
I mean, substantially less. Looked about 17 stone 7 to me.
"111," she muttered approvingly. I looked at her blankly.
"Kilos," she explained.
"What does that mean in the old money?" I asked, unwilling to believe the often-biased, or at least unreliable, evidence of my own eyes.
"I have absolutely no idea," she said, helpfully. I figured I'd come home and look it up.
I came home and looked it up. 111Kg is apparently 244 pounds. If you do the maths, that works out at 17 stone (238 pounds), plus six extra pounds.
That's a whole pound and a half underneath my three-stone weightloss barrier. With clothes. In the early evening. As opposed to 3.5 pounds shy of that three-stone target, without clothes, in the morning.
So - abbbbsolutely every weasely instinct in my body is pleading with me to use the nurse's scales, to let them count, to do a little happy dance of serious weightloss.
But you know, and I know, I'm not going to do that. I can't - it smacks too much of taking extraordinary measures to finesse the results (says the man who's previously taken stool softeners to flush himself out on a weigh-in morning - consistency? Notsomuch).
The results are what they are when I record them on a Tuesday morning. On the home scales.
And let's be honest here - after a couple of weeks of stagnation and dementia, 2.25 pounds is good enough for me.
Of course, this does raise another issue. You remember me telling you I'm gonna be away for a fortnight in early September? As it happens, the last weigh-in I'm going to do for a while is two weeks today. Then I'm off in Amroth, twinned with Nowheresville, for that two weeks. I've been thinking all along that I'm going to take a bathroom scales from my mother's house, and do at least pseudo-weigh-ins while on holiday.
Not gonna happen. I don't, in all honesty, think there'd be any point - If I'm only accepting readings on the home scales as valid, then that's that - I'm going to go away, and not know which direction I'm going in for those two weeks. So there. I can do this. Without driving my increasingly long-suffering wife completely up the wall.
I'm sure I can.
Well, I think I can, anyway...
Monday, 15 August 2011
The Negligee Principle
Have you ever really looked at negligee?
I mean, really looked at it?
The point of negligee of course is to heighten the anticipation of the reveal. It's there to promise, to tease, to stimulate, but absolutely not, in itself, to reveal, but to conceal.
Today is very much a negligee day. I can't WAIT to get to tomorrow, to get to the reveal of the weigh-in, to tear today away and breathe out again, one way or another. But today...today is negligee. I feel almost like this week has been teasing me since last Tuesday, dancing and swaying and removing an occasional article with a saucy 'nearly-there' wink or pout...and now I'm down to the negligee and I'm going, frankly, crazy with the tease.
Today, blood has been fine at 5.1, and the day has been filled with irritants and wanting to bitchslap some people, and some of that, in all fairness, has been irritants and people who need bitchslapping, but I have a sneaking suspicion that some of my crankiness can be put down to the tease, to the negligee principle of the day...Can you have blue scales? I think, no matter what the result, I'll feel better having gotten to the weigh-in day without knowing at any point along the way what it will reveal, not being flashed, not peaking beneath the tease and spoiling the anticipation.
(Drums fingers...Drums fingers more...)
Anticipation sucks. Negligee's all very well, but goddamm, I need to get it off...
I mean, really looked at it?
The point of negligee of course is to heighten the anticipation of the reveal. It's there to promise, to tease, to stimulate, but absolutely not, in itself, to reveal, but to conceal.
Today is very much a negligee day. I can't WAIT to get to tomorrow, to get to the reveal of the weigh-in, to tear today away and breathe out again, one way or another. But today...today is negligee. I feel almost like this week has been teasing me since last Tuesday, dancing and swaying and removing an occasional article with a saucy 'nearly-there' wink or pout...and now I'm down to the negligee and I'm going, frankly, crazy with the tease.
Today, blood has been fine at 5.1, and the day has been filled with irritants and wanting to bitchslap some people, and some of that, in all fairness, has been irritants and people who need bitchslapping, but I have a sneaking suspicion that some of my crankiness can be put down to the tease, to the negligee principle of the day...Can you have blue scales? I think, no matter what the result, I'll feel better having gotten to the weigh-in day without knowing at any point along the way what it will reveal, not being flashed, not peaking beneath the tease and spoiling the anticipation.
(Drums fingers...Drums fingers more...)
Anticipation sucks. Negligee's all very well, but goddamm, I need to get it off...
Sunday, 14 August 2011
Sleepless And Demented
Sigh...
Who knew - positivity's a bit of a bitch to maintain. Slept badly last night, because I kept turning over what I don't know in my mind. Having gone back to not weighing, and sticking to it, I'm driving myself absolutely mad wondering what I'm weighing. If I tell you that I was tossing and turning, running my hands down the contour of my belly time and time again, trying to judge whether it felt bigger or smaller than last week, and that when I drifted off to dreaming, I woke myself up with dreams of Xenical attacks, I think you'll agree I'm having issues with sublimation of my neuroses.
So, when morning came, and I finally found myself drifting into untormented sleep, I slept hard and long - I didn't end up getting properly out of bed until gone 11.
Today wasn't really a house-progress day, because we pretty much both decided we wanted to go see a movie. Rise of the Planet of the Apes was both a choice and a convenience. Both of us had seen all the original Apes movies, and both of us together had gone to see the Tim Burton/Mark Wahlberg version some years ago.
Neither of us saw the end of the Burton/Wahlberg...effort...because it was just horrible and meandering, and appeared not to give a damn about either characterisation or plot.
Rise of the Planet of the Apes...is not that movie. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, if you're gonna make a 21st century Planet of the Apes movie, this is the way to do it. CGI that barely ever looks like CGI, solid characterisation, a growing sense of tragedy, plenty of tiny, unobtrusive nods to the series' history, and an entirely satisfying ending. Go see it of you're at all tempted, you probably won't be disappointed.
As for the rest of today...did the biking (at least a first session), eaten more fruit than is probably wise, about to have a pasta dinner, and may well take a sleeping pill tonight, to shut my own insanity up. Got quite a big and complex week ahead, with of course, a weigh-in just about 36 hours from now.
Who knew - positivity's a bit of a bitch to maintain. Slept badly last night, because I kept turning over what I don't know in my mind. Having gone back to not weighing, and sticking to it, I'm driving myself absolutely mad wondering what I'm weighing. If I tell you that I was tossing and turning, running my hands down the contour of my belly time and time again, trying to judge whether it felt bigger or smaller than last week, and that when I drifted off to dreaming, I woke myself up with dreams of Xenical attacks, I think you'll agree I'm having issues with sublimation of my neuroses.
So, when morning came, and I finally found myself drifting into untormented sleep, I slept hard and long - I didn't end up getting properly out of bed until gone 11.
Today wasn't really a house-progress day, because we pretty much both decided we wanted to go see a movie. Rise of the Planet of the Apes was both a choice and a convenience. Both of us had seen all the original Apes movies, and both of us together had gone to see the Tim Burton/Mark Wahlberg version some years ago.
Neither of us saw the end of the Burton/Wahlberg...effort...because it was just horrible and meandering, and appeared not to give a damn about either characterisation or plot.
Rise of the Planet of the Apes...is not that movie. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, if you're gonna make a 21st century Planet of the Apes movie, this is the way to do it. CGI that barely ever looks like CGI, solid characterisation, a growing sense of tragedy, plenty of tiny, unobtrusive nods to the series' history, and an entirely satisfying ending. Go see it of you're at all tempted, you probably won't be disappointed.
As for the rest of today...did the biking (at least a first session), eaten more fruit than is probably wise, about to have a pasta dinner, and may well take a sleeping pill tonight, to shut my own insanity up. Got quite a big and complex week ahead, with of course, a weigh-in just about 36 hours from now.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Round Two
More boxes, more shelving, more of our life's collection out on the wall today. We opened the door to our basement today, to try and clear some of the crap out from down there, so as to be able to shift some of our storage boxes down there, and so dislodge the log-jam.
Bad move, very bad, bad things, just bad...ness...
Spiders are fine when you can see 'em. When you go down into the basement and then feel tickling things at the back of your neck - that's bad. Plus, last year we had rats in our garden (thank you folk next door who keep their garbage rotting out back). Exterminator guy came along and did his exterminatey thing, except, clearly, what he actually did was drive them indoors...floor of the basement is littered with rat-shit right now. I know the spirit of adventure should dictate we plough on and persevere and all that.
Screw it. Pulled the door closed again, refused to think about for today. So we've ended up shifting bits and pieces and chunks of stuff. Leaves us without the feeling of progress from last week, but still, it's moving in the right direction.
Am similarly funky on the whole weightloss thing - have been doing the right stuff pretty much all week, but feel big and firmly chunky today. Not giving in to my previous 'normal' response, which would be to run to the scales and check what's going on though. Pushing ahead with this positivity schtick. Guess we'll find out on Tuesday.
In terms of positivity though, have made a little progress - have started sending stuff to agents again, for the first real time in about...blimey...13 years or so. In the first instance, am sending out my children's story because - well, if I'm honest, because it's finished, and I'm relatively happy with most of it. Also, last night, had a brainwave about how to solve some of the issues with the 700 page novel I wrote last year, and make it a) make sense, b) be funnier, and c) hopefully not take as long as the complete Iliad and Odyssey to tell! So, am hoping to get that tweaked to buggery and sent out to agents before my 40th birthday. Also, am working right now on my third instalment of the Devil's Guide to the 21st Century (the update of Ambrose Bierce's classic Devil's Dictionary). Once I have the third instalment complete, it'll be around 3000 words of definitions - that's enough, probably, to start submitting it for possible representation. Would dearly love to get it out this year, because it's the hundredth anniversary of Bierce's work, but that seems a little unlikely, given that I only discovered that a couple of months ago when I started writing it. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go here.
So that's where you find me today - vaguely progressing in the house, properly progressing in the writing, feeling, if anything, like I'm slipping back on the weightloss. And trying, above all, not to stress about it all. Happy Saturday!
Bad move, very bad, bad things, just bad...ness...
Spiders are fine when you can see 'em. When you go down into the basement and then feel tickling things at the back of your neck - that's bad. Plus, last year we had rats in our garden (thank you folk next door who keep their garbage rotting out back). Exterminator guy came along and did his exterminatey thing, except, clearly, what he actually did was drive them indoors...floor of the basement is littered with rat-shit right now. I know the spirit of adventure should dictate we plough on and persevere and all that.
Screw it. Pulled the door closed again, refused to think about for today. So we've ended up shifting bits and pieces and chunks of stuff. Leaves us without the feeling of progress from last week, but still, it's moving in the right direction.
Am similarly funky on the whole weightloss thing - have been doing the right stuff pretty much all week, but feel big and firmly chunky today. Not giving in to my previous 'normal' response, which would be to run to the scales and check what's going on though. Pushing ahead with this positivity schtick. Guess we'll find out on Tuesday.
In terms of positivity though, have made a little progress - have started sending stuff to agents again, for the first real time in about...blimey...13 years or so. In the first instance, am sending out my children's story because - well, if I'm honest, because it's finished, and I'm relatively happy with most of it. Also, last night, had a brainwave about how to solve some of the issues with the 700 page novel I wrote last year, and make it a) make sense, b) be funnier, and c) hopefully not take as long as the complete Iliad and Odyssey to tell! So, am hoping to get that tweaked to buggery and sent out to agents before my 40th birthday. Also, am working right now on my third instalment of the Devil's Guide to the 21st Century (the update of Ambrose Bierce's classic Devil's Dictionary). Once I have the third instalment complete, it'll be around 3000 words of definitions - that's enough, probably, to start submitting it for possible representation. Would dearly love to get it out this year, because it's the hundredth anniversary of Bierce's work, but that seems a little unlikely, given that I only discovered that a couple of months ago when I started writing it. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go here.
So that's where you find me today - vaguely progressing in the house, properly progressing in the writing, feeling, if anything, like I'm slipping back on the weightloss. And trying, above all, not to stress about it all. Happy Saturday!
Friday, 12 August 2011
Disgruntled of Stratford East
To The Producers, Sirens.
Dear Sirs,
I like to think I am not a prude. I enjoy a bit of televisual casual sex and indiscriminate violence as much as the next man. However, I finally got around to watching Episode 1 of your spunky new comedy-drama series set in the world of British paramedics, Sirens, yesterday. While enjoying the general balance of character-driven comedy and occasional slap-in-the-face reality-horror, I am writing to complain about one scene which went far beyond the pale.
The scene in question comes late in the episode, where the female police sergeant is on night duty with her colleague. He has in his possession two chocolate bars - a Bounty and a Double Decker (both of which, if you don't mind me saying so, seem specifically chosen for their double-entendre value, but let's move on). She engages him in a long conversation about how, despite being an attractive, healthy young woman, she is "getting" no sexual action whatsoever.
All of this is very bathetic and sweet of course, and I have no problem with it whatsoever. But then - and this is the source of my complaint - there is a lingering shot of her biting into the Double Decker.
How can you live with yourselves? Did you not consider that you might have had viewers who can, and have, gotten hard-ons for pieces of cake among your audience? Did it not come up at any script meetings that there are those of us who would kill seventeen hobos for a guilt-free Double Decker? Did you not for a moment stop to consider that there might even be those among your target demographic for whom the sensual connection between sex and chocolate is the kind of living nightmare that makes us unexpectedly horny in a confectionery aisle, and very very confused during Fashion Week?
No, sirs, I contend that you did not. You were just thinking of the titillation value, and so you wantonly showed a chocolate bar being consumed, on screen, by a consenting and sex-starved young woman.
I am prepared to give Episode 2 of your show a viewing, because I like to think I'm a fair-minded individual, and there is always the possibility that the disgusting chocolate-porn shot crept in accidentally during the editing stage. But I warn you - should there be any more graphic chocolate consumption on display in that episode, I will find myself forced to take further and more drastic action.
Yours,
Disgruntled of Stratford East.
Dear Sirs,
I like to think I am not a prude. I enjoy a bit of televisual casual sex and indiscriminate violence as much as the next man. However, I finally got around to watching Episode 1 of your spunky new comedy-drama series set in the world of British paramedics, Sirens, yesterday. While enjoying the general balance of character-driven comedy and occasional slap-in-the-face reality-horror, I am writing to complain about one scene which went far beyond the pale.
The scene in question comes late in the episode, where the female police sergeant is on night duty with her colleague. He has in his possession two chocolate bars - a Bounty and a Double Decker (both of which, if you don't mind me saying so, seem specifically chosen for their double-entendre value, but let's move on). She engages him in a long conversation about how, despite being an attractive, healthy young woman, she is "getting" no sexual action whatsoever.
All of this is very bathetic and sweet of course, and I have no problem with it whatsoever. But then - and this is the source of my complaint - there is a lingering shot of her biting into the Double Decker.
How can you live with yourselves? Did you not consider that you might have had viewers who can, and have, gotten hard-ons for pieces of cake among your audience? Did it not come up at any script meetings that there are those of us who would kill seventeen hobos for a guilt-free Double Decker? Did you not for a moment stop to consider that there might even be those among your target demographic for whom the sensual connection between sex and chocolate is the kind of living nightmare that makes us unexpectedly horny in a confectionery aisle, and very very confused during Fashion Week?
No, sirs, I contend that you did not. You were just thinking of the titillation value, and so you wantonly showed a chocolate bar being consumed, on screen, by a consenting and sex-starved young woman.
I am prepared to give Episode 2 of your show a viewing, because I like to think I'm a fair-minded individual, and there is always the possibility that the disgusting chocolate-porn shot crept in accidentally during the editing stage. But I warn you - should there be any more graphic chocolate consumption on display in that episode, I will find myself forced to take further and more drastic action.
Yours,
Disgruntled of Stratford East.
Thursday, 11 August 2011
The Hippy Hippy Ache
Erm...I have hips.
Yeah, I know, big news, huh? But the thing is, it kinda is. You see, my hips have always been like nuclear weapons, or smallpox, or the living microbes of Black Death buried beneath the streets of London - I've always known they were there, but they stayed the Hell out of the way and I tried not to think about them.
But now, it's fairly unavoidable. I have hips, dammit, and I hear them roar.
Because of course, this being me, it's not all good news. The only reason I know I have hips now is that they're starting to hurt like sonsofbitches when I sleep. I'm assuming this is down to a) the amount of work they're getting with all the walking and cycling and walking and cycling and walking and cycling and man I really need to add a different element into my exercise regime, and b) the reduction of the bumper-layer of fat that kept them buried like the Black Death, quietly doing their thing in my system. It should of course go without saying that I still have a Buddah-belly of staggering girth and proportion, and so without the cushiony fat-layer, when I sleep, the belly seems determined to aggravate the bejeesus of my now relatively naked hips. So...ow.
But y'know, in the spirit of positivity, I have hips that I can feel when I put my hands on them. Gotta be progress in the right direction, right?
Also, I got home tonight, and pulled off my shirt to get in the shower.
"Wow," said d. "Hey there, Tony-No-Breasts."
Aww. Is she too cute, or what?
Blood this morning was 4.8, after walking 4.5 miles. Not cycling tonight or walking tomorrow...there's a blister threatening, so am doing the sensible thing - and pretty much managing not to get my Dark Side on about it. Tricky, I will say, once you've gotten into a demented everything-checking mindset, to deconstruct that mindset and actively not worry. But am doing OK at the whole positivity-thing.
Oh, while we're at it, a public notice. We have our two week holiday booked from 3rd-17th September, in a place called Amroth in West Wales. It has...pretty much...zero web reception there, so there will be days when you'll hear nothing from Mr Disappearo. We haven't dropped off the planet, and I'm still gonna write a blog entry every day...you just won't see them until or unless we go somewhere with WiFi, when suddenly, it'll be bumper-harvest-time. Just so you know, and are not all panting for your daily whiny-bitchfest...oh no, wait, I don't do that any more, right? Your daily sunshine-brightfest...
Just wondering - is anybody buying this? Actually true, but not sure anyone who's gotten to know me here will believe a word of this positivity schtick. Ah well...
Yeah, I know, big news, huh? But the thing is, it kinda is. You see, my hips have always been like nuclear weapons, or smallpox, or the living microbes of Black Death buried beneath the streets of London - I've always known they were there, but they stayed the Hell out of the way and I tried not to think about them.
But now, it's fairly unavoidable. I have hips, dammit, and I hear them roar.
Because of course, this being me, it's not all good news. The only reason I know I have hips now is that they're starting to hurt like sonsofbitches when I sleep. I'm assuming this is down to a) the amount of work they're getting with all the walking and cycling and walking and cycling and walking and cycling and man I really need to add a different element into my exercise regime, and b) the reduction of the bumper-layer of fat that kept them buried like the Black Death, quietly doing their thing in my system. It should of course go without saying that I still have a Buddah-belly of staggering girth and proportion, and so without the cushiony fat-layer, when I sleep, the belly seems determined to aggravate the bejeesus of my now relatively naked hips. So...ow.
But y'know, in the spirit of positivity, I have hips that I can feel when I put my hands on them. Gotta be progress in the right direction, right?
Also, I got home tonight, and pulled off my shirt to get in the shower.
"Wow," said d. "Hey there, Tony-No-Breasts."
Aww. Is she too cute, or what?
Blood this morning was 4.8, after walking 4.5 miles. Not cycling tonight or walking tomorrow...there's a blister threatening, so am doing the sensible thing - and pretty much managing not to get my Dark Side on about it. Tricky, I will say, once you've gotten into a demented everything-checking mindset, to deconstruct that mindset and actively not worry. But am doing OK at the whole positivity-thing.
Oh, while we're at it, a public notice. We have our two week holiday booked from 3rd-17th September, in a place called Amroth in West Wales. It has...pretty much...zero web reception there, so there will be days when you'll hear nothing from Mr Disappearo. We haven't dropped off the planet, and I'm still gonna write a blog entry every day...you just won't see them until or unless we go somewhere with WiFi, when suddenly, it'll be bumper-harvest-time. Just so you know, and are not all panting for your daily whiny-bitchfest...oh no, wait, I don't do that any more, right? Your daily sunshine-brightfest...
Just wondering - is anybody buying this? Actually true, but not sure anyone who's gotten to know me here will believe a word of this positivity schtick. Ah well...
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Don't Worry, Be Happy
Well, let's see - good news is: we're all still alive. That's some primo, A-grade, 100% pure good news, given the alternative. More good news - blood is 5.2 today, so holding steady in the low 5s, high-to-middling 4s. Blood control - cracked. I appreciate you don't give a rat's ass about this, but I also finally finished Chapman's Iliad this morning, which, enjoyable though it genuinely is, is pretty good news for me. Just can't stand Achilles, and the damn fool does go onnnn about his impending death, so hopefully, relatively early in the Odyssey, I can kiss goodbye to his whiny ass.
Of course, last night was what's been described as a 'simmering' night in London, while other major cities (ironically including some whose police forces were away last night, defending the bejeesus out of London!) went up in flames. There's very little palpable sense of this whole 'looting and rioting' gig being over and done with. It's more like the looters are sitting there, going "Now whaddaya got?"
Given that every single politician who got up to speak yesterday was heckled within an inch of their career, and that Parliament's been recalled for tomorrow, there may still be hatches to be battened down this week.
But me? I'm not worrying.
I'll tell you why, shall I? I mean, while we're here?
Heard my pal and colleague Sally-Anne (the Disappearing Woman of previous posts), talking about an experience she'd had. Apparently, 'several' personal trainers she's had or known have told her that if you obsess about weightloss, your body goes into 'stress mode', and you end up losing nothing.
Now, knowing Sally-Anne's potentially obsessive nature, it's possible this is horseshit, but good advice nevertheless. The thing is, it could well also be good advice for me. Certainly, I've found that occasionally, weeks when I obsessed less, I still made pleasing losses (having still put in the work, of course). Also of course, there have been weeks of pure demented Dark Side obsession that have proved ultimately futile and fruitless.
So this is me, saying "Whatever," re-banning myself from weighing except on Tuesdays, and trying to skip lightly through life, doing the work, but de-stressing, dissolving the obsession, just, essentially, doing it.
At least in theory, should be a pleasanter ride. Still wanna come along?
Of course, last night was what's been described as a 'simmering' night in London, while other major cities (ironically including some whose police forces were away last night, defending the bejeesus out of London!) went up in flames. There's very little palpable sense of this whole 'looting and rioting' gig being over and done with. It's more like the looters are sitting there, going "Now whaddaya got?"
Given that every single politician who got up to speak yesterday was heckled within an inch of their career, and that Parliament's been recalled for tomorrow, there may still be hatches to be battened down this week.
But me? I'm not worrying.
I'll tell you why, shall I? I mean, while we're here?
Heard my pal and colleague Sally-Anne (the Disappearing Woman of previous posts), talking about an experience she'd had. Apparently, 'several' personal trainers she's had or known have told her that if you obsess about weightloss, your body goes into 'stress mode', and you end up losing nothing.
Now, knowing Sally-Anne's potentially obsessive nature, it's possible this is horseshit, but good advice nevertheless. The thing is, it could well also be good advice for me. Certainly, I've found that occasionally, weeks when I obsessed less, I still made pleasing losses (having still put in the work, of course). Also of course, there have been weeks of pure demented Dark Side obsession that have proved ultimately futile and fruitless.
So this is me, saying "Whatever," re-banning myself from weighing except on Tuesdays, and trying to skip lightly through life, doing the work, but de-stressing, dissolving the obsession, just, essentially, doing it.
At least in theory, should be a pleasanter ride. Still wanna come along?
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
Tiptoeing Down The Sunshine Path
Well, I did say it was unlikely - so I guess colour me unlikely, but just about.
This week's weigh-in figures show me as:
17 stone 13.25 - down a whopping half pound on last week.
There are of course two ways to look at this. There's the way that says "Ohhh woe is me, only half a pound, and I was stationary last week too, so I'm falling behind again!!!"
Then there's the way that says "Quit your whinin', bitch, it's lighter than you've been in recent memory and you've started back on the exercise good and proper, so get on with it."
I think it was Shakespeare who put it....marginally...more eloquently, if you're gonna twist my arm, when he said "it is in ourselves that we are thus, or thus."
So this is me choosing the sunshine path and kicking on. Hey dudes and dudettes, I'm 17 stone 13.25, woohoo!
Positive thinking and all that malarkey - if nothing else, it's a relief for me personally not to be going down the "woe is me" path, so let's not. Motivation high, energy high, enthusiasm set to 11, blood 5.4 this morning, and off we jolly well go...
Oh, feel I should mention - this renewed optimism and motivation appears to be in stark contrast to the reality outside our doorstep at the moment. While we personally haven't been caught up in the looting and chaos yet, obviously, our thoughts are with those who have been.
Mind you, unless you've been directly affected by it, the looting is not without its comedy undertow. Best headline I've seen so far? "This was looting purely for personal gain, not looting for a cause."
Excuse freakin' me? Who LOOTS for a cause? You loot purely and simply to get...erm...well...loot! That's pretty much where the word comes from!
This is Tony, the Disappearing Man, reporting from his reinforced London bunker.
This week's weigh-in figures show me as:
17 stone 13.25 - down a whopping half pound on last week.
There are of course two ways to look at this. There's the way that says "Ohhh woe is me, only half a pound, and I was stationary last week too, so I'm falling behind again!!!"
Then there's the way that says "Quit your whinin', bitch, it's lighter than you've been in recent memory and you've started back on the exercise good and proper, so get on with it."
I think it was Shakespeare who put it....marginally...more eloquently, if you're gonna twist my arm, when he said "it is in ourselves that we are thus, or thus."
So this is me choosing the sunshine path and kicking on. Hey dudes and dudettes, I'm 17 stone 13.25, woohoo!
Positive thinking and all that malarkey - if nothing else, it's a relief for me personally not to be going down the "woe is me" path, so let's not. Motivation high, energy high, enthusiasm set to 11, blood 5.4 this morning, and off we jolly well go...
Oh, feel I should mention - this renewed optimism and motivation appears to be in stark contrast to the reality outside our doorstep at the moment. While we personally haven't been caught up in the looting and chaos yet, obviously, our thoughts are with those who have been.
Mind you, unless you've been directly affected by it, the looting is not without its comedy undertow. Best headline I've seen so far? "This was looting purely for personal gain, not looting for a cause."
Excuse freakin' me? Who LOOTS for a cause? You loot purely and simply to get...erm...well...loot! That's pretty much where the word comes from!
This is Tony, the Disappearing Man, reporting from his reinforced London bunker.
Monday, 8 August 2011
Mr Sunshine
OK, so let's get a couple of things straight. The blood is a thing of beauty right now - 5.0 dead this morning. Done, what's next?
Well, obviously, what's next is weightloss. Unnnfreakin'likely tomorrow, bottom line, next!
Gotta tellya, since this weekend just past, it's like someone put a nuclear explosion up my ass - but in a really good, Walkin' On Sunshine kinda way - I'm bursting with ideas, and plans, and projects, and stuff to do, and stuff to think of doing, and lists of what comes where and what, to coin a phrase, is next. Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun fun fun fun fun! It's pretty much a Tigger day.
So what are the plans? Welllll...as Stephen Moffatt would undoubtedly say..."Spoilers!" If I told you everything all in one rush a) there'd be no surprises left, and our relationship would grow dull and sour, b) I'd be talking twenty-seven to the dozen, and you'd shoot me in the ass with a tranquiliser dart or stick me full of Ritalin, and cart me off to a nice quiet place for a severe eating and a lie-down. But good plans, fun plans, massively, massively exciting plans.
So...
try and ignore all that, as I tell you that yeah, I'm back on track and back into my discipline as of today. Yes of course it'll come too late to make a spectacular difference for tomorrow, but hopefully, by next week, my system, which will presumably have grown a bit relaxed and sluggish over the last few weeks, will have had itself a bit of a shock, and straightened up and started to fly right again. So - even though I'm not gonna have lost anything tomorrow, this feels like a positive day. It's kinda like that comedy sketch where a parachutist jumps out of a plane, pulls his chord, and.....nothing. Nothing...And more nothing. He starts scrabbling, pulling anything he can, and nothing, and nothing, and still more nothing happens. In the sketch version, he kinda shrugs, and then pulls out a cigar, lights it up, and chuckles as he plummets to a sticky, messy oblivion. Feels like that, except after scrabbling, and scrabbling, and scrabbling, I feel like I found my rip-chord this weekend, and I'm now floating sweetly down to Earth.
Yeah, I know - much less funny, but look at my smiley, manic face and ask me if I care.
On we go - on to the weigh-in and then on to more sunshine.
Oh, and one extra note - thanks to those who responded to my ring dilemma yesterday. d nodded when I told her about the ring-on-a-chain solution, then disappeared for a minute. When she came back, she had a ring in her hand. I blinked. It was like an earlier evolution of my wedding ring, and actually, that's what it was - it was my engagement ring - the same style, in a different metal, with a different stone.
Fit like a glove.
Well, obviously, what's next is weightloss. Unnnfreakin'likely tomorrow, bottom line, next!
Gotta tellya, since this weekend just past, it's like someone put a nuclear explosion up my ass - but in a really good, Walkin' On Sunshine kinda way - I'm bursting with ideas, and plans, and projects, and stuff to do, and stuff to think of doing, and lists of what comes where and what, to coin a phrase, is next. Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun fun fun fun fun! It's pretty much a Tigger day.
So what are the plans? Welllll...as Stephen Moffatt would undoubtedly say..."Spoilers!" If I told you everything all in one rush a) there'd be no surprises left, and our relationship would grow dull and sour, b) I'd be talking twenty-seven to the dozen, and you'd shoot me in the ass with a tranquiliser dart or stick me full of Ritalin, and cart me off to a nice quiet place for a severe eating and a lie-down. But good plans, fun plans, massively, massively exciting plans.
So...
try and ignore all that, as I tell you that yeah, I'm back on track and back into my discipline as of today. Yes of course it'll come too late to make a spectacular difference for tomorrow, but hopefully, by next week, my system, which will presumably have grown a bit relaxed and sluggish over the last few weeks, will have had itself a bit of a shock, and straightened up and started to fly right again. So - even though I'm not gonna have lost anything tomorrow, this feels like a positive day. It's kinda like that comedy sketch where a parachutist jumps out of a plane, pulls his chord, and.....nothing. Nothing...And more nothing. He starts scrabbling, pulling anything he can, and nothing, and nothing, and still more nothing happens. In the sketch version, he kinda shrugs, and then pulls out a cigar, lights it up, and chuckles as he plummets to a sticky, messy oblivion. Feels like that, except after scrabbling, and scrabbling, and scrabbling, I feel like I found my rip-chord this weekend, and I'm now floating sweetly down to Earth.
Yeah, I know - much less funny, but look at my smiley, manic face and ask me if I care.
On we go - on to the weigh-in and then on to more sunshine.
Oh, and one extra note - thanks to those who responded to my ring dilemma yesterday. d nodded when I told her about the ring-on-a-chain solution, then disappeared for a minute. When she came back, she had a ring in her hand. I blinked. It was like an earlier evolution of my wedding ring, and actually, that's what it was - it was my engagement ring - the same style, in a different metal, with a different stone.
Fit like a glove.
Sunday, 7 August 2011
The Ring Of Ire
Do you have a wedding ring? Or any totemic ‘thing’ that means a lot to you? Most of you? How would you feel if you grew fatter and fatter, to the point where you could no longer wear it, or use it, where you had to put it aside, and so somehow, in your mind, diminish the nature of you?
I married d on 29th September 2004, and – being that kind of couple – both our rings had been engraved, inside and out, with words and phrases that resonated with our relationship, our connection and our shared journey from the improbability of getting together to the impossibility of staying apart.
So imagine how I felt, about 18 months ago (roughly five and a half years into our marriage), when my fingers reached the point of thick, fat, sausage-advert succulence that meant I could no longer comfortably wear my ring. It bit into me, leaving deep red welts, and restricting the blood flow to my fingers-ends, and while I fought the reality of it for a while, 18 months ago, I gave in, and gave up, and took off my wedding ring – at the time presumably forever.
I stood it for about six months. Six months of missing it, of having, if you like, ‘Phantom Ring Syndrome,’ of twisting the space where it had been beneath my fingers, knowing it should have been there, hating the fact that I had brought this separation on myself. It was a separation from myself, really, from who I am and what I am, and what I understand to be true about myself.
Then, about a year ago now as we counted down to our annual holiday in Amroth on the West Coast of Wales, I cracked. I went to our local jewellery store chain and said “This used to fit. Doesn’t now…make it so”.
They brought out their ring-sizers, and it turned out that my ring-finger had actually inflated by four whole sizes. They could make it fit, they said, but only by adding more gold into it, and therefore getting rid of the engravings. I didn’t care, I said, I’d get it re-engraved, I just wanted it back on my finger. I was who I was, the size I was, and that was something that wasn’t likely to change any time soon, so I was biting the bullet, accepting who I was, and re-establishing the love-totem on my newly squidgy finger.
And so I did. When we got back from our break, I got the enlarged ring re-engraved by the original engravers, and reclaimed the fullness of my self as d’s husband, and felt more than a little pleased with myself, all things considered (Erm…you may have noticed, I have what might be called leanings towards feeling more than a little pleased with myself. This is the git that I am. Deal).
So it’s really rather irksome to report that, officially as of last night, the ring is now too damn big for my ring finger!
Yeah, yeah, I know, positive, blah blah, progress, yadda yadda yadda, but still! It’s been loosening for weeks now, but last night, it actually slid off my ring finger completely. While I had it in my hand, I figured I might as well experiment, and yep, sure enough, it fit my middle finger perfectly. I’ve gone up a finger!
Now I know what you’re thinking – big deal, get it shrunk, take it as a positive sign and get on with your life, you whiney ass, right? But I’m soooo far from done, and changing the ring was, on some level, a traumatic experience…it was like if someone said they’d take away Stonehenge, and bring it back to you in a couple of weeks, changed so you could use it. You’d be grateful and all that, but somewhere in the back of your mind, the idea would persist that they’d had to change it somehow in order to give you the benefit. And somewhere in the back of my mind, there’s the idea that I don’t want to wear out the number of permissible changes to the original item – oddly, and irrationally, as if, if I change it too many times, it will cease to be my ring, or cease to mean as much as it does to me. And even weirder and more irrational than that, the idea evolves to claim that if it changes too much from my original ring, it will somehow mean my marriage itself has changed beyond comfortable recognition, and I don’t want to risk that.
Hey, whaddya want from me – totemic items are never rational, and I might be Mr Logicboy Atheist Rationalist McNo-Guff, but I’m a human being, and we’re none of us immune from the power we give to such totems. So, if it’s all the same to you – and I know it is – I’m going to keep wearing the ring until I absolutely can’t wear it any more, and reduce it only then, because we’re still only 2.5 stone into this experiment – there’s a whole seven stone left to go (almost three times what I’ve already done). That’s a whole lotta sausage-finger shrinkage left to do.
I’m writing this on a train back to London from Wales, and the recent motivation-leakage has had its ass well and truly kicked. I’m sooo back, it’s almost frightening – and tomorrow begins a whole new phase. I have acquired a sackful of cunning plans, and I’m fairly fizzing with the energy to put them into place. Bring on the Jerry Lee Lewis music, it’s time to freaking ROCK!
Saturday, 6 August 2011
Mooching Around
"What are 50 fourteens?" asked d. Normally, she'd never ask; she does numbers for living, but it'd been a long day.
Needless to say, I DON'T do numbers, either for a living or for fun, which is why I came up with the answer I did.
"Erm...90?"
"Wow," she said. We were laying in bed, here in Merthyr, at about 12.30 in the morning. We contemplated this number for a while.
"Between us then, we've lost a thirteen-year-old girl."
I blinked.
"A what-now?"
"You've lost two and a half stone, I've lost two and a half stone. That's 50 fourteens...that's equivalent to a thirteen-year-old girl...No...wait..."
We both lay there, considering our mutual manglings of mathematics and reality.
"Hold on, that's wrong," she said eventually.
"Mmmf," I said, which keen students of this blog will know how to interpret.
"I mean five fourteens," she said.
"Mm-hm..."
"Two plus two plus two-halves...that's five, times fourteen, right."
"Yes dear," I agreed.
"And it's not 90...it's 70," she explained.
"This is why I keep you around dear," I murmured. "to do math at quarter to one in the morning..."
"70 pounds between us," she said, seeming a little disappointed to have rationalied the extra twenty pounds out of existence. Mathematics is a sonofabitch sometimes when you do it right.
"That's not a teenage girl," she said sadly.
"At best it's a Backstreet Boy," she pondered. "Maybe a Justin Bieber. Yeah, that's a good thought. We've lost a Justin Bieber between us..."
I fear the only answer she received was a long, deep, sonorous buzz-saw snore.
Today has mainly been about refusing things.
My mother is unique in a dazzling sequence of ways, many of which have been previously documented in this blog. But in many other ways, she is something of the archetypal Welsh mother. So from the moment you walk in her door to the last seconds, when you say goodbye to her and get on a train, you're kept fairly busy refusing things.
"Want a cup of tea, loves?"
"No, thanks, we're good."
"Coffee - I got the de-caff in...?"
"Nah, thanks."
"Little bite of something? Toast? Got some cereal...?"
"N-"
"Fruit? Lobster Thermidore? Treasure of the Sierra Madre?"
You've heard of people who 'can't do enough for you'? Welsh mothers are like that - it's a compulsive, almost-nervous need to keep giving you things, to try and make your life on the planet (or certainly the time you share with them), as blissfully happy as they possibly can. It's like they're part of some sort of secret society, like the Masons, only with gravy-stained aprons, where they get together and compare everything they did for their offspring on a weekly basis.
Don't get me wrong, I think it's really sweet, and it's not as though I'm singling my mother out as the absolute archetype of this kind of behaviour. In fact, I happen to know her own mother was the same. You could never get away from my gran without taking a 'mooching bag' - a collection of random objects that might have come up in conversation, and of which she just happened to have one spare, and about which she wouldn't feel good about keeping, having discovered you were in need. As time went on, this became a reciprocal arrangement - we took mooching bags home from my gran, she took mooching bag home from us - and indeed from her other daughter, my aunt Cynthia. And it's absolutely true that, to some extent, the axis is extending now to our own generation; while there's little in practical terms we can bring, we try and establish a list of 'stuff to do' while we're visiting - be it intimidating staff at the local Carphone Warehouse, shifting bureaus, fixing computers, writing letters, or whatever else we can winkle out of my mother as being 'necessary' or helpful. d of course has a ready way to re-mooch - she cooks meals, joins the beverage rota, prepares snacks and so on. My stuff to do list tends to be more open-ended, and frankly sly - because it's almost like Welsh mothers lose bonus points for everything they let you do for them. So you do what you can, and every now and then you try and surprise them, like a sneaky little favour-ninja, just so you can return to your daily life feeling as though you're at least keeping the tradition of the two-way mooching bag alive.
You'll have to excuse me now...I've just been made another de-caff and some cheese and biscuits...
Needless to say, I DON'T do numbers, either for a living or for fun, which is why I came up with the answer I did.
"Erm...90?"
"Wow," she said. We were laying in bed, here in Merthyr, at about 12.30 in the morning. We contemplated this number for a while.
"Between us then, we've lost a thirteen-year-old girl."
I blinked.
"A what-now?"
"You've lost two and a half stone, I've lost two and a half stone. That's 50 fourteens...that's equivalent to a thirteen-year-old girl...No...wait..."
We both lay there, considering our mutual manglings of mathematics and reality.
"Hold on, that's wrong," she said eventually.
"Mmmf," I said, which keen students of this blog will know how to interpret.
"I mean five fourteens," she said.
"Mm-hm..."
"Two plus two plus two-halves...that's five, times fourteen, right."
"Yes dear," I agreed.
"And it's not 90...it's 70," she explained.
"This is why I keep you around dear," I murmured. "to do math at quarter to one in the morning..."
"70 pounds between us," she said, seeming a little disappointed to have rationalied the extra twenty pounds out of existence. Mathematics is a sonofabitch sometimes when you do it right.
"That's not a teenage girl," she said sadly.
"At best it's a Backstreet Boy," she pondered. "Maybe a Justin Bieber. Yeah, that's a good thought. We've lost a Justin Bieber between us..."
I fear the only answer she received was a long, deep, sonorous buzz-saw snore.
Today has mainly been about refusing things.
My mother is unique in a dazzling sequence of ways, many of which have been previously documented in this blog. But in many other ways, she is something of the archetypal Welsh mother. So from the moment you walk in her door to the last seconds, when you say goodbye to her and get on a train, you're kept fairly busy refusing things.
"Want a cup of tea, loves?"
"No, thanks, we're good."
"Coffee - I got the de-caff in...?"
"Nah, thanks."
"Little bite of something? Toast? Got some cereal...?"
"N-"
"Fruit? Lobster Thermidore? Treasure of the Sierra Madre?"
You've heard of people who 'can't do enough for you'? Welsh mothers are like that - it's a compulsive, almost-nervous need to keep giving you things, to try and make your life on the planet (or certainly the time you share with them), as blissfully happy as they possibly can. It's like they're part of some sort of secret society, like the Masons, only with gravy-stained aprons, where they get together and compare everything they did for their offspring on a weekly basis.
Don't get me wrong, I think it's really sweet, and it's not as though I'm singling my mother out as the absolute archetype of this kind of behaviour. In fact, I happen to know her own mother was the same. You could never get away from my gran without taking a 'mooching bag' - a collection of random objects that might have come up in conversation, and of which she just happened to have one spare, and about which she wouldn't feel good about keeping, having discovered you were in need. As time went on, this became a reciprocal arrangement - we took mooching bags home from my gran, she took mooching bag home from us - and indeed from her other daughter, my aunt Cynthia. And it's absolutely true that, to some extent, the axis is extending now to our own generation; while there's little in practical terms we can bring, we try and establish a list of 'stuff to do' while we're visiting - be it intimidating staff at the local Carphone Warehouse, shifting bureaus, fixing computers, writing letters, or whatever else we can winkle out of my mother as being 'necessary' or helpful. d of course has a ready way to re-mooch - she cooks meals, joins the beverage rota, prepares snacks and so on. My stuff to do list tends to be more open-ended, and frankly sly - because it's almost like Welsh mothers lose bonus points for everything they let you do for them. So you do what you can, and every now and then you try and surprise them, like a sneaky little favour-ninja, just so you can return to your daily life feeling as though you're at least keeping the tradition of the two-way mooching bag alive.
You'll have to excuse me now...I've just been made another de-caff and some cheese and biscuits...
Friday, 5 August 2011
The Porn Window
Nope, still feeling lost and foggy and all to buggery in terms of motivation. Yes, still looking for a bulldozer, but on the other hand, when I got home last night in good time to bike....I simply couldn't be arsed when it came down to it. This of course is stupid stuff, and will probably have an impact on Tuesday. The moderately dangerous thing is that I'm on the verge of not caring whether it does or not.
That said, I've still got long-term plans for this experiment. As of last night, I decided to keep it going for a full half-stone beyond my target point of a nine-stone loss. It's what I call my 'porn window'.
Whaddaya mean, what's a porn window? There's not (at least) a man born who doesn't know what a porn window is...A porn window is the amount of leeway you give yourself for secret deviancy in any given over-arching time-period.
(Switches - very freaking importantly - to hypothetical mode!)
For instance, the amount of time between when your partner leaves the house in the morning, and the point at which YOU absolutely have to leave the house in the morning - that's your day's porn window.
(Reverts - less importantly - to personal experience mode)
So, I'm gonna deliberately carve myself a porn window in this experiment at the very very end of it, and I'm gonna slog my way at least seven pounds beyond my comfortable healthy weight. And why?
Because my wife bakes.
But she doesn't just bake - oh no. She gets full-colour, storylined and step-by-stepped, glossy, silky, illustrated food porn magazines sent to her through the post. Often with silicone appendages to help her in her quest for ultimate food-sluttery. In particular, at the moment, she subscribes to a Satanic bible known as Baked...and...Delicious.
Now, I want you to imagine something for me. Imagine you're lost on a desert island. Imagine you've been there for months on end, and are beginning to despair of ever getting off (so to speak). And then, one morning, preserved in plastic and pristine as the day they rolled off some greasy printer in a backstreet basement somewhere, six full-colour, glossy porn mags washed up on your beach.
What would YOU do?
I'd never cracked the cover of Baked and Delicious till I got home last night. And then I did. I'll tell you truly, without very very much shame, I was sniffing the pages by the end of it. Six issues, filled with Dundee Cake and Viennese Fingers (for which, right now, I'd happily kill a Viennese hobo), and Black Forest Swiss Roll, and Chocolate Melting Muffins, and Macarrons like B-movie flying saucers, lebkuchen, gingerbread and chocolate chip cookies, and so much else that I'm dribbling into my keyboard at the pale pale memories of those images.
Sp what I'm going to do...is get down to my ideal weight...and then push on for another seven whole pounds...and then goddammit, I'm going to have a food porn weekend like no other ever seen on this planet, and I'm going to fill my porn window with wanton, sweet, sticky, glorious experiences, and STILL be at my ideal weight...
Mmmm...you'll have to excuse me now, I have the office to myself, and what's the web for if not for porn-surfing...
Blood was 5.1 this morning, incidentally - clearly just THINKING about excess is relatively harmless...
Right?
That said, I've still got long-term plans for this experiment. As of last night, I decided to keep it going for a full half-stone beyond my target point of a nine-stone loss. It's what I call my 'porn window'.
Whaddaya mean, what's a porn window? There's not (at least) a man born who doesn't know what a porn window is...A porn window is the amount of leeway you give yourself for secret deviancy in any given over-arching time-period.
(Switches - very freaking importantly - to hypothetical mode!)
For instance, the amount of time between when your partner leaves the house in the morning, and the point at which YOU absolutely have to leave the house in the morning - that's your day's porn window.
(Reverts - less importantly - to personal experience mode)
So, I'm gonna deliberately carve myself a porn window in this experiment at the very very end of it, and I'm gonna slog my way at least seven pounds beyond my comfortable healthy weight. And why?
Because my wife bakes.
But she doesn't just bake - oh no. She gets full-colour, storylined and step-by-stepped, glossy, silky, illustrated food porn magazines sent to her through the post. Often with silicone appendages to help her in her quest for ultimate food-sluttery. In particular, at the moment, she subscribes to a Satanic bible known as Baked...and...Delicious.
Now, I want you to imagine something for me. Imagine you're lost on a desert island. Imagine you've been there for months on end, and are beginning to despair of ever getting off (so to speak). And then, one morning, preserved in plastic and pristine as the day they rolled off some greasy printer in a backstreet basement somewhere, six full-colour, glossy porn mags washed up on your beach.
What would YOU do?
I'd never cracked the cover of Baked and Delicious till I got home last night. And then I did. I'll tell you truly, without very very much shame, I was sniffing the pages by the end of it. Six issues, filled with Dundee Cake and Viennese Fingers (for which, right now, I'd happily kill a Viennese hobo), and Black Forest Swiss Roll, and Chocolate Melting Muffins, and Macarrons like B-movie flying saucers, lebkuchen, gingerbread and chocolate chip cookies, and so much else that I'm dribbling into my keyboard at the pale pale memories of those images.
Sp what I'm going to do...is get down to my ideal weight...and then push on for another seven whole pounds...and then goddammit, I'm going to have a food porn weekend like no other ever seen on this planet, and I'm going to fill my porn window with wanton, sweet, sticky, glorious experiences, and STILL be at my ideal weight...
Mmmm...you'll have to excuse me now, I have the office to myself, and what's the web for if not for porn-surfing...
Blood was 5.1 this morning, incidentally - clearly just THINKING about excess is relatively harmless...
Right?
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