Right - well here I am, in the bosom of my family, for tonight, tomorrow and most of Boxing Day (day after Christmas for my US-friends).
"Right," said Ma the minute our asses were over the threshold, "now it;'s Christmas - no dieting till Boxing Day."
To be fair, I hadn't exactly been strictly observant before arriving with her - I'd had a sausage and scrambled egg baguette for breakfast - yes, for breakfast, shaduuup - followed by a large bowl of bran flakes for lunch - oh yeah, I'm just that topsy-turvy, upside-downy kind of guy, alright, deal.
No exercise of any kind today - much ass-sitting, much editing, a little bit of movie-watching with Ma (I seem to have a knack - whenever I recommend a movie, she ends up liking it less having watched it than she thought she did before she watched). Had a Waitrose ready meal - some sort of cajun chicken linguine...thing, which is what happens when fusion food goes bad. Have also, throughout the course of the evening had a plate of cheese and crackers (always useful when you're taking pills that make you shit out a third of the fat you take in as a horrid, unmanagable oily orange mess), some 'florentines' - which seem to be what happens when nuts and chocolate love each other very much - and a single two-stick weakeness fo Kit Kat. So, probably, as Bridget Jones would say, V V Bad.
Tomorrow's Christmas, dammit. Next week - 2015. Let's see if we can damn well get this right then, shall we?
Happy holidays, Disappearers and Friends-of-Disappearing!
Wednesday, 24 December 2014
Tuesday, 23 December 2014
The Baby-Step Failure
Humph.
All the biking, all the walking, all the goody-two-shoeing, and today's weigh-in shows me up a pound:
18st 12.25.
Of course, I say goody-two-shoeing, but it's important to remember the chocolate sharing plate of yummy doom and the like. so I'm not about to go on a chocolate bender. it is what it is. My friend Sarah put it well a couple of days ago on Facebook - "I'm waiting till the new year," she said. "That gives me 365 days to lose."
I like that perspective. So, yes - that. I can't throw up my arms and say "Sod it, it's Christmas, or what control there is in my life right now will go completely to pot over the Christmas break. But the idea of starting with 365 days is appealing. After all, let's remember, I lost six stone (84 pounds) in the space of 365 days a couple of years ago. I aimed to start January from a position just below 18 stone. Clearly that's not now going to happen. If I can start the year from a position just under 19 stone, and do anything like the same again, I'll actually be in a position a stone and a half better than I've been at any point in the Disappearing. So - thinking positively, I'm still below the 19 stone mark. Let's take that forward and run with it.
All the biking, all the walking, all the goody-two-shoeing, and today's weigh-in shows me up a pound:
18st 12.25.
Of course, I say goody-two-shoeing, but it's important to remember the chocolate sharing plate of yummy doom and the like. so I'm not about to go on a chocolate bender. it is what it is. My friend Sarah put it well a couple of days ago on Facebook - "I'm waiting till the new year," she said. "That gives me 365 days to lose."
I like that perspective. So, yes - that. I can't throw up my arms and say "Sod it, it's Christmas, or what control there is in my life right now will go completely to pot over the Christmas break. But the idea of starting with 365 days is appealing. After all, let's remember, I lost six stone (84 pounds) in the space of 365 days a couple of years ago. I aimed to start January from a position just below 18 stone. Clearly that's not now going to happen. If I can start the year from a position just under 19 stone, and do anything like the same again, I'll actually be in a position a stone and a half better than I've been at any point in the Disappearing. So - thinking positively, I'm still below the 19 stone mark. Let's take that forward and run with it.
Monday, 22 December 2014
The OHIO Principle and the Pinball
Another day, another bunch of just little things that turned into big things. Taking a grocery delivery turned into me sitting on my ass for a couple of hours having breakfast (not for two hours) and watching Masterchef Australia. A quick trip to the doctors to drop in a blood test form turned into a couple of hours of shopping for all the stuff we didn't get delivered. Then when I finally got back in front of my computer, I couldn't keep my eyes open. What the hell's up with that, I don't know - probably too much cereal for breakfast, eventually kicking my ass or somesuch, in that special diabetic way it has.
Result - 8 pm, massively behind on deadlines all over the shop, still no thought yet of tonight's biking.
If I could just finish one thing, it would feel like progress, but there seems to be little prospect of that happening. But instead of applying the OHIO Principle - Only Handle It Once (meaning just do one thing at a time, and see it through), I seem to be bouncing from project to project with neither rhyme, nor reason, nor any useful marker of progress, like some demented pinball that just wants to sleep. I'm obviously tempted to do a Starbucks day tomorrow, as I tend to crank out the work when I go there. But can I really afford to do it so close to Christmas and so far from my next payday?
Unff - we'll see. One thing at a time. Blog done. Next!
Result - 8 pm, massively behind on deadlines all over the shop, still no thought yet of tonight's biking.
If I could just finish one thing, it would feel like progress, but there seems to be little prospect of that happening. But instead of applying the OHIO Principle - Only Handle It Once (meaning just do one thing at a time, and see it through), I seem to be bouncing from project to project with neither rhyme, nor reason, nor any useful marker of progress, like some demented pinball that just wants to sleep. I'm obviously tempted to do a Starbucks day tomorrow, as I tend to crank out the work when I go there. But can I really afford to do it so close to Christmas and so far from my next payday?
Unff - we'll see. One thing at a time. Blog done. Next!
Sunday, 21 December 2014
The Walking Substitute?
When is a word not a word?
Arguably, when it's not the word you mean - when it doesn't do the job you want it to do. I started this week saying I'd bike every day. And so far I have. But not, so far, today. Today, I've walked. Today's the 29th anniversary of my mum and dad's wedding, so stuck with Ma for a few hours, and some of them were spent walking. Will have walked over 11,000 steps by the end of tonight when I go and pick d up from work.
But as yet, with about 45 minutes left to go before I have to go and collect d, and draw a line under my day, I haven't "biked". I've done the equivalent of what the biking is supposed to achieve, but not biked.
I've technically raised it with neither of them, but both d and Ma know the way my mind works to such an extent that they've both told me "the walking can take the place of the biking for the day, and you can get on with stuff".
But can you though, if you've promised to bike. Can you just bodyswerve the activity and plead 'the dog ate my wording'? Is something that takes the place of an action equivalent to an action? If you say "I'm going to run a marathon for charity" and then, instead, you run two half-marathons, have you done what you said you'd do?
I suspect much of the world thinks you have - I know people who are judged to have gone "round the world", when what they've actually done is go halfway round the world, and then come back. Also, I know a pal of mine is doing a big swim for charity, and has been told that she can actually continue adding lengths to her total beyond the original time limit of it, because the activity's the thing that counts.
I'm not sure my brain works like that. (Shrugs) Ultimately, it probably just comes down to how anal you are about words.
I run an editing house. Any guesses as to how anal I am about words?
Right. Fine. See how y'are, you talkative bastards. This will be me then, getting off the computer and getting on the bike, with just 38 minutes to spare. Buggerrit. Buggerit. Damn and blast and buggerit. See you tomorrow.
Arguably, when it's not the word you mean - when it doesn't do the job you want it to do. I started this week saying I'd bike every day. And so far I have. But not, so far, today. Today, I've walked. Today's the 29th anniversary of my mum and dad's wedding, so stuck with Ma for a few hours, and some of them were spent walking. Will have walked over 11,000 steps by the end of tonight when I go and pick d up from work.
But as yet, with about 45 minutes left to go before I have to go and collect d, and draw a line under my day, I haven't "biked". I've done the equivalent of what the biking is supposed to achieve, but not biked.
I've technically raised it with neither of them, but both d and Ma know the way my mind works to such an extent that they've both told me "the walking can take the place of the biking for the day, and you can get on with stuff".
But can you though, if you've promised to bike. Can you just bodyswerve the activity and plead 'the dog ate my wording'? Is something that takes the place of an action equivalent to an action? If you say "I'm going to run a marathon for charity" and then, instead, you run two half-marathons, have you done what you said you'd do?
I suspect much of the world thinks you have - I know people who are judged to have gone "round the world", when what they've actually done is go halfway round the world, and then come back. Also, I know a pal of mine is doing a big swim for charity, and has been told that she can actually continue adding lengths to her total beyond the original time limit of it, because the activity's the thing that counts.
I'm not sure my brain works like that. (Shrugs) Ultimately, it probably just comes down to how anal you are about words.
I run an editing house. Any guesses as to how anal I am about words?
Right. Fine. See how y'are, you talkative bastards. This will be me then, getting off the computer and getting on the bike, with just 38 minutes to spare. Buggerrit. Buggerit. Damn and blast and buggerit. See you tomorrow.
Saturday, 20 December 2014
The Sharing Platter Heel
See that Achilles?
See that Achilles Heel?
I've got one of those. Only it's not technically in my heel. And of course, my name's not Achilles. Can you imagine any kid growing up in the 70s and 80s South Wales Valleys being saddled with a name like Achilles? Poor bastard would barely have made it out of nappies before being killed.
But I digress.
See, my weakness, my overriding, all-bets-are-off heel of doom is the idea that my reticence might stop other people having the good time they want to have. Which clearly means sharing platters are sent straight from the Devil to fuck with my life.
Another day, another editfest today. Got quite a lot done, and realised a delightful thing - thought I had a deadline of Christmas day for two edits which I'm doing concurrently, but actually the deadline's 29th, so that's five more days built into the schedule - hoorah. But went down to Cardiff Starbucks to crack on, only to discover that d was on the next train behind me, with payday cash in her bank account and lunch on her mind.
Had a very carb-heavy lunch, has to be said - chilli almonds to amuse the bouche, doughballs to start with and a bit of a disappointing bog-standard bolognaise for main. Then the dessert menu appeared, as if by magic, at our table.
There was a chocolate sharing platter.
I shared it. I couldn't not - I am many things, but strong enough to resist both chocolate and the idea that my wife won't have what she wants? Nnnnotsomuch. Bottom line, it was...ok.
A couple of chocolate-heavy beverages also wormed their way into my afternoon schedule, as the rails buckled somewhat under my endeavours.
But now, here I am. The blog's done, and I'm about to jump on the exercise bike, because let there be no mistake - there's no hypocrite like a Disappearing hypocrite. Tomorrow, as Scarlett O'Hara was wont to say, is another day, and dammit, it's a stay-at-home, bike-your-ass-off day. There - Achilles has spoken.
(Buggers off to put his heels to work on the bike...)
See that Achilles Heel?
I've got one of those. Only it's not technically in my heel. And of course, my name's not Achilles. Can you imagine any kid growing up in the 70s and 80s South Wales Valleys being saddled with a name like Achilles? Poor bastard would barely have made it out of nappies before being killed.
But I digress.
See, my weakness, my overriding, all-bets-are-off heel of doom is the idea that my reticence might stop other people having the good time they want to have. Which clearly means sharing platters are sent straight from the Devil to fuck with my life.
Another day, another editfest today. Got quite a lot done, and realised a delightful thing - thought I had a deadline of Christmas day for two edits which I'm doing concurrently, but actually the deadline's 29th, so that's five more days built into the schedule - hoorah. But went down to Cardiff Starbucks to crack on, only to discover that d was on the next train behind me, with payday cash in her bank account and lunch on her mind.
Had a very carb-heavy lunch, has to be said - chilli almonds to amuse the bouche, doughballs to start with and a bit of a disappointing bog-standard bolognaise for main. Then the dessert menu appeared, as if by magic, at our table.
There was a chocolate sharing platter.
I shared it. I couldn't not - I am many things, but strong enough to resist both chocolate and the idea that my wife won't have what she wants? Nnnnotsomuch. Bottom line, it was...ok.
A couple of chocolate-heavy beverages also wormed their way into my afternoon schedule, as the rails buckled somewhat under my endeavours.
But now, here I am. The blog's done, and I'm about to jump on the exercise bike, because let there be no mistake - there's no hypocrite like a Disappearing hypocrite. Tomorrow, as Scarlett O'Hara was wont to say, is another day, and dammit, it's a stay-at-home, bike-your-ass-off day. There - Achilles has spoken.
(Buggers off to put his heels to work on the bike...)
Friday, 19 December 2014
The Thief of Time
OK, nobody move!
Now which one o' you dirty, low down sons a' bitches stole nine goddamned hours from me?
Lemuel, lock the door. Ain't no-one gettin' out till I get my time back right here where it belongs.
I walked into this day once my honey left with nine freshly-minted hours, ordered myself a decaff Coasta latte, and now look, barely seconds left. So c'mon, which one of ya took 'em?
Won't be no hollerin' or consequences, I'll just shootcha quietly through the head and we'll say no more about it.
I ain't yet done my daily peregrinations on that there static velocipede, and I had them nine hours clearly marked for my own personal uses, which was to include some time a-pedallin' on that confounded machine.
Now, cos o' one o' you mangy dogs, I gotta but into my canoodlin' time with my good lady when she gets her hide in through the door to go a-peddlin'.
(whispers off-stage)
Whadday mean, ma own Mama done it? Not ma sweet old Mama? Well confound it all, whatcha all lookin' at? Ain'tcha never seen a feller spend a day runnin' round after his kin before? Go on now, there's nothin' to see here, 'ceptin' a plum stupid critter pedallin' his hind off.
Now which one o' you dirty, low down sons a' bitches stole nine goddamned hours from me?
Lemuel, lock the door. Ain't no-one gettin' out till I get my time back right here where it belongs.
I walked into this day once my honey left with nine freshly-minted hours, ordered myself a decaff Coasta latte, and now look, barely seconds left. So c'mon, which one of ya took 'em?
Won't be no hollerin' or consequences, I'll just shootcha quietly through the head and we'll say no more about it.
I ain't yet done my daily peregrinations on that there static velocipede, and I had them nine hours clearly marked for my own personal uses, which was to include some time a-pedallin' on that confounded machine.
Now, cos o' one o' you mangy dogs, I gotta but into my canoodlin' time with my good lady when she gets her hide in through the door to go a-peddlin'.
(whispers off-stage)
Whadday mean, ma own Mama done it? Not ma sweet old Mama? Well confound it all, whatcha all lookin' at? Ain'tcha never seen a feller spend a day runnin' round after his kin before? Go on now, there's nothin' to see here, 'ceptin' a plum stupid critter pedallin' his hind off.
Thursday, 18 December 2014
The Deadline Extremity
‘I love deadlines. I love the sound they
make as they go by.’
Words of wisdom from the man who, if I have
an idol, is it, Douglas Adams. Today was deadline day, so I crept out of bed at
just gone seven, and bogged off to my Starbucks to work my ass off. As I write
this, it’s nearly 8.30 at night – 13 hours later, and I’ve just about finished
for the day. In the interests of full disclosure, I should say, I took an hour
off for a rather extravagant lunch with d, who came down to Cardiff herself
after doing the sensible, day-off thing and catching some more sleep after waving
my ass out of the door. The extravagant lunch was a la Francaise – guinea hen,
no less, and a slightly odd potato soup that tasted of nothing – French cuisine,
Welsh style.
Have yet to bike, but that’s next on my
list of stuff to do. Once I’ve sent a couple of emails. And posted this online.
And oh yeah, loaded up a couple of links to my writing website. And finally write some Christmas cards. And find a Parcel Force card so I can hopefully claim a parcel that hopefully hasn't been sent back to fuck-knows-where, even though it was a while ago it arrived, and...oh gods, I hate deadlines.
Wednesday, 17 December 2014
The Forgetfulness Factor
Crap! It's 11.11 and I haven't blogged yet. Frankly, forgot all about it till now. Biked earlier, thankfully or there'd be no way of sticking to my "blog and bike each day this week" rule.
Did a bit of a stupid thing this morning - weighed in again. Thankfully, turned out to be a morale-booster - yeah, I know, tragic, really, that a 43-year-old 21st century man should have the self-esteem of a Jane Austen heroine, able to be shattered by the wrong numbers! Thankfully, was able to avoid a fit of the vapours, as the numbers were kind (and besides, really don't have time for the vapours right now).
Worked pretty solidly all day - with a cereal breakfast, a toast lunch and a mac and cheese dinner that was probably ill-advised. Biked for 45 minutes though, and it's aMAZING how self-righteous one can feel from doing what is actually so little physical exercise.
Tomorrow - Starbucks, ho! - for what the Australians deliciously describe as a 'head down, bum up' session, trying with increasing desperation to convince myself I can do all the things I need to do in the time I have left in which to do them (yes, I promise you, that sentence makes sense).
Still about three fairly major things to do before I can get off this machine and go fit in some snoring. but as yet - Wednesday's done, and I'm on target to tick off the whole bike-blog double on Monday.
Onwards!
Did a bit of a stupid thing this morning - weighed in again. Thankfully, turned out to be a morale-booster - yeah, I know, tragic, really, that a 43-year-old 21st century man should have the self-esteem of a Jane Austen heroine, able to be shattered by the wrong numbers! Thankfully, was able to avoid a fit of the vapours, as the numbers were kind (and besides, really don't have time for the vapours right now).
Worked pretty solidly all day - with a cereal breakfast, a toast lunch and a mac and cheese dinner that was probably ill-advised. Biked for 45 minutes though, and it's aMAZING how self-righteous one can feel from doing what is actually so little physical exercise.
Tomorrow - Starbucks, ho! - for what the Australians deliciously describe as a 'head down, bum up' session, trying with increasing desperation to convince myself I can do all the things I need to do in the time I have left in which to do them (yes, I promise you, that sentence makes sense).
Still about three fairly major things to do before I can get off this machine and go fit in some snoring. but as yet - Wednesday's done, and I'm on target to tick off the whole bike-blog double on Monday.
Onwards!
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
The Chemical Edge
Alrighty - well that's at least moderately positive. Weigh-in this morning is back the right side of 19 - 18st 12.25. This is pre-bike, pre-bathroom, but as the day draws on to its mid-point, I'm pretty much gonna have to consider it the official number I guess.
Of course it's not good good, but it's better than last week, when I went up four pounds. Down nearly three will do me for now, and might well help reinforce the discipline - blog every day, bike every day. This is fast becoming the week from hell, workwise, but if I can just remember to carve a little bit of time out for the biking, and no time at all out for the fish and chips or the chocolate brownies, then it's got to be going in the right direction, no?
Went to the optician this morning as I've started doing that middle-aged thing of taking off my glasses to read close text. Unff - over 200 quid out of January's pay packet that I could do without spending, but the eyes are the principle tools of my trade, so I suppose I can't get away with skimping on them. The good thing is there's no evidence of new retinopathic damage - diabetic damage, to the newbies - so it's not a case of my sugar control or weight bursting blood vessels in my eyes. Not new ones, anyway, which is always something to be thankful for.
So on we go. Had quite a large cereal breakfast this morning, but now feel powered up to go quite a few more hours. There will be biking. At some point. And if, by some miracle of application and restraint, aided by the chemical cheat mode of the Xenical, next week I can be another couple of pounds lighter, all to the good.
Of course it's not good good, but it's better than last week, when I went up four pounds. Down nearly three will do me for now, and might well help reinforce the discipline - blog every day, bike every day. This is fast becoming the week from hell, workwise, but if I can just remember to carve a little bit of time out for the biking, and no time at all out for the fish and chips or the chocolate brownies, then it's got to be going in the right direction, no?
Went to the optician this morning as I've started doing that middle-aged thing of taking off my glasses to read close text. Unff - over 200 quid out of January's pay packet that I could do without spending, but the eyes are the principle tools of my trade, so I suppose I can't get away with skimping on them. The good thing is there's no evidence of new retinopathic damage - diabetic damage, to the newbies - so it's not a case of my sugar control or weight bursting blood vessels in my eyes. Not new ones, anyway, which is always something to be thankful for.
So on we go. Had quite a large cereal breakfast this morning, but now feel powered up to go quite a few more hours. There will be biking. At some point. And if, by some miracle of application and restraint, aided by the chemical cheat mode of the Xenical, next week I can be another couple of pounds lighter, all to the good.
Monday, 15 December 2014
The Monday Double Groin-Kick
Some days, every single thing about the day
seems designed to kick you in the crotch and spit on your ludicrous attempts to
self-determine. These are what we call Mondays.
To be fair, I should have known it was
going to be that sort of day. Firstly, I own a calendar, and the Mondays are
clearly marked, so I knew it was coming. But secondly, I’d actually put some
plans into my To Do List. Proper plans, plans that included timings. “Bike
every day this week”, for instance. “Blog every day this week” for a second,
rather more predictable instance. Biking every day rather depended on biking
today, and I’d subliminally intended the universe to understand in no uncertain
terms when I wrote that in my list that I meant “before work”.
Needless to say, when I woke up at 8.45,
that was shot to hell in an instant.
On the upside, day-job procedure, which
normally has me chained to a Skype-chat for some indeterminate hour on a Monday
morning, skipped a beat this morning, allowing me to take advantage of d’s
particular groin-kick today, which was that while she was initially scheduled
to be in work for just the afternoon shift, her rota’d been changed to do a
second 11 hour shift on the run. Two wrongs may not make a right, but two
groin-kicks, as it turns out, makes a day in Starbucks. Which was just as well,
because this week is going to be unremittingly, brain-poundingly long and full
and generally shite. As I write this, it’s 6.30 at night and I’m on a train
home from Cardiff like a moderately over-dedicated commuter, so at least I can
tick off “blogged today”. I’m still hoping to be able to start the week off as
I’d intended and bike when I get in. Daresay my best chance is immediately once
I get through the door, so I’ll sign off now. Have a look a couple of lines
down to see what happened next…
Ugh. Yep. Biked, though only for the space
of about 300 calories, in addition to about 400 calories of walking done today.
Overall, that feels more reasonable than I’d hoped for, and allows me to hope
for better things tomorrow and for the rest of the week. Don’t know what the
morning’s weigh-in will hold, to be honest. Not imagining anything
extravagantly good. Have actually caught myself in mirrors quite a bit
recently, and the odd photo, and am back to actively disliking what I see
there. Hence, I suppose, this idea of biking every day and blogging every day.
Have a sense of being lost and drowning, clinging on to any scrap of routine I
can enforce upon myself. So let’s see if I can at least tick off those two
things at the end of next week, and then see where we go from there.
Tuesday, 9 December 2014
The Standard Equivocation
So - today's weigh-in was nowhere near as bad as I'd expected, but nowhere near good either.
The numbers today, pre-biking, say 19st 1. That's nowhere near as bad as the 19st 7 I was predicting, but of course, it's still up by about 5 lb in the space of a week.
Now, a continuation of last week's stupidity - when I saw that this morning, my instinctive reaction was "Wahay!"
How fucked up is that? I pick a vastly inflated number, and then tell myself I have reason to celebrate when I don't do as badly as I've said I'll do. Madness.
But I did at least get on the bike today, and when presented with homemade fudge by my mate Sue, I did the grown-up Disappearing thing, and kept it for d. I've eaten fairly carbtastically today though - largeish cereal breakfast, pasta linner - yeah, sod it, if "brunch" is a real thing, then if you have a single meal halfway between lunch and dinner, it's "linner".
And, as of today, there is Xenical in the house. Not in my system yet - that begins tomorrow morning at breakfast. Thought I was doing a Starbucks day tomorrow, but that's not going to happen now. Another day at the multi-faceted coalface, I reckon, but the To Do List will take a real dent as a result. And it means I can jump on the bike again first thing.
Also, thinking about it, I'll be at home for the first couple of Xenical days.
Yyyyeah. The more I think about that, the more sense it makes. OK, cool - homebody day as I become the Human Flume.
Fun fun fun now that Daddy took the T-Bird awaaaaaaay.
The numbers today, pre-biking, say 19st 1. That's nowhere near as bad as the 19st 7 I was predicting, but of course, it's still up by about 5 lb in the space of a week.
Now, a continuation of last week's stupidity - when I saw that this morning, my instinctive reaction was "Wahay!"
How fucked up is that? I pick a vastly inflated number, and then tell myself I have reason to celebrate when I don't do as badly as I've said I'll do. Madness.
But I did at least get on the bike today, and when presented with homemade fudge by my mate Sue, I did the grown-up Disappearing thing, and kept it for d. I've eaten fairly carbtastically today though - largeish cereal breakfast, pasta linner - yeah, sod it, if "brunch" is a real thing, then if you have a single meal halfway between lunch and dinner, it's "linner".
And, as of today, there is Xenical in the house. Not in my system yet - that begins tomorrow morning at breakfast. Thought I was doing a Starbucks day tomorrow, but that's not going to happen now. Another day at the multi-faceted coalface, I reckon, but the To Do List will take a real dent as a result. And it means I can jump on the bike again first thing.
Also, thinking about it, I'll be at home for the first couple of Xenical days.
Yyyyeah. The more I think about that, the more sense it makes. OK, cool - homebody day as I become the Human Flume.
Fun fun fun now that Daddy took the T-Bird awaaaaaaay.
Monday, 8 December 2014
The Fuckwit Farewell
Soooo y'know my last entry said "Hoorah, got some Xenical prescribed, the weightloss starts here!" or words to that effect?
Yyyyyeah, since then, have yet to get the pills, and have been eating like a sugar-crazed maniac and doing precisely no exercise. It's that principle which I know is insane, which every fat person knows is insane - "I'm quitting soon, and I won't be able to do this. Better do it twice as hard now, while I can!" It's the reason why diets that start on Mondays are preceded by a weekend binge. It's the reason why alcoholics go on a week-long bender if they happen to know they're about to get checked in to rehab. It's the sense of missing a lifestyle that's killing you, even before it's gone, and essentially snogging the face off it while you can.
It is of course, insane. I'd be surprised if I'm less than 19st 7 tomorrow - yes, for those keeping score, that's worse than a few weekes ago when I started all this again. My only real hope is to wake up in the morning and doing something - walking, biking, whatever, just something, to make me start the day off right and stop me careening round my own life like a pinball. d has rather sportingly promised to kick my ass out of bed at ugh o'clock, precisely so I do something.
I did go for the pills this morning, only to be told that the pharmacy didn't have any in stock - I had to be back for a phone meeting or I'd have waited at the second pharmacy where the wall of backs proclaimed to all who coughed and ahemed for attention, "I see no scumbags, needing their scumbag meds."
Tomorrow, I begin what d calls a "commitment". I do something. This has long past the point where I can say "This is getting silly" and not be met with a scornful, eyebrow-raised sneer. This has been silly. It has pased through silly, back into stupid. It dallied a while in stupid before pushing on to fucking stupid, and now I find myself back in the distinctly dark and dingy neighbourhood of practically suicide by food. Again the question needs to be asked: am I stronger than my desire to self-destruct?
Let's find out.
Yyyyyeah, since then, have yet to get the pills, and have been eating like a sugar-crazed maniac and doing precisely no exercise. It's that principle which I know is insane, which every fat person knows is insane - "I'm quitting soon, and I won't be able to do this. Better do it twice as hard now, while I can!" It's the reason why diets that start on Mondays are preceded by a weekend binge. It's the reason why alcoholics go on a week-long bender if they happen to know they're about to get checked in to rehab. It's the sense of missing a lifestyle that's killing you, even before it's gone, and essentially snogging the face off it while you can.
It is of course, insane. I'd be surprised if I'm less than 19st 7 tomorrow - yes, for those keeping score, that's worse than a few weekes ago when I started all this again. My only real hope is to wake up in the morning and doing something - walking, biking, whatever, just something, to make me start the day off right and stop me careening round my own life like a pinball. d has rather sportingly promised to kick my ass out of bed at ugh o'clock, precisely so I do something.
I did go for the pills this morning, only to be told that the pharmacy didn't have any in stock - I had to be back for a phone meeting or I'd have waited at the second pharmacy where the wall of backs proclaimed to all who coughed and ahemed for attention, "I see no scumbags, needing their scumbag meds."
Tomorrow, I begin what d calls a "commitment". I do something. This has long past the point where I can say "This is getting silly" and not be met with a scornful, eyebrow-raised sneer. This has been silly. It has pased through silly, back into stupid. It dallied a while in stupid before pushing on to fucking stupid, and now I find myself back in the distinctly dark and dingy neighbourhood of practically suicide by food. Again the question needs to be asked: am I stronger than my desire to self-destruct?
Let's find out.
Thursday, 4 December 2014
The Chemical Water Cannon
Something occurred to me - it was at about this point in the first Disappearing that Xenical, or Orlistat first made an appearance in my life. While having done the first stone and a half of weightloss (21 lbs) off my own bat, when the help of drugs was offered to me, I wasn't stupid enough to turn it down.
Went to the doctors today, just to introduce myself, talk heart issues, talk cholesterol, talk deafness, and of course talk weight. Told him about the losing six stone, putting four and a half of it back on thing, and his eyes widened. I mentioned the Xenical, and he said "Oh as long as you're under diabetic control - and you are - I've no problem putting you back on that."
So as of tomorrow, welcome back to my world the explosive orange shite bomb that is Xenical - basically it's a chemical truncheon or water cannon, to punish stupid-ass behaviour by shooting a percentage of the fat you take in right out of your ass without annnnny damn say on your part, in a ghastly orange flume.
Yay.
The idea being of course that the way you avoid this is to not take in the excess fat in the first damn place - so like a Pavlovian punching bag, you either learn to moderate your behaviour, or life gets messy and socially awkward.
Welcome back to life with the extremely scared Disappearing Man. Welcome back to the Orange Flume of Disgust. Welcome back to the chemical water cannon.
Went to the doctors today, just to introduce myself, talk heart issues, talk cholesterol, talk deafness, and of course talk weight. Told him about the losing six stone, putting four and a half of it back on thing, and his eyes widened. I mentioned the Xenical, and he said "Oh as long as you're under diabetic control - and you are - I've no problem putting you back on that."
So as of tomorrow, welcome back to my world the explosive orange shite bomb that is Xenical - basically it's a chemical truncheon or water cannon, to punish stupid-ass behaviour by shooting a percentage of the fat you take in right out of your ass without annnnny damn say on your part, in a ghastly orange flume.
Yay.
The idea being of course that the way you avoid this is to not take in the excess fat in the first damn place - so like a Pavlovian punching bag, you either learn to moderate your behaviour, or life gets messy and socially awkward.
Welcome back to life with the extremely scared Disappearing Man. Welcome back to the Orange Flume of Disgust. Welcome back to the chemical water cannon.
Wednesday, 3 December 2014
The Boredom Games
Unff. Did I mention - Thanksgiving?
Weigh-in on Tuesday was static. Totally immobile, not an inch of progress. Fair enough, as the biking regime has gone man-tits up.
Been in London today - walked seven miles today, all told, burning over 900 calories. Sadly, have eaten a bit madly too - breakfast at Burger King, dinner at McDonalds. Bit dickwitted, to be fair. Home now till Christmas, and must knuckle...the fuck...down.
Seem to have succumbed to the boredom of the thing, but clearly that needs to be kicked to death, or ridden beneath the relentless grinding wheels of the exercise bike.
Sigh...
Seeing the doctor tomorrow to talk heart shite, and possibly also weight shite. More news as I get it.
Must sleep now, before I headbutt the screen.
Weigh-in on Tuesday was static. Totally immobile, not an inch of progress. Fair enough, as the biking regime has gone man-tits up.
Been in London today - walked seven miles today, all told, burning over 900 calories. Sadly, have eaten a bit madly too - breakfast at Burger King, dinner at McDonalds. Bit dickwitted, to be fair. Home now till Christmas, and must knuckle...the fuck...down.
Seem to have succumbed to the boredom of the thing, but clearly that needs to be kicked to death, or ridden beneath the relentless grinding wheels of the exercise bike.
Sigh...
Seeing the doctor tomorrow to talk heart shite, and possibly also weight shite. More news as I get it.
Must sleep now, before I headbutt the screen.
Tuesday, 25 November 2014
The Disappointing Man
OK, so week 1 of the new Disappearing done.
Weigh-in this morning was: 18st 11.25
Just 2.5 pounds down. Good for a normal week, not so good for a first week back. On the other hand, there were about four days in the middle of the week where I did no exercise to speak of, so I have to be content with that. Have to be. If nothing else, it's effort put in and results delivered - going in the right direction. Have to try and be a bit more dedicated this week though.
Of course, saying that, I've been in Starbucks all day, and have done buggerall in the way of exercise today either, bar a paltry 250 caloriesworth of walking about. But if you're going to count that, you might as well count breathing as exercise.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow we start cracking the hell down. Would like to actually reach 18st 7 by next Tuesday, but of course that depends entirely on effort put in.
On the upside, blood control seems to have come sharply and swiftly within my remit - starting with numbers over 7, I'm now down to 5.4 two days ago, and 5.2 this morning, so that's pleasing. But as I say, while enjoying the fact that the movement is in the right direction, I'm just slightly disappointed by today's result. But it's inspiring me to do better and to keep pushing on, rather than to say "What's the point?" and eat doughnuts.
Mmmmm....doughnutttttts...
Ach - Out of here, still lots to do before the day's over. Onward!
Weigh-in this morning was: 18st 11.25
Just 2.5 pounds down. Good for a normal week, not so good for a first week back. On the other hand, there were about four days in the middle of the week where I did no exercise to speak of, so I have to be content with that. Have to be. If nothing else, it's effort put in and results delivered - going in the right direction. Have to try and be a bit more dedicated this week though.
Of course, saying that, I've been in Starbucks all day, and have done buggerall in the way of exercise today either, bar a paltry 250 caloriesworth of walking about. But if you're going to count that, you might as well count breathing as exercise.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow we start cracking the hell down. Would like to actually reach 18st 7 by next Tuesday, but of course that depends entirely on effort put in.
On the upside, blood control seems to have come sharply and swiftly within my remit - starting with numbers over 7, I'm now down to 5.4 two days ago, and 5.2 this morning, so that's pleasing. But as I say, while enjoying the fact that the movement is in the right direction, I'm just slightly disappointed by today's result. But it's inspiring me to do better and to keep pushing on, rather than to say "What's the point?" and eat doughnuts.
Mmmmm....doughnutttttts...
Ach - Out of here, still lots to do before the day's over. Onward!
Saturday, 22 November 2014
The Anti-Motivation Ray
Every now and again, on a random basis, every person in the world is hit by an "Ah, Fuck It" ray. There's probably a supervillain behind it - The Red Sloth or somesuch thing. And it usually hits overnight, so whatever plans you had for the day, you stumble out of bed, yawn, stretch, scratch your ass and say "Ah, Fuck It."
Today was an Ah Fuck It Ray day.
Intended to bike early. Didn't get out of bed till gone 10. Had a couple of pieces to write and an edit to make progress on. But as it turned out, there was important sitting on my ass that needed doing, so instead I crossed that off my list.
No exercise, bar a bit of a walk (165 caloriesworth), then breakfast of three Weetabix (no banana). Three bowls (yes, three) of chicken noodle casserole, and one McDonalds chicken salsa supreme (515 calories). Could probably have productively added some biking into that, and thought about it.
Thought about it while sitting on my ass, on my couch, watching, as it happened, episodes of Series 7 of Doctor Who.
Went out tonight - hence the McDonalds - and watched The Imitation Game. Good movie. Always makes me melancholy to think of what happened to Turing.
Tomorrow, d has a day shift in work, and a night bingo party to be in. I'm doing my thing - jumping on a train to Cardiff, and hoping to do the things I would have done today, had I not become a mindless pawn of the Sloth. Which includes coming home at a reasonable hour and biking some of my ass off. Need to push to make progress by Tuesday.
Today was an Ah Fuck It Ray day.
Intended to bike early. Didn't get out of bed till gone 10. Had a couple of pieces to write and an edit to make progress on. But as it turned out, there was important sitting on my ass that needed doing, so instead I crossed that off my list.
No exercise, bar a bit of a walk (165 caloriesworth), then breakfast of three Weetabix (no banana). Three bowls (yes, three) of chicken noodle casserole, and one McDonalds chicken salsa supreme (515 calories). Could probably have productively added some biking into that, and thought about it.
Thought about it while sitting on my ass, on my couch, watching, as it happened, episodes of Series 7 of Doctor Who.
Went out tonight - hence the McDonalds - and watched The Imitation Game. Good movie. Always makes me melancholy to think of what happened to Turing.
Tomorrow, d has a day shift in work, and a night bingo party to be in. I'm doing my thing - jumping on a train to Cardiff, and hoping to do the things I would have done today, had I not become a mindless pawn of the Sloth. Which includes coming home at a reasonable hour and biking some of my ass off. Need to push to make progress by Tuesday.
The Single Second Swoon Fiasco
Hmm...
Well, another Starbucks day today, so again, no biking early, no blood testing, but a brisk morning stroll around the building site that is my town to get the train. Round about ten it occurred to me that yesterday, my favourite Starbucks ran out of sweeteners. Now we all know I like to suck all conceivable joy and pleasure out of the coffee-drinking experience, by stripping out the fat, the caffeine and the sugar, and either not replacing them at all, or replacing them will fakery and bullshit - after all, I'm a journalist, fakery and bullshit are my stock in trade. So I actually left my briefcase and computer in my usual Starbucks, and went up to another branch, to grab one to go, and a couple of massive meaty pawfulls of sweeteners, to take back to 'my' place for the rest of the day.
I ordered my "Venti Decaff Skinny Latte, With a Shot of Sugar-Free Hazelnut Syrup, To Go" (I know, I know, but bite me, it's still less to say than my cold option of Disappearing choice), and bam!
The Catherine Wheel in my chest started circling. My head started swimming. I felt the weird, vaguely blacked-out sensation round the edges of my vision, and gripped the counter to stop from falling over. Then it began in earnest - the walk that became a trot in my chest. The trot that broke into a canter. And the canter that neighed and tossed its head and opened up into a full gallop.
"Ah, crap!" I said. The barista looked at me sharply - they don't know me there. I coughed. "Sorry," I murmured.
It wasn't easing off as I did some deep breathing. I looked for the right place in this new and unfamiliar Starbucks. Sighed.
"Sorry," I said again. "I'm gonna do something that's gonna look a bit weird, but honestly, I'm not a weirdo. Don't panic, it's a heart thing."
She glared at me - clearly, it's a bad idea to announce you're about to do a weird thing, even if you're rational enough to explain that you know it looks like a weird thing.
I went and lay on the floor, put my feet up on a chair.
No sooner had I stretched out on the floor and taken one breath than the gallop broke, straight back to a trot, and then back to a walk. I lay there for a few more breaths, just to make sure I was good, then stood up and collected my coffee, remembering the handfulls of sweeteners, and high-tailed it back to my Starbucks.
No biking tonight either - so sue me!
Meal tonight was chicken, a little pasta, some beans, and a little bread. I know, technically two carbs on the same plate, but small portions of everything, so I'm rally not gonna stress about it. Chest feels...interesting tonight. Not tight exactly, but not absolutely entirely spiffing either. Will see how I feel in the morning, but am hoping to get back on the bike before breakfast.
Humph - can do without such setbacks when I'm genuinely trying to make some progress.
Well, another Starbucks day today, so again, no biking early, no blood testing, but a brisk morning stroll around the building site that is my town to get the train. Round about ten it occurred to me that yesterday, my favourite Starbucks ran out of sweeteners. Now we all know I like to suck all conceivable joy and pleasure out of the coffee-drinking experience, by stripping out the fat, the caffeine and the sugar, and either not replacing them at all, or replacing them will fakery and bullshit - after all, I'm a journalist, fakery and bullshit are my stock in trade. So I actually left my briefcase and computer in my usual Starbucks, and went up to another branch, to grab one to go, and a couple of massive meaty pawfulls of sweeteners, to take back to 'my' place for the rest of the day.
I ordered my "Venti Decaff Skinny Latte, With a Shot of Sugar-Free Hazelnut Syrup, To Go" (I know, I know, but bite me, it's still less to say than my cold option of Disappearing choice), and bam!
The Catherine Wheel in my chest started circling. My head started swimming. I felt the weird, vaguely blacked-out sensation round the edges of my vision, and gripped the counter to stop from falling over. Then it began in earnest - the walk that became a trot in my chest. The trot that broke into a canter. And the canter that neighed and tossed its head and opened up into a full gallop.
"Ah, crap!" I said. The barista looked at me sharply - they don't know me there. I coughed. "Sorry," I murmured.
It wasn't easing off as I did some deep breathing. I looked for the right place in this new and unfamiliar Starbucks. Sighed.
"Sorry," I said again. "I'm gonna do something that's gonna look a bit weird, but honestly, I'm not a weirdo. Don't panic, it's a heart thing."
She glared at me - clearly, it's a bad idea to announce you're about to do a weird thing, even if you're rational enough to explain that you know it looks like a weird thing.
I went and lay on the floor, put my feet up on a chair.
No sooner had I stretched out on the floor and taken one breath than the gallop broke, straight back to a trot, and then back to a walk. I lay there for a few more breaths, just to make sure I was good, then stood up and collected my coffee, remembering the handfulls of sweeteners, and high-tailed it back to my Starbucks.
No biking tonight either - so sue me!
Meal tonight was chicken, a little pasta, some beans, and a little bread. I know, technically two carbs on the same plate, but small portions of everything, so I'm rally not gonna stress about it. Chest feels...interesting tonight. Not tight exactly, but not absolutely entirely spiffing either. Will see how I feel in the morning, but am hoping to get back on the bike before breakfast.
Humph - can do without such setbacks when I'm genuinely trying to make some progress.
Thursday, 20 November 2014
The Creamy Goodness Temptation
Alright so yesterday, with one biking session under my belt, d pulled rank on me.
'No biking,' she said. 'Get your ass in the bath and soak, Mister. No use pedalling your ass into oblivion if you can't move in the morning.'
So I duly got my ass in the bath.
This morning, I decided to get some real work done and hied myself to Starbucks, where I get shedloads done, so there was neither biking nor breakfast nor blood testing.
What there was in its place was the creamy goodness temptation.
It's apparently the Holiday Season - seems to be the Holiday Quarter these days, but whatever. That means there are a bunch of creamy delights at my coffee shop of choice - toffee nut this, and peppermint that, and so on.
Spent the majority of the day there, working, and managed to not falter - I was Mr Decaff Skinny Light Shite all day long, thankyouverymuch - and no falling asleep either.
Came home, having had no actual solid food all day, and did a stint on the bike. Moderately disappointing - only 400 calories burned - but have done a couple of hundred calories of walking today too, so that's not so bad. Had a big-ish dinner: d's on a pasta and meatball kick, and to be fair, the meatballs rocked.
All in all, should be within my daily calorie allowance, so not panicking as yet about the preponderance of carbs in my life this week. I refuse to go entirely nuts this early on in the process - you have to pace yourself with your nuts-going, and, y'know, Christmas is coming.
Back to Starbucks in the morning for more creamy goodness temptation, but I think having done a day, I should be OK to do another. From past experience, every day you do right, it gets just a little easier to do the same right again.
But hey, what do I know? We'll see what happens on Tuesday, right?
'No biking,' she said. 'Get your ass in the bath and soak, Mister. No use pedalling your ass into oblivion if you can't move in the morning.'
So I duly got my ass in the bath.
This morning, I decided to get some real work done and hied myself to Starbucks, where I get shedloads done, so there was neither biking nor breakfast nor blood testing.
What there was in its place was the creamy goodness temptation.
It's apparently the Holiday Season - seems to be the Holiday Quarter these days, but whatever. That means there are a bunch of creamy delights at my coffee shop of choice - toffee nut this, and peppermint that, and so on.
Spent the majority of the day there, working, and managed to not falter - I was Mr Decaff Skinny Light Shite all day long, thankyouverymuch - and no falling asleep either.
Came home, having had no actual solid food all day, and did a stint on the bike. Moderately disappointing - only 400 calories burned - but have done a couple of hundred calories of walking today too, so that's not so bad. Had a big-ish dinner: d's on a pasta and meatball kick, and to be fair, the meatballs rocked.
All in all, should be within my daily calorie allowance, so not panicking as yet about the preponderance of carbs in my life this week. I refuse to go entirely nuts this early on in the process - you have to pace yourself with your nuts-going, and, y'know, Christmas is coming.
Back to Starbucks in the morning for more creamy goodness temptation, but I think having done a day, I should be OK to do another. From past experience, every day you do right, it gets just a little easier to do the same right again.
But hey, what do I know? We'll see what happens on Tuesday, right?
Wednesday, 19 November 2014
The Ninja Banana Controversy
OK, so something weird's happening.
For reasons largely connected to my mother showing me a magazine article talking about "the hidden sugar" in ordinary foods, I haven't eaten bananas for a while.
Except since I started back with the Disappearing on Monday, I've had one every morning on top of my rationed, otherwise quite boring-ass Weetabix as part of the whole 'healthy diet' joyfest.
And both yesterday and today, I'm good for abbbbsolutely nothing for several hours.
d thinks it's the cereal itself, but then I've been having relatively massive bowlfuls of cereal on a daily basis, sometimes twice a day, so you'd think my system was accustomed to that. But I seem to be in the situation of being knocked on my ass...by a lone banana. Cue weird images of a ninja banana with a black bandana doing ju-jitsu in a sort of Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, Big Bad style. Screw pyjamas, you're not telling me that Banans in Bandanas couldn't work as a surprise Manga hit!
Certainly, I agree that it's something about breakfast that's doing this to me - Biked my 600 calories this morning, then tested my blood and it was ok at 6.4. Since then, had breakfast and good for bloody nothing.
Gonna try, tomorrow, and eschew the last banana in the bag, try sticking to just the cereal, and see if perhaps I can still speak and write coherent sentecnes by lunchtime.
Last night's second biking stint was a pain, frankly - only managed 250 calories burned. On the upside, I did 354 caloriesworth of walking yesterday too. So all in all, 1200 calories burned through exercise of one form or another yesterday. Food intake was the same as the day before+2 additional slices of toast - cereal and banana for breakfast, soup and toast for lunch, pasta (with those two additional slices of toast, for the crunch) for dinner, and buggerall else. Should be a reasonable recipe for reasonable loss, though I'm conscious of course of the relatively high carb-count in all that. Guess we'll see six days from now what happens.
Meanwhile - lunchtime.
For reasons largely connected to my mother showing me a magazine article talking about "the hidden sugar" in ordinary foods, I haven't eaten bananas for a while.
Except since I started back with the Disappearing on Monday, I've had one every morning on top of my rationed, otherwise quite boring-ass Weetabix as part of the whole 'healthy diet' joyfest.
And both yesterday and today, I'm good for abbbbsolutely nothing for several hours.
d thinks it's the cereal itself, but then I've been having relatively massive bowlfuls of cereal on a daily basis, sometimes twice a day, so you'd think my system was accustomed to that. But I seem to be in the situation of being knocked on my ass...by a lone banana. Cue weird images of a ninja banana with a black bandana doing ju-jitsu in a sort of Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, Big Bad style. Screw pyjamas, you're not telling me that Banans in Bandanas couldn't work as a surprise Manga hit!
Certainly, I agree that it's something about breakfast that's doing this to me - Biked my 600 calories this morning, then tested my blood and it was ok at 6.4. Since then, had breakfast and good for bloody nothing.
Gonna try, tomorrow, and eschew the last banana in the bag, try sticking to just the cereal, and see if perhaps I can still speak and write coherent sentecnes by lunchtime.
Last night's second biking stint was a pain, frankly - only managed 250 calories burned. On the upside, I did 354 caloriesworth of walking yesterday too. So all in all, 1200 calories burned through exercise of one form or another yesterday. Food intake was the same as the day before+2 additional slices of toast - cereal and banana for breakfast, soup and toast for lunch, pasta (with those two additional slices of toast, for the crunch) for dinner, and buggerall else. Should be a reasonable recipe for reasonable loss, though I'm conscious of course of the relatively high carb-count in all that. Guess we'll see six days from now what happens.
Meanwhile - lunchtime.
Tuesday, 18 November 2014
The Inaugural Numbers
So here we go:
The launch number for this iteration of Disappearing is 18st 13.75 - jussssst about as barely inside the 18s as possible. Six weeks from now, I hope to be 17st 13.75. Fourteen pounds in six weeks is slightly more than the medically-advised 2lbs a week, but I'm hoping the initial two-week bump of water-loss will work in my favour.
Back on the bike this morning. Harder to push this morning than yesterday, to be honest, but did my 600 calorie burn in the hour. Blood was 6.1 this morning - which is more like it.
Feel like a Starbucks day, but not doing that today. Possibly Friday, when d has her next full-day shift. As I write this, I'm almost falling asleep, and it's just 10.13 in the morning. Have had my regulation three Weetabix and a banana, but it feels like I've done a line of doughnuts, frankly - could just close my eyes.
Sigh - up, at 'em, day job to do.
The launch number for this iteration of Disappearing is 18st 13.75 - jussssst about as barely inside the 18s as possible. Six weeks from now, I hope to be 17st 13.75. Fourteen pounds in six weeks is slightly more than the medically-advised 2lbs a week, but I'm hoping the initial two-week bump of water-loss will work in my favour.
Back on the bike this morning. Harder to push this morning than yesterday, to be honest, but did my 600 calorie burn in the hour. Blood was 6.1 this morning - which is more like it.
Feel like a Starbucks day, but not doing that today. Possibly Friday, when d has her next full-day shift. As I write this, I'm almost falling asleep, and it's just 10.13 in the morning. Have had my regulation three Weetabix and a banana, but it feels like I've done a line of doughnuts, frankly - could just close my eyes.
Sigh - up, at 'em, day job to do.
Monday, 17 November 2014
The Two Snooze Starter
So let's see. The alarm went off this morning. That much I know.
See, the thing about now being deaf in one ear is that, if I happen to be sleeping on my left side, the alarm can yell, scream, and screech till steam comes out of its little digital lugholes, and I hear buggerall.
I know it went off this morning though, because I'm married to someone who's not deaf in either ear.
And has sharp elbows.
I slammed the snooze button twice. Turned very specifically to lay on my left side.
The alarm borrowed an elbow again, and I slid into a kind of consciousness, out of a kind of bed, and onto a kind of exercise bike. An hour of pumping music - Kaiser Chiefs, and some heavy Queen - got the legs pumping and the sweat flowing. Burned 600 calories in the hour, which was pleasing - it's the sort of number I was burning at the height of the Disappearing last time, but of course, there's a certain degree to which excitement at starting the new Disappearing will probably have made me pedal faster.
Anyhow, felt good to get that done - a big initiatory tick. Showered, and tested my blood - see, told you I knew where it was this time. 8.1 - which is a bit over what it should be for a British diabetic, especially having burned that number of calories just beforehand. Must Do Better, as my school reports used to say.
Sat on my ass for several hours, doing my day-job, then had a lunch - a cold can of tomato and chilli soup (I'm saying this largely because I know I have friends who'll shudder at the thought of it) with three slices of buttered toast. Round about six o'clock, did as I'd intended and went back for a second session on the bike - with less in the way of pumping music, more in the way of audiobookery, so as not to overstrain the muscles on Day 1 and be what doctors describe as 'bastard-useless' tomorrow.
Dinner tonight was a pasta in a gorgeous amatriciana sauce, home made by d. Not too much...I don't think, so evidence of portion control from my girl there, for which the Disappearing part of me is grateful.
So given that I woke up thinking I might not drag my enormo-ass out of the bed at all, turns out that Day 1 was almost textbook. Double exercise, allowed food intake, portion control. Posssssibly - just possibly - a small paracetamol to go to bed tonight, so I can get up in the morning and do it again. But as first days go, this is what I wanted to be reporting at this point.
Tomorrow of course is my inaugural weigh-in for this time round. It's an odd thing - I know it's going to be bad news (over 19 stone, probably, in spite of today), but it's about the only time in a Disappearing that you get a freebie. Whatever the Nazi Scales say in the morning, it's the benchmark from which I launch the effort, so it almost doesn't matter. But here's hoping for a bump into the 18s, rather than starting out in the 19s.
See, the thing about now being deaf in one ear is that, if I happen to be sleeping on my left side, the alarm can yell, scream, and screech till steam comes out of its little digital lugholes, and I hear buggerall.
I know it went off this morning though, because I'm married to someone who's not deaf in either ear.
And has sharp elbows.
I slammed the snooze button twice. Turned very specifically to lay on my left side.
The alarm borrowed an elbow again, and I slid into a kind of consciousness, out of a kind of bed, and onto a kind of exercise bike. An hour of pumping music - Kaiser Chiefs, and some heavy Queen - got the legs pumping and the sweat flowing. Burned 600 calories in the hour, which was pleasing - it's the sort of number I was burning at the height of the Disappearing last time, but of course, there's a certain degree to which excitement at starting the new Disappearing will probably have made me pedal faster.
Anyhow, felt good to get that done - a big initiatory tick. Showered, and tested my blood - see, told you I knew where it was this time. 8.1 - which is a bit over what it should be for a British diabetic, especially having burned that number of calories just beforehand. Must Do Better, as my school reports used to say.
Sat on my ass for several hours, doing my day-job, then had a lunch - a cold can of tomato and chilli soup (I'm saying this largely because I know I have friends who'll shudder at the thought of it) with three slices of buttered toast. Round about six o'clock, did as I'd intended and went back for a second session on the bike - with less in the way of pumping music, more in the way of audiobookery, so as not to overstrain the muscles on Day 1 and be what doctors describe as 'bastard-useless' tomorrow.
Dinner tonight was a pasta in a gorgeous amatriciana sauce, home made by d. Not too much...I don't think, so evidence of portion control from my girl there, for which the Disappearing part of me is grateful.
So given that I woke up thinking I might not drag my enormo-ass out of the bed at all, turns out that Day 1 was almost textbook. Double exercise, allowed food intake, portion control. Posssssibly - just possibly - a small paracetamol to go to bed tonight, so I can get up in the morning and do it again. But as first days go, this is what I wanted to be reporting at this point.
Tomorrow of course is my inaugural weigh-in for this time round. It's an odd thing - I know it's going to be bad news (over 19 stone, probably, in spite of today), but it's about the only time in a Disappearing that you get a freebie. Whatever the Nazi Scales say in the morning, it's the benchmark from which I launch the effort, so it almost doesn't matter. But here's hoping for a bump into the 18s, rather than starting out in the 19s.
Sunday, 16 November 2014
Last Chance To Binge
Sunday. The preparatory day. The day before everything great, and everything that sucks the sould and the joy out of life - or Monday, as it's more colloquially known.
I don't feel that tomorrow's going to be a typical Monday. I mean, yes, there'll be the usual "Who are you again?" sensation of seeing my colleagues, albeit on Skype (did I mention? Love working from home), but by the time that happens tomorrow, I'll have biked for an hour. I'll have taken the first steps back towards a productively Disappeared future.
Today has, it's fair to say, not been full of steps back towards a productively Disappeared future.
Had a McDonalds breakfast with d before she went to work, and yes, I had a double sausage and egg muffin, and yes, I had it as a meal, and yes, I enjoyed every mouthful of it. It was like saying farewell to a greasy, moderately gross old friend. If it helps, I had water as my drink, rather than the caramel frappe that was winking at me, swaying its creamy hips from the menu board. I eschewed it. I told it "shoo." If we're going to be huuuuggely generous to me, we could call that a one-all draw.
Then I did a day of 'being a good son.' Went with Ma on a three mile hike, which only stopped itself being somewhat more like a six-mile hike when we encountered a big barred gate with signs on saying, in slightly more convoluted language, "Sure, you can come over the gate if you like. Can't guarantee it's not a minefield though. Just sayin'..."
Did what I believe my American friends call 'Yard Work' for a while, sweeping leaves from where they clearly wanted to be to where Ma wanted them to be (in a bag), and then dumping them out front, so that, when the wind blows, they can escape and scatter themselves over other people's front yards. Fairly sure this sort of nonsense is why I've never been overly keen to have a yard till now, but there it is. Flipped my mother's mattress (nothing marks the advance of years more, I find, than being invited into one's parent's bedroom to do stuff they would previously have done with their spouse). Then I ate a Ma dinner.
My mother, bless her, has an interestingly limited repertoire when it comes to food preparation. She's mostly of the mind that there's much more interesting stuff to do (a mindset I rather share), and so, throughout the whole of my life, she has frequently substituted quantity for what might otherwise be thought of as quality. Vast quantities of rice, or pasta, or potato were offset in her case by the vast quantities of salad with which she padded out her own plate. For those of us who are rather more vitamin-averse, the space on the plate was always double-heaped with gorgeous, gorgeous carb.
One thing she does reasonably well (or perhaps we all think that about our mothers) is the traditional "Sunday dinner". Nowadays, it would be fair to say that it's one thing Waitrose does reasonably well, but she warms it up like a pro, bless her. And there's sooooo much of it.
I ate the whole thing without complaint today. And then yes thank you, I'll have a couple of mince pies with cream, as I haven't had any yet this year and after these, I'm not going to...
Just when you think there'd be no room left in me, I came home and had a bowl of Bran Flakes, jsut...because. My step-counter for the day logged 8977, across a distance of 4.2 miles, burning off 469 calories (this doesn't actually include the yard work, so part of my wheedling little personality is whispering "So, more than 500 calories really, in all probability"). So, ultimately, I've worked off the double sausage muffin today. Still probably over my 'allotted' calorie allowance for the day, but that, as I said at the start, is the nature of the day before, the day before you start something big, and long-haul, and slow, and patient, and starey-eyed determined.
Tomorrow, we bike at 7.30. And we bike again at 5 or 5-abouts. Tomorrow I say no to things that taste good and feel good, because the feeling of having eaten them is bad. The feeling of being this way is bad.
The idea of not feeling bad any more is what makes tomorrow feel like a beautiful thing.
I don't feel that tomorrow's going to be a typical Monday. I mean, yes, there'll be the usual "Who are you again?" sensation of seeing my colleagues, albeit on Skype (did I mention? Love working from home), but by the time that happens tomorrow, I'll have biked for an hour. I'll have taken the first steps back towards a productively Disappeared future.
Today has, it's fair to say, not been full of steps back towards a productively Disappeared future.
Had a McDonalds breakfast with d before she went to work, and yes, I had a double sausage and egg muffin, and yes, I had it as a meal, and yes, I enjoyed every mouthful of it. It was like saying farewell to a greasy, moderately gross old friend. If it helps, I had water as my drink, rather than the caramel frappe that was winking at me, swaying its creamy hips from the menu board. I eschewed it. I told it "shoo." If we're going to be huuuuggely generous to me, we could call that a one-all draw.
Then I did a day of 'being a good son.' Went with Ma on a three mile hike, which only stopped itself being somewhat more like a six-mile hike when we encountered a big barred gate with signs on saying, in slightly more convoluted language, "Sure, you can come over the gate if you like. Can't guarantee it's not a minefield though. Just sayin'..."
Did what I believe my American friends call 'Yard Work' for a while, sweeping leaves from where they clearly wanted to be to where Ma wanted them to be (in a bag), and then dumping them out front, so that, when the wind blows, they can escape and scatter themselves over other people's front yards. Fairly sure this sort of nonsense is why I've never been overly keen to have a yard till now, but there it is. Flipped my mother's mattress (nothing marks the advance of years more, I find, than being invited into one's parent's bedroom to do stuff they would previously have done with their spouse). Then I ate a Ma dinner.
My mother, bless her, has an interestingly limited repertoire when it comes to food preparation. She's mostly of the mind that there's much more interesting stuff to do (a mindset I rather share), and so, throughout the whole of my life, she has frequently substituted quantity for what might otherwise be thought of as quality. Vast quantities of rice, or pasta, or potato were offset in her case by the vast quantities of salad with which she padded out her own plate. For those of us who are rather more vitamin-averse, the space on the plate was always double-heaped with gorgeous, gorgeous carb.
One thing she does reasonably well (or perhaps we all think that about our mothers) is the traditional "Sunday dinner". Nowadays, it would be fair to say that it's one thing Waitrose does reasonably well, but she warms it up like a pro, bless her. And there's sooooo much of it.
I ate the whole thing without complaint today. And then yes thank you, I'll have a couple of mince pies with cream, as I haven't had any yet this year and after these, I'm not going to...
Just when you think there'd be no room left in me, I came home and had a bowl of Bran Flakes, jsut...because. My step-counter for the day logged 8977, across a distance of 4.2 miles, burning off 469 calories (this doesn't actually include the yard work, so part of my wheedling little personality is whispering "So, more than 500 calories really, in all probability"). So, ultimately, I've worked off the double sausage muffin today. Still probably over my 'allotted' calorie allowance for the day, but that, as I said at the start, is the nature of the day before, the day before you start something big, and long-haul, and slow, and patient, and starey-eyed determined.
Tomorrow, we bike at 7.30. And we bike again at 5 or 5-abouts. Tomorrow I say no to things that taste good and feel good, because the feeling of having eaten them is bad. The feeling of being this way is bad.
The idea of not feeling bad any more is what makes tomorrow feel like a beautiful thing.
Saturday, 15 November 2014
The Upside of Self-Loathing
Hello! (Echoes of 'Hello!', 'Hello!', 'Hello!' reverberate through the chasm of this blog).
Been a while. I've meant to update you after every weekly weigh-in. Suffice it to say I've been playing hopscotch back and forth over the State Line of 19 stone (266 pounds) for several weeks - one week, 19st 4, the next, 18st 13, the next, 19st 1, the next 18st 11.5, the next 18st 13).
Last week's weigh-in was 18st 13.
Needless to say, discipline has been nowhere to be seen of late. On the upside, I have finally finished a solid draft of my novel...preeetty much since I last wrote anything in this blog, so there you go - discipline has been rather funneled down that particular rabbit-hole. Back to the editing game now, leaving the novel aside until later this month, when I intend to go through it again and Make It Funny, which is something I think perhaps it sorely lacks at the minute, given the premise and the potential for Funny Stuff To Happen.
In the meantime, physical self-loathing and self-destructive behaviour rules, ok? Have done stupid shit even actively knowing it's stupid shit - went to the movies one night, and had both ice cream and Pick 'n' Mix. Haven't been walking very regularly at all, and despite the good intentions that have seen me vow to get back on the bike or go to the gym, very much in the region of buggerall has actually come of these good intentions.
But that stops - again, I know, I know - now. Or technically, that stops Monday morning, but hopefully tomorrow will see me start to blister the bejesus out of my feet again, as am going walking with Ma.
I figure, at 19 stone, give or take a damn, it doesn't actually take that much to start me making progress again. We all know that in the first two weeks of actually trying to do this shit, I'll lose a good few pounds, simply of water as my body goes "Oh look...he's trying again...how sweet..."
But the point is to actually try. To commit to making an effort, and maintain it.
I'm thinking: on the bike, every morning (unless doing something else appallingly physical with Ma) - at 7.30. Can then do an hour of dedicated biking and shower before technically the day job requires me to be at my desk. Am thinking a return to Sensible Breakfasts - ie 2 Weetabix, rather than an enormo-bowl of Bran Flakes. I'm thinking beginning a new blood testing chart and regime - and yes, before you go "Ah, but do you know where the testing kit is, cos that always scuppers you" - I'm looking at the needle right now, so nehh. If nothing else, facing the daily judgment of the blood test will give me something to hold me accountable for my actions, rather than the weekly judgment of the weigh-in - which my devious brain is full of stratagems for getting around by now. I'm thinking appalling healthy snacks - apples and carrots and suchlike vegetarian garbage. And I'm thinking the heaviest meal in the day being lunchtime, not dinner time. More protein, less carb. Fewer Starbucks-fests, because even with my decaff-skinny-imitation-coffee malarkey, it's still a lot of milk in any given day. Also, of course, costs a shedload! Perhaps an hour's biking every evening too - 5pm-6pm, which tends to be sort of weird ghostly wasted time at present (I've rather fallen under the thrall of a pointless game called Hay Day - might be time to knock that on the head too, so as to free up more time).
I'm also thinking to set short-term, more realistic goals. It's the middle of November now and I'm probably going to weigh at least 19 stone on Tuesday. If I can get down to 18 stone by Christmas - or perhaps, as an extra-special Yuletide bonus, if I can see a 17 stone 13 - that would perversely feel like excellent progress. Yes, technically, it would be roughly what I weighed on my 40th birthday, more than three years ago, but looking back at the photos of that day, while I'm chunky, I'm a lot more like the me I want to be in them than I am in my mirror today. Say I start the new year at 17st 13, if I can be under 17 stone by the end of February, that would be excellent. To see a 16, given that I'm now probably over 19, would be really invigorating. If I can see a 15 by the end of April - excellent. Which means if I can see a 14 by the end of June, I'll be utterly thrilled. And at that point, we reassess where we are and what we're doing. Pretty much half a year, broken into chunks of achievable goal. but only achievable of course if I get my ass moving and do the things I set out to do. We all know that I'm capable of doing them - that's perhaps the most galling thing - having gotten there once (admittedly with a degree of massively unpleasant chemical help), I know what the good place feels like. This - where I am right now - does not feel like a good place. It feels like a boulder of worry on my shoulders, avoiding mirrors, avoiding eyes, knowing there's both pity and contempt in them. Knowing that no matter how I strive to dress to minimise the effects of three fairly solid years of eating madly, I still look wrong. Knowing that I've worked perversely, particularly hard to get back to looking like this - and believe me I have, the excesses, when they've happened, have been obscene, and feel akin to silent, secret dragging of a blade across skin. Except of course there's ultimately nothing secretive about my self-harm. Not only do I come here and tell you about it, but it's marked on the body for you all to see - look, look - Fat Man Walking. Roll up, roll up, see the Disappearing Failure.
The upside of such maudlin self-loathing of course is that if you can harness it right, it can power you on. It's been three years since I stopped actively Disappearing, and started working, one way or another, towards regaining all the weight I worked so monstrously hard to get rid of. You need, on some quiet, still, steel-rod level, to go to war with yourself to do either half of this - the Disappearing, or the Rebuilding. Because the impulse is itself a bifurcation of the mind. The impulse to eat the wrong stuff, and do nothing in the way of exercise makes so much sense, it's almost frightening. But the impulse to eat the right stuff, and move your ass, is a gateway to things you want to do, not least of which is in all probability living longer. As an atheist, I get no second chances. Being a good person doesn't get me another bite of the cherry of life - it just gives me a warm glow of satisfaction. But in terms of living, this is all I get. I don't want to regret any more years of not being able to do stuff. And yes, I'm back in that category - there's stuff I'd like to do that I'm not physically able to do as a result of my weight. That, when you really break it down, is just bullshit. It's time to begin the climb again. The climb down from the high numbers to those that allow my body to work more effectively, to carry me through life with less strain and stress, and allow me to do some of the things I want to do. As I say, technically this begins Monday. And so does the resumption of more regular reports to you lot (such as you are - anyone still out there?). Again, having to report the day to you is an incentive not to fill the day with stupid shit: it actually used to work that way - many's the day when the thought of having to admit a degree of failure on this blog stopped me failing. So let's see. As I say - objective 1: 17 stone 13 by New Year. Six weeks, at least 14 pounds - I'm essentially counting on the water loss bump in the first two weeks to make this any kind of possibility. But that's Base Camp for The Disappearing Man 2015.
Come back, come along - there's still plenty of bitching to do, I promise.
Been a while. I've meant to update you after every weekly weigh-in. Suffice it to say I've been playing hopscotch back and forth over the State Line of 19 stone (266 pounds) for several weeks - one week, 19st 4, the next, 18st 13, the next, 19st 1, the next 18st 11.5, the next 18st 13).
Last week's weigh-in was 18st 13.
Needless to say, discipline has been nowhere to be seen of late. On the upside, I have finally finished a solid draft of my novel...preeetty much since I last wrote anything in this blog, so there you go - discipline has been rather funneled down that particular rabbit-hole. Back to the editing game now, leaving the novel aside until later this month, when I intend to go through it again and Make It Funny, which is something I think perhaps it sorely lacks at the minute, given the premise and the potential for Funny Stuff To Happen.
In the meantime, physical self-loathing and self-destructive behaviour rules, ok? Have done stupid shit even actively knowing it's stupid shit - went to the movies one night, and had both ice cream and Pick 'n' Mix. Haven't been walking very regularly at all, and despite the good intentions that have seen me vow to get back on the bike or go to the gym, very much in the region of buggerall has actually come of these good intentions.
But that stops - again, I know, I know - now. Or technically, that stops Monday morning, but hopefully tomorrow will see me start to blister the bejesus out of my feet again, as am going walking with Ma.
I figure, at 19 stone, give or take a damn, it doesn't actually take that much to start me making progress again. We all know that in the first two weeks of actually trying to do this shit, I'll lose a good few pounds, simply of water as my body goes "Oh look...he's trying again...how sweet..."
But the point is to actually try. To commit to making an effort, and maintain it.
I'm thinking: on the bike, every morning (unless doing something else appallingly physical with Ma) - at 7.30. Can then do an hour of dedicated biking and shower before technically the day job requires me to be at my desk. Am thinking a return to Sensible Breakfasts - ie 2 Weetabix, rather than an enormo-bowl of Bran Flakes. I'm thinking beginning a new blood testing chart and regime - and yes, before you go "Ah, but do you know where the testing kit is, cos that always scuppers you" - I'm looking at the needle right now, so nehh. If nothing else, facing the daily judgment of the blood test will give me something to hold me accountable for my actions, rather than the weekly judgment of the weigh-in - which my devious brain is full of stratagems for getting around by now. I'm thinking appalling healthy snacks - apples and carrots and suchlike vegetarian garbage. And I'm thinking the heaviest meal in the day being lunchtime, not dinner time. More protein, less carb. Fewer Starbucks-fests, because even with my decaff-skinny-imitation-coffee malarkey, it's still a lot of milk in any given day. Also, of course, costs a shedload! Perhaps an hour's biking every evening too - 5pm-6pm, which tends to be sort of weird ghostly wasted time at present (I've rather fallen under the thrall of a pointless game called Hay Day - might be time to knock that on the head too, so as to free up more time).
I'm also thinking to set short-term, more realistic goals. It's the middle of November now and I'm probably going to weigh at least 19 stone on Tuesday. If I can get down to 18 stone by Christmas - or perhaps, as an extra-special Yuletide bonus, if I can see a 17 stone 13 - that would perversely feel like excellent progress. Yes, technically, it would be roughly what I weighed on my 40th birthday, more than three years ago, but looking back at the photos of that day, while I'm chunky, I'm a lot more like the me I want to be in them than I am in my mirror today. Say I start the new year at 17st 13, if I can be under 17 stone by the end of February, that would be excellent. To see a 16, given that I'm now probably over 19, would be really invigorating. If I can see a 15 by the end of April - excellent. Which means if I can see a 14 by the end of June, I'll be utterly thrilled. And at that point, we reassess where we are and what we're doing. Pretty much half a year, broken into chunks of achievable goal. but only achievable of course if I get my ass moving and do the things I set out to do. We all know that I'm capable of doing them - that's perhaps the most galling thing - having gotten there once (admittedly with a degree of massively unpleasant chemical help), I know what the good place feels like. This - where I am right now - does not feel like a good place. It feels like a boulder of worry on my shoulders, avoiding mirrors, avoiding eyes, knowing there's both pity and contempt in them. Knowing that no matter how I strive to dress to minimise the effects of three fairly solid years of eating madly, I still look wrong. Knowing that I've worked perversely, particularly hard to get back to looking like this - and believe me I have, the excesses, when they've happened, have been obscene, and feel akin to silent, secret dragging of a blade across skin. Except of course there's ultimately nothing secretive about my self-harm. Not only do I come here and tell you about it, but it's marked on the body for you all to see - look, look - Fat Man Walking. Roll up, roll up, see the Disappearing Failure.
The upside of such maudlin self-loathing of course is that if you can harness it right, it can power you on. It's been three years since I stopped actively Disappearing, and started working, one way or another, towards regaining all the weight I worked so monstrously hard to get rid of. You need, on some quiet, still, steel-rod level, to go to war with yourself to do either half of this - the Disappearing, or the Rebuilding. Because the impulse is itself a bifurcation of the mind. The impulse to eat the wrong stuff, and do nothing in the way of exercise makes so much sense, it's almost frightening. But the impulse to eat the right stuff, and move your ass, is a gateway to things you want to do, not least of which is in all probability living longer. As an atheist, I get no second chances. Being a good person doesn't get me another bite of the cherry of life - it just gives me a warm glow of satisfaction. But in terms of living, this is all I get. I don't want to regret any more years of not being able to do stuff. And yes, I'm back in that category - there's stuff I'd like to do that I'm not physically able to do as a result of my weight. That, when you really break it down, is just bullshit. It's time to begin the climb again. The climb down from the high numbers to those that allow my body to work more effectively, to carry me through life with less strain and stress, and allow me to do some of the things I want to do. As I say, technically this begins Monday. And so does the resumption of more regular reports to you lot (such as you are - anyone still out there?). Again, having to report the day to you is an incentive not to fill the day with stupid shit: it actually used to work that way - many's the day when the thought of having to admit a degree of failure on this blog stopped me failing. So let's see. As I say - objective 1: 17 stone 13 by New Year. Six weeks, at least 14 pounds - I'm essentially counting on the water loss bump in the first two weeks to make this any kind of possibility. But that's Base Camp for The Disappearing Man 2015.
Come back, come along - there's still plenty of bitching to do, I promise.
Monday, 6 October 2014
The Pre-Ration Glut
Right...
Well...
There's absolutely nothing coming from me in the way of an excuse for this one.
I took the week not only off, but off-planet, essentially. Ate like sugar was going on the ration while d and I were away in Saundersfoot, celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary. There was a delightful little bakery just two doors down. By the end of the week, I could barely fit in the front door face-on.
I don't know what I weigh now - that delight is being saved for tomorrow's official weigh-in. All I can tell you is it's probably back over 19 stone. Feels it and looks it.
Back to some vague semblance of normality today, though didn't walk this morning, as it was abbbbsolutely pissing down - welcome back to Merthyr, Disappearo!
Would I change last week? Not really. It was fantastic - not just the eating without too much of a care, but the together time, the doing just what we felt like time. Really enjoyed it. Back to the day job and the second day job and the writing and the this and the that and the other today though. Back to some form of discipline, though I'd be lying if I said it felt like coming back to the perspex boxes. The day has...something...of that about it though. Let's see what the official condemnation is from the Nazi Scales tomorrow, and go forward from there.
Well...
There's absolutely nothing coming from me in the way of an excuse for this one.
I took the week not only off, but off-planet, essentially. Ate like sugar was going on the ration while d and I were away in Saundersfoot, celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary. There was a delightful little bakery just two doors down. By the end of the week, I could barely fit in the front door face-on.
I don't know what I weigh now - that delight is being saved for tomorrow's official weigh-in. All I can tell you is it's probably back over 19 stone. Feels it and looks it.
Back to some vague semblance of normality today, though didn't walk this morning, as it was abbbbsolutely pissing down - welcome back to Merthyr, Disappearo!
Would I change last week? Not really. It was fantastic - not just the eating without too much of a care, but the together time, the doing just what we felt like time. Really enjoyed it. Back to the day job and the second day job and the writing and the this and the that and the other today though. Back to some form of discipline, though I'd be lying if I said it felt like coming back to the perspex boxes. The day has...something...of that about it though. Let's see what the official condemnation is from the Nazi Scales tomorrow, and go forward from there.
Friday, 26 September 2014
The Self-Disgusting Paradigm
In the words of Tony Hancock, "That is it - That is all."
I'm done being this way. Am avoiding my reflection in mirrors, shop windows and shiny surfaces again. Clothes barely stretch to fit me. I went down to the garbage room to throw out some bags last night, and by the time I got back to the flat I was winded and my heart was pounding. This can't be allowed to continue.
Oh - last weigh-in, this week, was 18st 9.5. (Shrugs). Still half a stone from where I re-started last, but I just can't keep going like this, it's exhausting.
That's the thing a lot of people don't understand. You actually have to work at the mindset of self-destruction to get to be this way: at least, I do.
I'm done. I'm just done with it. Today I have barely time to dash this off in amid a thousand other things to do - not unlike ten years ago today, when I was running around London like a mad bastard, ticking things off the pre-wedding lists. Think this was the day I booked the guitarist to play the throughout the day. Although fairly sure our American friends were here by then, so this may have been the London Zoo day.
Anyhow - am roughly the size I was ten years ago today, which is less good than I'd like. But as I say, while I barely have time to breathe today (just as well really if going up and down stairs is going to tire me out), we go away to the sea for a week beginning tomorrow. There will be no falling over plant pots and breaking toes. There will be walking. Lots and lots of walking. I can't put up with this shit any more.
I'm done being this way. Am avoiding my reflection in mirrors, shop windows and shiny surfaces again. Clothes barely stretch to fit me. I went down to the garbage room to throw out some bags last night, and by the time I got back to the flat I was winded and my heart was pounding. This can't be allowed to continue.
Oh - last weigh-in, this week, was 18st 9.5. (Shrugs). Still half a stone from where I re-started last, but I just can't keep going like this, it's exhausting.
That's the thing a lot of people don't understand. You actually have to work at the mindset of self-destruction to get to be this way: at least, I do.
I'm done. I'm just done with it. Today I have barely time to dash this off in amid a thousand other things to do - not unlike ten years ago today, when I was running around London like a mad bastard, ticking things off the pre-wedding lists. Think this was the day I booked the guitarist to play the throughout the day. Although fairly sure our American friends were here by then, so this may have been the London Zoo day.
Anyhow - am roughly the size I was ten years ago today, which is less good than I'd like. But as I say, while I barely have time to breathe today (just as well really if going up and down stairs is going to tire me out), we go away to the sea for a week beginning tomorrow. There will be no falling over plant pots and breaking toes. There will be walking. Lots and lots of walking. I can't put up with this shit any more.
Sunday, 21 September 2014
Jones - 7th September
Argh.
This marks a bad week. Went back up to 18st 8.75, through another combination of bad habitry, buggerall-discipline and general gittishness.
Of particular note this week was a memorial to a friend of mine, the mother of one of my best and oldest friends. The mother, known almost universally as simply "Jones", was not so much 'vibrant' as 'bloody-mindedly lethal.' She left her mark, like 4ft-spit of the world's own fury, on many of the lives of people of my generation in South Wales, as teacher, decidedly odd intellectual, magnanimous party-host for a bunch of reprobate but probably good-hearted teens, and German-spitting but even-tempered archery coach. Never really happier than when battling the Guardian cryptic crossword, prannying about with delapidated Land Rovers, or traipsing about through dank woods with very strange men, she was and always will be simply Jones. Or, to a reasonable few, Jon-es, pronounced with the J as a Y. The last three decades or so of her life were probably among the happiest of her times, as she met a bloke who, while freely admitting to being a bit of a prat some of the time, really, truly adored her.
There are people for whom it is wholly inappropriate to hold, say, a minute's silence. Jon-es was one of them. Sian, whose mother she was, put the word out: "Piss up around Merthyr, in memory of my mother!"
It was really rather gratifying. Sian, being one of those types, came down to Merthyr on the day and did a very long, very stupid run from Brecon to Merthyr, before changing gear and coming out for the night dressed in an evolved version of her outfits from 25 years before - the period to which we were all really throwing back our minds. Karen, who shall be forever known as Pulley, checked her medication schedule, and joined the gang. Sue, who always moved in an orbit more her own back in the day, by virtue of being In A Proper Couple with then-boyfriend Neil (then husband Neil, and now-ex-husband Neil, who advised he couldn't make it), but with whom I've rekindled a strong friendship since coming back to Merthyr on account of her being a) a big old geek, b) a comedy fanatic, and c) my business banker(!), gave the night a great sarcastic twist, while fully engaging in the thing. Simon, of whom I have a seriously dim-ass recollection of being jealous back in the day (probably something to do with all the people I fancied fancying him instead. Teenaged grr...shrugs) had come over from Swansea way, having spent most of the day wrestling with a bath...apparently. Steven and his fiancee, Karl, came up the valley, which was cool - haven't seen Steven for a decade and more, and had only heard of Karl through Facebook. Paula turned up from much further afield and I immediately covered myself in ignominy by getting her name wrong...not once, but twice (did I mention the dim-assery of my memory these days?). And Will, one of the many strange men with a penchant for hitting Saxons in the head came to raise a largely non-alcoholic glass in memory of Jones.
Great night, during which the following was proven:
1) We are so very far from being teenagers any more.
2) That's a very, very, very good thing.
In Disappearing terms though, a day of admission of temporary defeat - the day before the thing, I gave up trying to breathe in my 36 inch jeans and bought a new pair, a bigger pair, so I could sit down and breathe simultaneously on the night of the memorial. As I say, temporary defeat, and I daresay, were Jones still here she could give me a military reference from the Peloponnesian War to perfectly illustrate the idea of a strategic withdrawal in order to triumph another day.
As it happens, she's very much, unsentimentally gone - body to science, annnnnd that's about all. But in the night we had, and in the fact that we all have unique and shared memories of her, the won't be fully gone till the last of us stop thinking and telling stories about her. And her granddaughters aren't likely to do that any time soon.
This marks a bad week. Went back up to 18st 8.75, through another combination of bad habitry, buggerall-discipline and general gittishness.
Of particular note this week was a memorial to a friend of mine, the mother of one of my best and oldest friends. The mother, known almost universally as simply "Jones", was not so much 'vibrant' as 'bloody-mindedly lethal.' She left her mark, like 4ft-spit of the world's own fury, on many of the lives of people of my generation in South Wales, as teacher, decidedly odd intellectual, magnanimous party-host for a bunch of reprobate but probably good-hearted teens, and German-spitting but even-tempered archery coach. Never really happier than when battling the Guardian cryptic crossword, prannying about with delapidated Land Rovers, or traipsing about through dank woods with very strange men, she was and always will be simply Jones. Or, to a reasonable few, Jon-es, pronounced with the J as a Y. The last three decades or so of her life were probably among the happiest of her times, as she met a bloke who, while freely admitting to being a bit of a prat some of the time, really, truly adored her.
There are people for whom it is wholly inappropriate to hold, say, a minute's silence. Jon-es was one of them. Sian, whose mother she was, put the word out: "Piss up around Merthyr, in memory of my mother!"
It was really rather gratifying. Sian, being one of those types, came down to Merthyr on the day and did a very long, very stupid run from Brecon to Merthyr, before changing gear and coming out for the night dressed in an evolved version of her outfits from 25 years before - the period to which we were all really throwing back our minds. Karen, who shall be forever known as Pulley, checked her medication schedule, and joined the gang. Sue, who always moved in an orbit more her own back in the day, by virtue of being In A Proper Couple with then-boyfriend Neil (then husband Neil, and now-ex-husband Neil, who advised he couldn't make it), but with whom I've rekindled a strong friendship since coming back to Merthyr on account of her being a) a big old geek, b) a comedy fanatic, and c) my business banker(!), gave the night a great sarcastic twist, while fully engaging in the thing. Simon, of whom I have a seriously dim-ass recollection of being jealous back in the day (probably something to do with all the people I fancied fancying him instead. Teenaged grr...shrugs) had come over from Swansea way, having spent most of the day wrestling with a bath...apparently. Steven and his fiancee, Karl, came up the valley, which was cool - haven't seen Steven for a decade and more, and had only heard of Karl through Facebook. Paula turned up from much further afield and I immediately covered myself in ignominy by getting her name wrong...not once, but twice (did I mention the dim-assery of my memory these days?). And Will, one of the many strange men with a penchant for hitting Saxons in the head came to raise a largely non-alcoholic glass in memory of Jones.
Great night, during which the following was proven:
1) We are so very far from being teenagers any more.
2) That's a very, very, very good thing.
In Disappearing terms though, a day of admission of temporary defeat - the day before the thing, I gave up trying to breathe in my 36 inch jeans and bought a new pair, a bigger pair, so I could sit down and breathe simultaneously on the night of the memorial. As I say, temporary defeat, and I daresay, were Jones still here she could give me a military reference from the Peloponnesian War to perfectly illustrate the idea of a strategic withdrawal in order to triumph another day.
As it happens, she's very much, unsentimentally gone - body to science, annnnnd that's about all. But in the night we had, and in the fact that we all have unique and shared memories of her, the won't be fully gone till the last of us stop thinking and telling stories about her. And her granddaughters aren't likely to do that any time soon.
Death By Cream Tea - 31st August
This is being written three weeks late, because I simply haven't had a moment since we went away for our treehouse weekend to update you.
Bath, and all the associated little villages of Wiltshire, was fantastic. I think it's entirely possible though that Wiltshire was trying to kill me with its cream teas. Stopped in Sally Lunn's tea shop for an archetypal Bath Bun, which was slavered not only with clotted cream, but also with cinnamon butter. Had tea in a tea shop that had been serving since 1502 (The Bridge, in Bradfrod-on-Avon, where they brought me a knife ahead of the soup and I joked that I hadn't expected to have to cut it. Then it came, and it turned out I did). Had phenomenal fried fish at the Fleur De Lys in Norton St Phillips. Best of all though, had tea, twice, in King John's Hunting Lodge tea rooms in Lacock village. That last was extra special not only because I have a special interest in King John, and not just because everything they made was almost fanatically superb, but because we got to meet and chat with Margaret, the woman who owns and runs it. She took it over decades ago when it was a wreck and she ran a restaurant. She rebuilt it, opened it and now runs it with both the sweetness and steel of a natty Miss Marple. When we met her, she was 86 and looking a more sprightly 63, making sure her visitors were having a great experience. She also told us that she'd just come out of major surgery some eight weeks before, and was heading back for more in a few months. If you want a lesson in human inspiration (with a kick-ass cake variety), check out King John's in Lacock.
However, all this dietary laissez-faire, coupled with an altogether 'on your holidays' approach to exercise, led to a weigh-in when I came back from this break of 18st 4lbs - surprisingly lenient, considering everything that I'd shoved into my system over the long weekend. Great break, but clearly, must do better.
Bath, and all the associated little villages of Wiltshire, was fantastic. I think it's entirely possible though that Wiltshire was trying to kill me with its cream teas. Stopped in Sally Lunn's tea shop for an archetypal Bath Bun, which was slavered not only with clotted cream, but also with cinnamon butter. Had tea in a tea shop that had been serving since 1502 (The Bridge, in Bradfrod-on-Avon, where they brought me a knife ahead of the soup and I joked that I hadn't expected to have to cut it. Then it came, and it turned out I did). Had phenomenal fried fish at the Fleur De Lys in Norton St Phillips. Best of all though, had tea, twice, in King John's Hunting Lodge tea rooms in Lacock village. That last was extra special not only because I have a special interest in King John, and not just because everything they made was almost fanatically superb, but because we got to meet and chat with Margaret, the woman who owns and runs it. She took it over decades ago when it was a wreck and she ran a restaurant. She rebuilt it, opened it and now runs it with both the sweetness and steel of a natty Miss Marple. When we met her, she was 86 and looking a more sprightly 63, making sure her visitors were having a great experience. She also told us that she'd just come out of major surgery some eight weeks before, and was heading back for more in a few months. If you want a lesson in human inspiration (with a kick-ass cake variety), check out King John's in Lacock.
However, all this dietary laissez-faire, coupled with an altogether 'on your holidays' approach to exercise, led to a weigh-in when I came back from this break of 18st 4lbs - surprisingly lenient, considering everything that I'd shoved into my system over the long weekend. Great break, but clearly, must do better.
Wednesday, 27 August 2014
The Universal Inversion
I have no idea what's going on any more.
Had a dreadful night Sunday and spent most of the night trapped in the bathroom. The result was that when I woke up Monday morning feeling significantly lighter, I though I'd chance a sneaky unofficial weigh in.
18st 4.75!
'Fuck offfff!' I yelled at the Nazi Scales. I knew I hadn't had a great week, but there didn't seem any fairness to that result. I went away for a good fume.
That night, d had a yen to make pizza from scratch. Dough like a lover's embrace, homemade tomato sauce like the kiss that turns a day to fire, toppings laid out like blindfolded trust, and cheese that trapped them like a secret beyond all the shades of grey.
It was a damn good pizza. But of course it was pizza, so I kind of woke up Tuesday morning with a nugget of dread in my heart for the judgment of the Nazis.
18st 2.75, they said.
'What?!' I demanded. 'What the fuck do you mean?! I empty myself and weigh more than when I stuff myself with the pizza of the gods, what the-'
'Let it go, honey,' said d, with a sweet little smile that belonged in an episode of Bewitched. I was watching for the nose-wiggle, I promise you. 'It's the universe's way of telling you you have abbbbbsolutley no control over anything.'
I blinked.
'Erm...thanks,' I said.
So there it is - barely moved after quite a bad and undisciplined week. Need to get my ass - and the rest of me, actually - in gear again and push back beneath the 18 stone border.
Going away for a long weekend on Friday - there will be eating out, but there could also be long walks in the forest, so we'll see which side of the Force is bigger and better next Tuesday.
Had a dreadful night Sunday and spent most of the night trapped in the bathroom. The result was that when I woke up Monday morning feeling significantly lighter, I though I'd chance a sneaky unofficial weigh in.
18st 4.75!
'Fuck offfff!' I yelled at the Nazi Scales. I knew I hadn't had a great week, but there didn't seem any fairness to that result. I went away for a good fume.
That night, d had a yen to make pizza from scratch. Dough like a lover's embrace, homemade tomato sauce like the kiss that turns a day to fire, toppings laid out like blindfolded trust, and cheese that trapped them like a secret beyond all the shades of grey.
It was a damn good pizza. But of course it was pizza, so I kind of woke up Tuesday morning with a nugget of dread in my heart for the judgment of the Nazis.
18st 2.75, they said.
'What?!' I demanded. 'What the fuck do you mean?! I empty myself and weigh more than when I stuff myself with the pizza of the gods, what the-'
'Let it go, honey,' said d, with a sweet little smile that belonged in an episode of Bewitched. I was watching for the nose-wiggle, I promise you. 'It's the universe's way of telling you you have abbbbbsolutley no control over anything.'
I blinked.
'Erm...thanks,' I said.
So there it is - barely moved after quite a bad and undisciplined week. Need to get my ass - and the rest of me, actually - in gear again and push back beneath the 18 stone border.
Going away for a long weekend on Friday - there will be eating out, but there could also be long walks in the forest, so we'll see which side of the Force is bigger and better next Tuesday.
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
The Undisciplined Driftback
Arse. And then another arse. With shavings of lightly toasted arse on top for presentation.
Weigh-in today was (post-bathroom UP 2.75 pounds to 18st 2.5.
Sigh. I know why this is - have had a completely undisciplined week, and too many treats - granola, STILL! - occasional greasy meals, eating late, and practically buggerall in the way of exercise. So let it never be said I'm making undue excuses here - I fucked up, the licks I'm taking are 2.75 pounds of fat, alllrighty then, let's stop this shit right now.
Biked tonight for the first time in a week. Was entirely wuss-ass about it, doing 300 calories, or about 4.5 miles, and then getting off, claiming pressure of time.
Tomorrow, I walk my six miles down the Trail again for the first time in weeks.
Who knows, maybe this lax week will have fooled my system into a true sense of complacency, and it'll be shocked as hell again when I hit it with a disciplined week.
I do realise of course that this is NOT the way to go about things in a healthy manner. This is yo-yoing, and about as pointless as an ACTUAL yo-yo. But hopefully I can climb back on the yo, without the answering yo.
Tomorrow, folks.
Weigh-in today was (post-bathroom UP 2.75 pounds to 18st 2.5.
Sigh. I know why this is - have had a completely undisciplined week, and too many treats - granola, STILL! - occasional greasy meals, eating late, and practically buggerall in the way of exercise. So let it never be said I'm making undue excuses here - I fucked up, the licks I'm taking are 2.75 pounds of fat, alllrighty then, let's stop this shit right now.
Biked tonight for the first time in a week. Was entirely wuss-ass about it, doing 300 calories, or about 4.5 miles, and then getting off, claiming pressure of time.
Tomorrow, I walk my six miles down the Trail again for the first time in weeks.
Who knows, maybe this lax week will have fooled my system into a true sense of complacency, and it'll be shocked as hell again when I hit it with a disciplined week.
I do realise of course that this is NOT the way to go about things in a healthy manner. This is yo-yoing, and about as pointless as an ACTUAL yo-yo. But hopefully I can climb back on the yo, without the answering yo.
Tomorrow, folks.
Tuesday, 12 August 2014
The Granola Failure
OK, headline first - pre-walk, pre-bathroom, the weigh-in was 18st 0.75lbs.
Which of course was irritating, and probably the result of an overestimation of loss as a result of the Carpenter Capsules last week. However, aftera five mile walk, a large de-caff coffee and a bathroom trip, I weighed-in at 17st 13.75.
Shoot me, but for the sake of my own self-esteem, I'm taking the lower reading as gospel. The water loss during the walk I'm couting as more thatn compensated for by the coffee, so the bathroom trip that lost me that all important pound I'm taking as being a real equalising factor.
Either way of course, not good, inasmuch as it's at least a pound UP on last week. But then, to be honest, it's been that sort of week - the exercise has been sporadic and half-hearted as I've been working on my writing, and I've also developed a dangerous taste for granola. Gooooorgeous bloomin' stuff, to be sure, but in the quantities I've been having it, obviously a stupid move.
At one point this week, the unofficial weigh-in was up to 18st 2lbs, so I laid off the granola for a couple of days, and basically settled back to today's result.
"However much I beg and plead," I said to d when I finished the last bag, "don't let me buy more of this stuff. It's clearly Hellfood, disguised as nectar."
"OK," she agreed.
Which means I'm sorry to report that I bought a new bag of the stuff today, and had some for lunch.
(Ker-thunk, ker-thunk, ker-thunk. Bad Tony...Bad Tony...)
May end up wasting the majority of the price of the bag yet, because I can't chomp my way through another bag of that by next week, I'll lose any chance of making headway towards my next goal - 17st 7.
As it is, I'm just barely hanging on to the 17 by the granola-film on my teeth.
Must. Try. Harder. Grr.
Which of course was irritating, and probably the result of an overestimation of loss as a result of the Carpenter Capsules last week. However, aftera five mile walk, a large de-caff coffee and a bathroom trip, I weighed-in at 17st 13.75.
Shoot me, but for the sake of my own self-esteem, I'm taking the lower reading as gospel. The water loss during the walk I'm couting as more thatn compensated for by the coffee, so the bathroom trip that lost me that all important pound I'm taking as being a real equalising factor.
Either way of course, not good, inasmuch as it's at least a pound UP on last week. But then, to be honest, it's been that sort of week - the exercise has been sporadic and half-hearted as I've been working on my writing, and I've also developed a dangerous taste for granola. Gooooorgeous bloomin' stuff, to be sure, but in the quantities I've been having it, obviously a stupid move.
At one point this week, the unofficial weigh-in was up to 18st 2lbs, so I laid off the granola for a couple of days, and basically settled back to today's result.
"However much I beg and plead," I said to d when I finished the last bag, "don't let me buy more of this stuff. It's clearly Hellfood, disguised as nectar."
"OK," she agreed.
Which means I'm sorry to report that I bought a new bag of the stuff today, and had some for lunch.
(Ker-thunk, ker-thunk, ker-thunk. Bad Tony...Bad Tony...)
May end up wasting the majority of the price of the bag yet, because I can't chomp my way through another bag of that by next week, I'll lose any chance of making headway towards my next goal - 17st 7.
As it is, I'm just barely hanging on to the 17 by the granola-film on my teeth.
Must. Try. Harder. Grr.
Tuesday, 5 August 2014
The Carpenters Capsules
Strange week. Been doing quite well for most of it, then the night before last, something stopped working, not in my brain but in my body. This is not a blog known for its delicacy, so I might have to have a run-up at it...hold on...
My bathroom visits became simply Sudoku time? Is that sufficiently vague, while still imparting all you need to know?
All day yesterday, I felt myself weighed down, anchored by an increasing balloon of gut. Smoothing a hand down the front of me (and you know I do that for a ready reckoner), there was a distinct and immoveable bulge.
Ma, as we walked up an interminable set of steps on one of our walks, sniffed.
"Oh, that's started, has it?"
Something had started...or rather stopped, that much I knew.
"You get that from me," she said, seeming less than impressed that some genetic defect should have shown up.
"What?" I said, panting - the stairs went on apparently to the feet of God - "What exactly do I get from you?"
"Spastic -" she said, which I thought was rather mean, frankly. The words Fuck you, you can walk on your own if that's how you feel bounced loosely round my brain.
"- Colon..." she gasped, stopping "to admire the view" of what was essentially a construction site.
"That...sounds like a...horrible...present," I managed to say.
"It is," she agreed, with a degree of feeling that made me wonder oh so briefly how many Sudokus a day she was getting through at the moment.
"I've got something for that," she said. "I'll give you some when we get home."
Thus it was, ladies, gentlemen, readers all, that I passed a truly depressing Rubicon, being handed a small baggy of pharmaceuticals - by my own mother, no less - that promised not to get me high, make me see God or dance all night and gasp at the morning, but merely ensure that my digestive system did what a digestive system is under normal circumstances wont to do.
The moment had a particular resonance, as d and I had, only the night before, watched a documentary on superlative singer but anorexic nightmare, Karen Carpenter, who had gobbled these particular pharmaceutical sweeties down like there was goig to be a shortage, and whose heart had apparently given out largely as a result.
I took mine yesterday at about 4 o'clock in Tesco's cafe.
Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing happened, all night. I ate another meal, wondering all the while what effect it would have on this week's weigh-in. Ma's sage advice, on solemnly hading over her drugs, had been "Under no circumstances go walking in the morning." But when I woke this morning, still, nothing was happening. I woke, I chatted to d, she got ready for her lift to work.
BANG!
Something happened. I don't think you need me to tell you what.
The relief was staggeringly palpable.
I use the word advisedly. I staggered onto the Nazi Scales for this week's weigh-in, feeling rather more confident than I had the night before. I did the smoothing hand thing again, and it was flatter.
The result of all this chemical chicanery? A weigh-in result of:
17st 12.5.
So that's it. We're under the 18 stone marker, finally. I think that calls for a recount, don't you?
At 2lb a week, from here, I should be 16st 10.5 by the day after my tenth wedding anniversary (29th September). 16st 2.5 on my 43rd birthday on 22nd October. 15st 12.5 by Bonfire Night on November 5th. 14st 12.5 by Christmas Eve. And 13st 12.5 by 10th February, 2015.
Under 15st by Christmas? That's a goal worth reaching for. Onwwwwwaaaaaaard!
My bathroom visits became simply Sudoku time? Is that sufficiently vague, while still imparting all you need to know?
All day yesterday, I felt myself weighed down, anchored by an increasing balloon of gut. Smoothing a hand down the front of me (and you know I do that for a ready reckoner), there was a distinct and immoveable bulge.
Ma, as we walked up an interminable set of steps on one of our walks, sniffed.
"Oh, that's started, has it?"
Something had started...or rather stopped, that much I knew.
"You get that from me," she said, seeming less than impressed that some genetic defect should have shown up.
"What?" I said, panting - the stairs went on apparently to the feet of God - "What exactly do I get from you?"
"Spastic -" she said, which I thought was rather mean, frankly. The words Fuck you, you can walk on your own if that's how you feel bounced loosely round my brain.
"- Colon..." she gasped, stopping "to admire the view" of what was essentially a construction site.
"That...sounds like a...horrible...present," I managed to say.
"It is," she agreed, with a degree of feeling that made me wonder oh so briefly how many Sudokus a day she was getting through at the moment.
"I've got something for that," she said. "I'll give you some when we get home."
Thus it was, ladies, gentlemen, readers all, that I passed a truly depressing Rubicon, being handed a small baggy of pharmaceuticals - by my own mother, no less - that promised not to get me high, make me see God or dance all night and gasp at the morning, but merely ensure that my digestive system did what a digestive system is under normal circumstances wont to do.
The moment had a particular resonance, as d and I had, only the night before, watched a documentary on superlative singer but anorexic nightmare, Karen Carpenter, who had gobbled these particular pharmaceutical sweeties down like there was goig to be a shortage, and whose heart had apparently given out largely as a result.
I took mine yesterday at about 4 o'clock in Tesco's cafe.
Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing happened, all night. I ate another meal, wondering all the while what effect it would have on this week's weigh-in. Ma's sage advice, on solemnly hading over her drugs, had been "Under no circumstances go walking in the morning." But when I woke this morning, still, nothing was happening. I woke, I chatted to d, she got ready for her lift to work.
BANG!
Something happened. I don't think you need me to tell you what.
The relief was staggeringly palpable.
I use the word advisedly. I staggered onto the Nazi Scales for this week's weigh-in, feeling rather more confident than I had the night before. I did the smoothing hand thing again, and it was flatter.
The result of all this chemical chicanery? A weigh-in result of:
17st 12.5.
So that's it. We're under the 18 stone marker, finally. I think that calls for a recount, don't you?
At 2lb a week, from here, I should be 16st 10.5 by the day after my tenth wedding anniversary (29th September). 16st 2.5 on my 43rd birthday on 22nd October. 15st 12.5 by Bonfire Night on November 5th. 14st 12.5 by Christmas Eve. And 13st 12.5 by 10th February, 2015.
Under 15st by Christmas? That's a goal worth reaching for. Onwwwwwaaaaaaard!
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