The Yogic Discrepancy

Today, I sat at home, editing. 

Then I sat on a train, editing. 

Then I sat in Starbucks…editing. 

Then they closed and threw me out, and I sat in a theatre, laughing at Dara O’Brian, the brilliant Irish comedian. 

Now, as I write this, I’m sitting on a bus…writing…and then probably editing. Then I’m going to go to bed and sleep.

It’s entirely possible I would have used more energy throughout the course of the day if I actually was a giant slug, rather than simply feeling like one. It’s been a relatively inactive week, whichever way you look at it, so my inner slug is well and truly out and if not exactly proud, then at least highly visible. Tomorrow at 8.30, I’ll be hitting the gym with Ma, in what can only be described as a desperate attempt to avoid a good and thorough salting on Thursday morning when I step on the Nazi Scales.

Sigh – ask not for whom the salt burns…it burns for thee, clearly. Thing is, while this week has been rather dominated by editing deadlines, next week’s a write-off too in the exercise stakes, as for three days, d and Ma and I are off to get funky and celebrate the wedding of my pal Wendy to her fiancé, Maria. Mind you, it’s all in the perspective, I suppose – I think my gym session tomorrow’s gonna be desperate, but it doesn’t come close to Wendy’s first text of the day – “Just done a ‘Yoga For Abs’ workout”. That sounds like a weird combination – as though there are a bunch of Tibetans who come in quietly, bow serenely, then burst out in energetic bundles and shout at your for an hour to feel the yogic burn…

Sigh – gym. Tomorrow.

Honest…