D'you remember in the 1970s and 1980s, when the beginnings of the imagination-drain began to tap itself out in the landscape of movies and TV, and they started re-hashing TV classics from the 60s, only they didn't have the balls to simply call them by the same names? Not just The Saint, but Return of The Saint. Not just The Man From UNCLE, but The Return of the Man From UNCLE.
Today's like that, only, imagine a franchise that's three or four re-boots down the line. That's me. That's The Disappearing Man.
"Oh," said Ma as I sat down in her kitchen at 7.30 this morning, brand new walking boots feeling comfy as butter (but without the oogy connotations of having butter squish through your toes). "You're back, aren't you?"
This was apropos of nothing, you understand, just me walking through the door and sitting down.
"Yeah," I said. "Do I smell focused or something?"
She laughed.
"I'm the same," she explained. "When I'm right, everything's right - money, focus, diet, everything. When I'm wrong, everything's doolally. You've gone non-doolally again."
I blinked.
"Well, that's good to know."
We walked five times round the local lake, which turns out to be three miles, then Ma went off to make sure dad ate a proper breakfast and I came home to work.
It's not much of a start, but it's a start. Tomorrow, we'll do more. Tomorrow, I can actually see a little bit of light in the deadline-fury. Tomorrow, there'll be walking in the morning and lunchtime biking. And up we go, building the exercise, reducing the food - the only path to a proper, successful re-boot of the Disappearing franchise...
No comments:
Post a Comment