Blood was a high 5.9 this morning, but again, this makes perfectly good sense - had an Italian meal last night, did absolutely no walking this morning because damnit, it was raining, and no raindrop should ever touch my delicate, hair-bare head!
Today was a good-ish day, in a moderately Secret Squirrel way - inasmuch as something good happened, but I can't tell you what, because it only sort of happened, rather than officially happening yet, and it may not ever officially happen, and even though I don't believe in this kind of nonsense, I'm not about to jinx it by saying "Woohoo, look at me, this happened!!!" when to all intents and purposes, it only maybe-happened.
Whaddaya want from me - I understand Steven Moffatt's Doctor Who, sometimes the timey-wimeyness rubs off!
What I can tell you, as of now, is that the goodness and secretness and Schrodinger's Woohooness of the day resulted in me meeting d for dinner, rather than walking some nice chunky distance and having pauper's beans on toast for dinner. Which meant we stayed out late. Which means that a whole other day went by with no biking either.
Now, it's easy to mistake this for complacency or giving up, but really, it's neither of those things, it's that certain things must be done. These are certain things, and therefore I must do them. There are certain steaks a man just has to eat in his life, and eating one tonight was a kind of low-intensity nod to the potential really goodness of the day, without actually acknowledging its potential in any way, or, y'know, speaking the words out loud or anything showy like that.
My phone is already set for Christ o'clock tomorrow. The walking boots are in the living room, waiting with some degree of trepidation to be strapped on by cold, morning-darkened fingers. Tomorrow, dammit, we walk in the morning!
Oh and I went to make enquiries at the gym in Kensington last night. Sooooo not gonna be doing that. It wasn't even the £145 per month that really bugged me. It was the fact that a) I was right, there was nobody else in there who needed to be anywhere near the place, and b) when I asked for the rates, I couldn't just be told - they made me sit down first, and tell them where I worked, and gave me not the question of how long I wanted to do this for, but the ultimately most costly, twelve month option, right off the bat. In fact the whole place gave me the screaming heebie-jeebies...which, in my modest experience, is when you should ideally turn around and walk away, rather than getting out your plastic.
In fact, thinking about it, I've only ever been in one gym that made me feel comfortable and welcome, and that wasn't technically a gym, it was a leisure centre. It was also, now I think about it, run by a local authority, rather than a health and fitness company. And, as if this meant anything, it was also back home in Merthyr, and filled with - well, not filled, that would be an unkind slur, but it certainly had its fair proportion of - fat people. Maybe that's it - maybe, when it comes right down to it, I'm too fat, and too Welsh, and too downright socialist ever to feel comfortable in a so-completely-for-profit gym. Maybe I actually need that Merthyr leisure centre, with its regular, flump-shaped people, and it's gloriously cheap prices covering everything from gyms to saunas to a goddamned swimming pool (take that, Virgin Active, Kensington!)...
It'd be a bitch of a commute every night though...
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