I was writing to a pal of mine earlier today (having recently re-adopted the business of actually writing, long-hand), and was reminded of a goal I had for March. I was planning to get to 14 stone 7 by the end of March.
Sooooo clearly not gonna happen.
If anything, I feel like I'm falling back. And now I'm lurgied. Started as a throat grouch, now it's a head grouch. So buggered if I'm getting on the bike. Want to curl up and be traditionally man-flu'd, except of course I don't want anyone to think I'm the kind of guy who succumbs to man-flu, so I'm not gonna. Nehh...
Urgggh...
Neuurgh, even...
Of course, whinging about man-flu becomes even more ridiculous when you realise I've spent half the day with my dad. Now, he can curl up and be man-flu'd. Not looking so good today - positively white, knackered, coughing, and all the blood he's had pumped into him has long been used. Thankfully, we'll get him back in front of the consultant tomorrow, to figure out what the Hell we do next. Worst conceivable week in a long time for me to be swanning off to London and Ipswich half way through, but has to be done.
Almost tempted to skip a week of weigh-ins and just come next week. Sigh...
You know I'm not gonna do that, but that's how I feel tonight. Man-flu talking. Nobody listen. Altogether now - fingers in lugholes, annnnnd...
"Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalaaaaaaaaa!!!"
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