The Reappearing Man?

Blood was 5.3 this morning.

Slept badly last night.
Kept tossing and turning. Replaying the events of yesterday.

The thing is...yesterday started out so promisingly. Did an unofficial just-for-the-sake-of-knowing weigh-in in the morning, after which I turned to d.
"There you go then - all I have to do is not do anything stupid and remember to crap Tuesday morning..."
"Yes dear," said d, who by now has grown apparently entirely used to such declarations from me.
The day went well - cleaning, packing, sueing Mary poppins, yadda yadda yadda. Then, while I was looking at a handful of souvenirs I only vaguely remembered ever owning, wondering whether they were priceless heirlooms or bits of pointless tat we just hadn't had the conviction to throw away, d grinned around the bedroom door.

I love a good grin around a bedroom door - it promises fun, and possibly even frolics.
"Gotcha somethin'" said d, like Mary-Ann to Gilligan when trying to persuade him to do something dangerous.
"Yeah?" I said, holding up a pink ceramic polar bear, as if for explanation.
She showed me what she'd brought. It was a thing of beauty.

It was a big, big graze box - nuts and dried fruit in a lovely promising tupperware almost the size of a shoe box.
"Awww," I said, throwing the polar bear onto the bed behind me. "Come to me, wench, let me love you forever..."
d's not stupid though - she's had invitations like that from me before, and knows that, diverting though those afternoons may be, if I'm already doing something she wants done, it's best not to get within arms' reach. She held out the box, and as I reached and took it, she scarpered back down to her kitchen.

I pawed it open, not unlike the pink polar bear to a sky-blue walrus-carcass, and shovelled up pawful after pawful of the deliciousness inside. How to describe it...Well, to the Brits, it should be relatively simple - if you've ever eaten a Picnic bar, it's exactly like that, only without the chocolate coating. And trust me when I tell you that as I shovelled, I closed my eyes and imagined the chocolate just fine and dandy thankyouverymuch.

I gave myself a warning after about seven handfuls of the stuff, and closed the lid back on the box. But I couldn't...quite...bring myself to ignore it, and over the course of the next couple of hours, I had at least another three or four handfuls. Eventually, d had to come and take it off me. I let her, and thanked her, but there was a yearning in something that clearly wasn't my soul as it left the room.

I was consumed with not-exactly-guilt almost immediately. It's not guilt because I'd done what I did willingly, though perhaps not in quite my fully right mind. It's more like that sense you get when you've been sent to the headmaster for something you actually did but have managed to convince yourself you wouldn't get caught for. I did extra biking as a kind of please-don't-hurt-me penance last night (about 11 miles on level 12 - I seem to have pretty much leapfrogged level 10, for some reason, probably connected with speed of achievement). And then this morning I got out of bed and did my five mile walk without anything even vaguely approaching complaint. Shame, possibly, if such a word and such an emotion isn't too strong when transgressing one's own entirely self-constructed, entirely self-revolving boundaries, about which the wider world cares not a jot, but not complaint. So now I'm heading into Tuesday having had a glimpse of progress, more than a little convinced I've blown it.

Sigh...

The Reappearing Man, anyone?