The Disappearing Countdown

Bum, quite frankly.

Bum bum bum bum bum...

Been a rotten couple of weeks, Disappearingwise. Been eating more or less what I like - and we all know what that is. Been throwing the occasional walk or biking session into the mix to try and persuade myself that I'd restarted, but last week saw me at 17st 11, and today...unff...back up to 17st 13.

Been down in all sorts of dumps. Work dumps, metabolic dumps, choral dumps (best kind of dumps, those - they come in four-part harmony, which is pretty at least, even if they do come with a range of amens at the end...). This week in particular, I've had my Disappearing teeth kicked in. Went to a big choral bash, for which formal dress was required. Last time I had to wear that, it did up. This week, it dangled from my once-again prodigious man-breasts, making me the extremely odd one out.

This weekend was our ninth wedding anniversary, so I hired a car and we pootled to Saundersfoot and Amroth (longstanding readers, if any such still exist, will know of course that this is our traditional holiday spot). d, for reasons best known to herself but probably connected to what it would be kind to call my natural inclination to physical comedy, and more accurate to describe as my klutz-footed, cack-handed ability to fall over while standing still, has for some years harboured a not-so-secret desire to see me ride a horse. I have of course largely dissuaded her from this foolish notion, but this year, I thought "bugger it, we have the car..." so we went to the Marros riding stable.
"Rough height and weight?" asked the schoolgirl there.
"5ft 6 and about 17 and a half stone,"I admitted. She sucked her entirely unhorsey teeth.
"Sorry," she said, "no can do...maximum weight's 16 stone, I'm afraid..."
There's a natural temptation, meeting such obstacles, to go into Angry Fat Bloke mode, and go "stick your wimp-ass horses where the sun don't shine, beeeatch!" Into which temptation I did not give, but still...

I'm intending to really rev the hell up and start the Disappearing thing pretty much from scratch again. In fact, it was supposed to have started today. Failed, failed, failed. Not...hugely...I mean, I haven't spent the day cramming cream cakes down my neck washed down with lard and Coke smoothies. But haven't exercised at all, haven't taken the slightest care of my metabolism...hence failed.

Now tonight, have been talking with Joe Bartholomew. That's right, the Joe Bartholomew.

Sigh...you're going to pretend you don't know who Joe Bartholomew is now, aren't you? A tedious fiction, to be sure, but anyway - Joe Bartholomew is an author, and a damn fine one at that, whose debut work will I daresay ring bells and pull heartstrings among Disappearers everywhere - it's called Three Fat Singletons...I could go on, but the point is probably made. To find out more, go here. I met Joe at the York Festival of Writing...what seems like an age ago now, but was really only a handful of heartbeats...and we've been corresponding since. Anyhow, she too was supposed to have started a new dietary regime today...but, y'know, there was angel cake and stuff...

I'm feeling increasingly wretched and lurgified as the night goes on, so am thinking of doing a Starbucks day tomorrow. Which means no early morning walking...So we sort of made an agreement. Disappearing Proper begins again, ladies and gentlemen, on October 6th. That's old style Disappearing - Walking, biking, carrot sticks, fruit, protein, all that schtick - plus of course all the no sugar, no fried, limited carb, calorifically counted malarkey.

Five days, people. Counting down as of....now!