Chaos.
Absolute chaos.
That's our world at the moment, because on Tuesday, people come to knock out all of our windows, and replace them. So my office has become a collection of random stuff at one end of the room. That includes the bike. So - no biking till at least Wednesday. Today, one enormous meal up with Ma - lunch, with plenty of carb. Sigh. No time to think about that right now, too much to do. Right now, sending invoices to d, then possibly playing a game and/or watching a movie in the name of "having a life". Then there's glass to pack up, vacuuming to do, and then pretty much editing, editing and more editing.
No idea what Tuesday's weigh-in will be. And leave Wednesday for another conference.
Sigh - madness.
Sunday, 30 March 2014
Saturday, 29 March 2014
The Jigsaw Principle
It's been one of those days when weird things happen. Chatted to Vodafone this morning and got my phone upgraded, when out of the blue, the adviser threw in "Hey, you live by a river - bet that makes up for the broadband black hole, eh?"
Whhhat the hell? Turned out that from her office in Doncaster, this 21 year old (Oh yeah, we were sharing information willingly by the end!) had us on a map, knew we were in Merthyr, which is a well known, indeed a notorious broadband slow-zone, and our flat, on a map, was shown by the river that runs alongside it. Oddly, the only way I could trump that - and I have no idea why I felt the need to trump that incidentally, except possibly some macho bullshit thing - not having access to her home location or broadband status - was to give her more extraneous information - in this case about the execration of the building work opposite us. Ha! That...showed her...right?
Later int he afternoon, got a phonecall from a Jefferson sample chapter client. He was chatty and bright and cheerful, and mentioned he'd researched me all over the internet before making the call. He noted I was a member of the choir ("lovely singing", he said), that I was what he called "an outspoken atheist" (side-note - what does that mean? I think people call you an "outspoken" atheist as soon as you...y'know...speak out). He'd done research into my family name (one for my brother - apparently on the 1881 census, we had relatives in Pembrokeshire. Amrothtastic?), and had looked into the places where some of our authors had been published.
All of which is public domain information, but it was an unnerving conversation to some degree, because I'm not used to people researching me before calling me up to say, as it turned out, thank you for the work I'd done on his chapter.
So all in all, a slightly weird day. In the interests of sharing information with the people who do know me, I should say that I had a day in Starbucks today, editing. Porridge, a sausage sarnie, lots of coffee. When d and I came home, we took a few hours off together, and went to McDonalds. Yes - had fries. Humph. Biked last night, but not tonight. Gonna be an intense weekend though - bits of furniture moving, as come Tuesday, every single one of our windows is being replaced. They say there needs to be a responsible adult here for that. By some odd flaw, I'm going to be here. My pal Philip from New Zealand's over here at the minute, and is coming down for the afternoon. Oddly enough, that just multiplies the problem, and halves the adult quotient a second time.
Ah well - tonight appears to have been a Disappearing write-off, So we get up in the morning and we start again.
Whhhat the hell? Turned out that from her office in Doncaster, this 21 year old (Oh yeah, we were sharing information willingly by the end!) had us on a map, knew we were in Merthyr, which is a well known, indeed a notorious broadband slow-zone, and our flat, on a map, was shown by the river that runs alongside it. Oddly, the only way I could trump that - and I have no idea why I felt the need to trump that incidentally, except possibly some macho bullshit thing - not having access to her home location or broadband status - was to give her more extraneous information - in this case about the execration of the building work opposite us. Ha! That...showed her...right?
Later int he afternoon, got a phonecall from a Jefferson sample chapter client. He was chatty and bright and cheerful, and mentioned he'd researched me all over the internet before making the call. He noted I was a member of the choir ("lovely singing", he said), that I was what he called "an outspoken atheist" (side-note - what does that mean? I think people call you an "outspoken" atheist as soon as you...y'know...speak out). He'd done research into my family name (one for my brother - apparently on the 1881 census, we had relatives in Pembrokeshire. Amrothtastic?), and had looked into the places where some of our authors had been published.
All of which is public domain information, but it was an unnerving conversation to some degree, because I'm not used to people researching me before calling me up to say, as it turned out, thank you for the work I'd done on his chapter.
So all in all, a slightly weird day. In the interests of sharing information with the people who do know me, I should say that I had a day in Starbucks today, editing. Porridge, a sausage sarnie, lots of coffee. When d and I came home, we took a few hours off together, and went to McDonalds. Yes - had fries. Humph. Biked last night, but not tonight. Gonna be an intense weekend though - bits of furniture moving, as come Tuesday, every single one of our windows is being replaced. They say there needs to be a responsible adult here for that. By some odd flaw, I'm going to be here. My pal Philip from New Zealand's over here at the minute, and is coming down for the afternoon. Oddly enough, that just multiplies the problem, and halves the adult quotient a second time.
Ah well - tonight appears to have been a Disappearing write-off, So we get up in the morning and we start again.
Thursday, 27 March 2014
The Time Tunnel
Wwwwwhat the hell happened there???
Basically, deadlines, an overnight, a conference in Bordomia, capital city of the Boredom Trenches.
Back now.
Weigh-in Tuesday was disheartening - 18st 11! Back up 4.25 pounds. However, some things to keep in mind. Monday night, ate a big pasta meal. Tuesday morning, was off for the overnight before nature was allowed to...take it's course, to so speak. Also, important to remember, last week's weigh-in was immediately after a six mile walk, which normally loses me a pound and a half simply in water.
Weighed this morning, and am sitting at 18st 9.25. Which is an increase of 2.5 pounds. If we take off the 1.5 pounds for the walk, that means I'm really speaking up a pound (insasmuch as the result would be replicable if, this morning, I'd been for a six mile walk). So - and yes, I really do appreciate the incipient dementia of this bout of desperation mathematics - up a pound in a week when my biking has been erratic and my eating, while not bad, has included a few pasta meals, including at least one late at night. I can handle that. What is evident though is that my dream of seeing a 17 on the Nazi Scales by the end of March is now an unreachable one. But the point of course is not to panic and not to through up one's hands in despair and eat Hob Nobs. Absolutely mad routine for the next week too, to be honest - two edits to get done by the end of March, a housebound day on 1st April as every window in the flat is replaced, and then on 2nd April, I'm away again for a double-overnight two night conference, this time in the more familiar, leafy joyfest that is Greenwich. After which, I should have a more reasonable time for about a fortnight, before my next overnight in pigging Nottingham. Oh, and have a pal over from New Zealand as well, did I mention that. So socialising has to be done too.
Hence the time tunnel in which I've been a bit trapped for the last few days. But still here, still actively Disappearing, still clinging on to what passes for sanity by my slightly overgrown fingernails.
Aaaaaaaaaargh!
Bugger. Just fell off the cliff of sanity. Oh well, let's see what happens down here...
Basically, deadlines, an overnight, a conference in Bordomia, capital city of the Boredom Trenches.
Back now.
Weigh-in Tuesday was disheartening - 18st 11! Back up 4.25 pounds. However, some things to keep in mind. Monday night, ate a big pasta meal. Tuesday morning, was off for the overnight before nature was allowed to...take it's course, to so speak. Also, important to remember, last week's weigh-in was immediately after a six mile walk, which normally loses me a pound and a half simply in water.
Weighed this morning, and am sitting at 18st 9.25. Which is an increase of 2.5 pounds. If we take off the 1.5 pounds for the walk, that means I'm really speaking up a pound (insasmuch as the result would be replicable if, this morning, I'd been for a six mile walk). So - and yes, I really do appreciate the incipient dementia of this bout of desperation mathematics - up a pound in a week when my biking has been erratic and my eating, while not bad, has included a few pasta meals, including at least one late at night. I can handle that. What is evident though is that my dream of seeing a 17 on the Nazi Scales by the end of March is now an unreachable one. But the point of course is not to panic and not to through up one's hands in despair and eat Hob Nobs. Absolutely mad routine for the next week too, to be honest - two edits to get done by the end of March, a housebound day on 1st April as every window in the flat is replaced, and then on 2nd April, I'm away again for a double-overnight two night conference, this time in the more familiar, leafy joyfest that is Greenwich. After which, I should have a more reasonable time for about a fortnight, before my next overnight in pigging Nottingham. Oh, and have a pal over from New Zealand as well, did I mention that. So socialising has to be done too.
Hence the time tunnel in which I've been a bit trapped for the last few days. But still here, still actively Disappearing, still clinging on to what passes for sanity by my slightly overgrown fingernails.
Aaaaaaaaaargh!
Bugger. Just fell off the cliff of sanity. Oh well, let's see what happens down here...
Sunday, 23 March 2014
The Fake Mother's Day Feast
Happy Fake Mother's Day...to...erm...all the fake mothers out there!
No, seriously - Mother's Day in the UK is actually a week today. But, that being the case, everywhere decent to eat jacks up the prices, crams their dining room to bursting point with guilt-ridden progeny, and a good time is had by practically no bugger. So this year, Ma decreed that we would have Fake Mother's Day out, and Actual Mother's Day up at her place.
SO - Happy Fake Mother's Day!
We went to The Bear in Crickhowell. Gotta tell you, purely for food, best Sunday lunch I've had in a good long while. Nommy.
Of course, a big Fake Mother's Day meal is likely to play additionally merry hell with this week's Disappearing. Came home, biked for an hour. But we'll see what happens Tuesday. Feel big and heavy and lumpy and bloated, if you want my opinion.
Blech...
No, seriously - Mother's Day in the UK is actually a week today. But, that being the case, everywhere decent to eat jacks up the prices, crams their dining room to bursting point with guilt-ridden progeny, and a good time is had by practically no bugger. So this year, Ma decreed that we would have Fake Mother's Day out, and Actual Mother's Day up at her place.
SO - Happy Fake Mother's Day!
We went to The Bear in Crickhowell. Gotta tell you, purely for food, best Sunday lunch I've had in a good long while. Nommy.
Of course, a big Fake Mother's Day meal is likely to play additionally merry hell with this week's Disappearing. Came home, biked for an hour. But we'll see what happens Tuesday. Feel big and heavy and lumpy and bloated, if you want my opinion.
Blech...
The Twist In The Trail - 22nd March
Well...bugger.
Story in the Merthyr Express this week tells of a man alone on the Taff Trail who got battered into hospital by two young teenagers.
In case anyone's forgotten, I tend to walking down the Taff Trail on my own, and, generally, singing, with an iPod in my lugholes.
Of course, technically, thinking about it, the kids who are accused of beating this guy up...were caught. So not sure if that makes this the safest or most dangerous time to go schlepping down the Trail.
Gives me pause for thought, certainly. Then I think a) they're teenagers - if I sit on them and fart, I can practically kill the little shits, and b) I resent on principle the idea that little dickwads like this should stop me doing what I want to do. I didn't let them stop me when I was one of them, so surely it would be an admission of increased wussitude to let them affect my actions now.
Of course, when I was a teenager, they were only armed with steel metalwork rulers, sharpened dividers and compasses and the occasional air rifle. These days, they're tooled up for serious business.
Hmm. Will ponder this over the next few days - am away again on another damned overnight on Tuesday, in Farnborough. Any bugger know where that is? Suppose I should probably find out as I'll be sleeping there 72 hours from now.
Total loss on the Disappearing front today. Biked 500 embittered, miserable muttering calories off my ass last night in the midst of the doldrums. Today my ass was welded to my editing chair all day, then to the seat in the movies for another couple of hours (What the hell has happened to Liam Neeson, by the way? When did he start to kick believable ass?), and then we went for dinner, d, Lou, Mark and I. Took for...freakin'...ever to get served in the local Frankie and Benny, despite not being very full. All of which meant I was chowing down on spaghetti bolognaise at about 10.30 at night. As renowned diarist Bridget Jones would say - v. v. bad.
Tomorrow looks like being a dead loss too - out for fake mother's day lunch. Sigh...it's a hard old Disappearing life, right enough...
Story in the Merthyr Express this week tells of a man alone on the Taff Trail who got battered into hospital by two young teenagers.
In case anyone's forgotten, I tend to walking down the Taff Trail on my own, and, generally, singing, with an iPod in my lugholes.
Of course, technically, thinking about it, the kids who are accused of beating this guy up...were caught. So not sure if that makes this the safest or most dangerous time to go schlepping down the Trail.
Gives me pause for thought, certainly. Then I think a) they're teenagers - if I sit on them and fart, I can practically kill the little shits, and b) I resent on principle the idea that little dickwads like this should stop me doing what I want to do. I didn't let them stop me when I was one of them, so surely it would be an admission of increased wussitude to let them affect my actions now.
Of course, when I was a teenager, they were only armed with steel metalwork rulers, sharpened dividers and compasses and the occasional air rifle. These days, they're tooled up for serious business.
Hmm. Will ponder this over the next few days - am away again on another damned overnight on Tuesday, in Farnborough. Any bugger know where that is? Suppose I should probably find out as I'll be sleeping there 72 hours from now.
Total loss on the Disappearing front today. Biked 500 embittered, miserable muttering calories off my ass last night in the midst of the doldrums. Today my ass was welded to my editing chair all day, then to the seat in the movies for another couple of hours (What the hell has happened to Liam Neeson, by the way? When did he start to kick believable ass?), and then we went for dinner, d, Lou, Mark and I. Took for...freakin'...ever to get served in the local Frankie and Benny, despite not being very full. All of which meant I was chowing down on spaghetti bolognaise at about 10.30 at night. As renowned diarist Bridget Jones would say - v. v. bad.
Tomorrow looks like being a dead loss too - out for fake mother's day lunch. Sigh...it's a hard old Disappearing life, right enough...
Friday, 21 March 2014
The Disappearing Doldrums
Arse.
Arse Bum Piddle Twaddle...Arse.
No particular reason, you understand, I just have a case of the Disappearing Doldrums. No exercise whatsoever yesterday - was gonna go bike, but d persuaded me to clear my head and soothe my body in a hot bath. Don't regret that for a moment, but then didn't exercise this morning, and now, truly don't feel like going to do it, but have to. Had a Starbucks day today and, being Friday, took d out for a Chinese buffet tonight. tried to be good - lowish carb, more protein - but still feel sluggish and stone-kicky and Arse.
The thing is, I'm not sure it even is particular Disappearing Doldrums. If you ask me if I want a Sundae, or a cream cake, or a this, or a that - the honest answer would be no.
And I do know that on the principle I mentioned during my post about Larry, I really don't know I'm born. But I'm finding it hard to be happy today. Made a lot of work progress, so no reason that should be bugging me. Took more business in the last few days, so the business's finances are just peachy. But nevertheless, if I had a stone right now, I'd kick the crap out of it.
Oh, did I mention?
Arse...
Arse Bum Piddle Twaddle...Arse.
No particular reason, you understand, I just have a case of the Disappearing Doldrums. No exercise whatsoever yesterday - was gonna go bike, but d persuaded me to clear my head and soothe my body in a hot bath. Don't regret that for a moment, but then didn't exercise this morning, and now, truly don't feel like going to do it, but have to. Had a Starbucks day today and, being Friday, took d out for a Chinese buffet tonight. tried to be good - lowish carb, more protein - but still feel sluggish and stone-kicky and Arse.
The thing is, I'm not sure it even is particular Disappearing Doldrums. If you ask me if I want a Sundae, or a cream cake, or a this, or a that - the honest answer would be no.
And I do know that on the principle I mentioned during my post about Larry, I really don't know I'm born. But I'm finding it hard to be happy today. Made a lot of work progress, so no reason that should be bugging me. Took more business in the last few days, so the business's finances are just peachy. But nevertheless, if I had a stone right now, I'd kick the crap out of it.
Oh, did I mention?
Arse...
Thursday, 20 March 2014
The Anti-Midas Day
There are days, and they are many, when you can taste the bullshit before you even have your first vat of coffee.
Today...was one of those days. Everything I've touched today...has turned to bullshit.
Had a Weetabix breakfast...which had a kind of strawy feel to it.
Had a toast lunch, using bread which apparently went beyond its use-by date some eight days ago.
Reached out for a tablet and discovered it was d's iPad...oh wait, that's bullshit any day of the week...
Am sort of scared to jump on the bike, in case that turns to bullshit too, and leaves me sitting in a steaming pile of ordure, pedalling just because.
Sigh...but must be done, I suppose...
(shoves hands into pockets, pulls out more bullshit, kicks a suddenly-bullshit stone, mutters darkly "bullshit bullshit bullshit...")
Today...was one of those days. Everything I've touched today...has turned to bullshit.
Had a Weetabix breakfast...which had a kind of strawy feel to it.
Had a toast lunch, using bread which apparently went beyond its use-by date some eight days ago.
Reached out for a tablet and discovered it was d's iPad...oh wait, that's bullshit any day of the week...
Am sort of scared to jump on the bike, in case that turns to bullshit too, and leaves me sitting in a steaming pile of ordure, pedalling just because.
Sigh...but must be done, I suppose...
(shoves hands into pockets, pulls out more bullshit, kicks a suddenly-bullshit stone, mutters darkly "bullshit bullshit bullshit...")
Wednesday, 19 March 2014
The Biking Crunch
And so it goes - have had a whole bushel of sample chapter edits in, plus am up against some tight editing deadlines. The question is, can I still afford to take an hour out of the maelstrom to get on the bike?
Honestly, not really. But I think it's probably important to maintain the routine and the discipline of the Disappearing - certainly if my admittedly slightly insane ambition of seeing a 17 on the Nazi Scales before the end of March is to get anywhere near accomplished.
Sigh...may have to be a night of just a couple of hours of sleep, because that's really the only thing I can productively sacrifice right about now.
Had a day up in Ma's house after we hiked around the park. Didn't seem to make as much progress as I'd hoped. Hmm.
Anyhow - onward! Sample chaptering, then dammit, yes, jumping on the bike. And then editing my ass off some more.
Honestly, not really. But I think it's probably important to maintain the routine and the discipline of the Disappearing - certainly if my admittedly slightly insane ambition of seeing a 17 on the Nazi Scales before the end of March is to get anywhere near accomplished.
Sigh...may have to be a night of just a couple of hours of sleep, because that's really the only thing I can productively sacrifice right about now.
Had a day up in Ma's house after we hiked around the park. Didn't seem to make as much progress as I'd hoped. Hmm.
Anyhow - onward! Sample chaptering, then dammit, yes, jumping on the bike. And then editing my ass off some more.
Tuesday, 18 March 2014
A Rainbow of Rubicons
Got to love my friends and family. Got up early this morning and buggered off down the Taff Trail. Six miler, there and back. Felt good - currently seem to be obsessed with the Fiona Apple album "Extraordinary Machine", for which I both blame and thank my pal Mary - henceforth to be referred to till it really annoys here no longer as "Mary from Scotland", but rather "Mary the Pregnant". Extraordinary Machine has really good bouncy, catchy tunes on it and lyrics that probably mean quite a bit....if you can be bothered to sit and analyse them for at least a good solid hour. What I can tell you is that bouncy and catchy are your firends when re-introducing your body to the idea of walking six miles in the morning before it's wise or even technically awake. Practically danced some of the way.
Yes, that does look exactly as disturbing as you think it does (particularly since we established only yesterday that one of the things I really can't do is dance).
Got a text halfway down the Trail, from my pal Sian.
"Of course you're bloody dyspraxic!" It said. "I thought you knew!!"
I succinctly pointed out to her that never having heard the word or even the notion that it was "a thing" until Sue popped up in my inbox yesterday morning was perhaps a justifiable hindrance in knowing that it applied to me.
(I should of course at this point make it perfectly clear that no medical bugger of any description has said it applies to me. It's currently just a hypothesis that appears to make an awwwwful lot of sense to a lot of people who know me. Including me.)
"Oops," said Sian, succinctly. In a way, this was a case of payback being a bitch - many times in our teenage years, I'd let her know that some bloke or other was head over heels in love with her, and turn her world upside-down, and she'd wail "Why didn't you tell me soooner?!" And I'd have to fall back on the obvious truth - "So bloody obvious I couldn't imagine you didn't KNOW!"
So...as I say, payback. Bitch. Etc.
Got back home and d was still there - she was on a late shift today.
"Hey you," she said as I sat, panting on the sofa, gasping for air like a very-nearly-dead fish. "Looking slimmer today. I gave her a thumbs-up of thanks for her support, and carried on trying not to die.
As it turned out, the Nazi Scales agreed with her. Weigh-in today shows me at 18stone 6.75 - down three pounds on last week and ten pounds overall in the last seventeen days. Happy with that, and it puts me technically beneath a half mile-stone - 18st 7. There's very little sense of triumph to this at the moment though, because before I went crashing through the barrier, I always swore I'd pull back my re-appearing before it got as serious as being 18stone. I know this is entirely illogical and irrational, but for me, 18stone is the psychological dividing line between being a Disappearing Man that's quite high up, and being a Reappeared Man that's low. 18stone is my first Rubicon, if you like, so I won't be even vaguely triumphant till I see that first 17. Then it goes weird - while I'm in the 17stone region, it will feel sort of energised and proactively trying to get out of it. When I see a 16, I have a nasty feeling it will be very anti-climactic, because it sort of approaches a second Rubicon (Are you following any of this meandering through my mentality?). 16stone, for me, is that second Rubicon, because when I see a 15, I sort of stop being a Disappearing Man and start becoming a Potentially Healthy Man (Yes, technically, I'll still be more than four stone overweight, but I remember what it felt like to be able to move as freely and do as much as I could in the 15s, so that's simply how I think of it. 14s are slap bang in Potentially Healthy Man territory, and I'm not at all sure what happens when I reach 13s, because of course, I didn't the first time round. Jusssst about got to 14st 7, and then broke the spell - pretty much two years ago now. It's weird to think in temporal terms sometimes - I lost six stone in about 15 months, and it took me two years of yo-yoing to put four and a half of them back on. Still very much early days in this version of the fightback, but so far, two weeks in, everything's going in the right direction.
Tomorrow, as this morning, there will be early morning walking - though this time with Ma, round that park I mentioned - and evening biking. Onward, tot he first Rubicon. Can I see a 17 on the Nazi Scales before the end of March? Let's find out...
Yes, that does look exactly as disturbing as you think it does (particularly since we established only yesterday that one of the things I really can't do is dance).
Got a text halfway down the Trail, from my pal Sian.
"Of course you're bloody dyspraxic!" It said. "I thought you knew!!"
I succinctly pointed out to her that never having heard the word or even the notion that it was "a thing" until Sue popped up in my inbox yesterday morning was perhaps a justifiable hindrance in knowing that it applied to me.
(I should of course at this point make it perfectly clear that no medical bugger of any description has said it applies to me. It's currently just a hypothesis that appears to make an awwwwful lot of sense to a lot of people who know me. Including me.)
"Oops," said Sian, succinctly. In a way, this was a case of payback being a bitch - many times in our teenage years, I'd let her know that some bloke or other was head over heels in love with her, and turn her world upside-down, and she'd wail "Why didn't you tell me soooner?!" And I'd have to fall back on the obvious truth - "So bloody obvious I couldn't imagine you didn't KNOW!"
So...as I say, payback. Bitch. Etc.
Got back home and d was still there - she was on a late shift today.
"Hey you," she said as I sat, panting on the sofa, gasping for air like a very-nearly-dead fish. "Looking slimmer today. I gave her a thumbs-up of thanks for her support, and carried on trying not to die.
As it turned out, the Nazi Scales agreed with her. Weigh-in today shows me at 18stone 6.75 - down three pounds on last week and ten pounds overall in the last seventeen days. Happy with that, and it puts me technically beneath a half mile-stone - 18st 7. There's very little sense of triumph to this at the moment though, because before I went crashing through the barrier, I always swore I'd pull back my re-appearing before it got as serious as being 18stone. I know this is entirely illogical and irrational, but for me, 18stone is the psychological dividing line between being a Disappearing Man that's quite high up, and being a Reappeared Man that's low. 18stone is my first Rubicon, if you like, so I won't be even vaguely triumphant till I see that first 17. Then it goes weird - while I'm in the 17stone region, it will feel sort of energised and proactively trying to get out of it. When I see a 16, I have a nasty feeling it will be very anti-climactic, because it sort of approaches a second Rubicon (Are you following any of this meandering through my mentality?). 16stone, for me, is that second Rubicon, because when I see a 15, I sort of stop being a Disappearing Man and start becoming a Potentially Healthy Man (Yes, technically, I'll still be more than four stone overweight, but I remember what it felt like to be able to move as freely and do as much as I could in the 15s, so that's simply how I think of it. 14s are slap bang in Potentially Healthy Man territory, and I'm not at all sure what happens when I reach 13s, because of course, I didn't the first time round. Jusssst about got to 14st 7, and then broke the spell - pretty much two years ago now. It's weird to think in temporal terms sometimes - I lost six stone in about 15 months, and it took me two years of yo-yoing to put four and a half of them back on. Still very much early days in this version of the fightback, but so far, two weeks in, everything's going in the right direction.
Tomorrow, as this morning, there will be early morning walking - though this time with Ma, round that park I mentioned - and evening biking. Onward, tot he first Rubicon. Can I see a 17 on the Nazi Scales before the end of March? Let's find out...
Monday, 17 March 2014
The Dyspraxic Diagnosis
Pal of mine called Sue, who I had no idea still read this blog, popped up in my inbox this morning.
"Read the blog last night," she said.
"Hmm," she said.
"How's your co-ordination?" she asked.
"What co-ordination?" I said. "Ask d about how frustrated she gets because I don't use my knife to cut meat, but just my fork to pull it apart...or how I can play piano with either hand, but never both."
"Aha," she said. "I don't think you're dyslexic."
I wondered whether she'd been mainlining Sherlock or somesuch, and whether she was about to tell me I'd just come back from a local holiday and had flat feet into the bargain.
"You wouldn't be able to use language the way you do if you were," she explained.
"Ah, but..." I said, and rattled off my professorial pal's expanded definition of what dyslexia is. That was pointless. She'd already read the definition in the blog last night.
"You're missing my point," she said, and sent me a bunch of links, many of which opened my eyes significantly. "I don't think you're dyslexic," she repeated. "I think you're dyspraxic."
"Dys-what-now?" I asked.
"Dyspraxic," she said patiently. She's used to being patient with me - I turned up a massive three hours late to a job interview she was pretty much running once, and still got the job. In my defence, on that occasion, it was nothing to do with my navigational incompetence, and everything to do with a train that broke the hell down between Bristol and London. She's since told me I got the job largely because I turned up three hours late and carried on as if nothing had happened. Little did she know at the time I was used to doing precisely that because I was frequently late for things, having gotten lost on the way.
Anyway.
"What's dyspraxic when it's at home?" I asked. She pointed me towards the links.she's sent. Dyspraxia, it turns out, is a kind of developmental co-ordination disorder. She gave me a list of symptoms to check through. The website said "even the most severe cases won't have all of these." And to be fair, I don't have all of them.
Only about 94% of them.
Let's see. There's:
On the other hand, if I click into the right mode, you will never meet a more anal, obsessive nightmare than me. Apparently, obssessiveness can be a symptom of this thing too.
Personally, I was convinced by all this. Hadn't read beyond this list till tonight, when beginning to write this blog entry. It was there that I saw two more absolute, cast-iron clinchers.
Handwriting - Poor handwriting is one of the most common symptoms of dyspraxia. Children who have poor handwriting don’t need their parent or teacher to tell them about it. Every time they write, they can see that they are not as good as their friends. If I tell you that when I was a kid, you had to "graduate" to handwriting from printing, and that I was the only kid in my class ever to we downgraded back to printing, you'll begin to get an idea what my handwriting is like. These days I only write letters to one poor friend - Sian, who's had 25 years of trying to decipher my cribbed, pointy scrawl.
And finally:
Perception - People who have dyspraxia tend to have poor understanding of the messages that their senses convey and difficulty in relating those messages to actions.Ohhhhkay that was creepy. d frequently calls me "the dog who won't come in from the rain", because until she actually asks me how I'm feeling - hot, cold, tired etc...I actually have nooooo freakin' idea. Just this evening, she threw a blanket over my legs.
I looked up.
"You're cold, fool," she told me. I furrowed my brow, Neanderthal-style. Loooooong seconds of cogitation went on behind my creased-up cranium.
"Oh yeah," I agreed. "Thanks honey..."
"You need a keeper, you know that, right?"
So - Colour me dyspraxic as all get out. Many, many, many mysteries all sorts of solved. Thanks Sue.
None of which of course has the faintest thing to do with today's Disappearing. Walked with Ma this morning - eight power-laps around a local park. And tonight, just to claw a little idea of exercise back into my system, biked for an hour. Had coffee at lunchtime with my pal Rebecca, and I mentioned to her the practice I've got into lately of biking while reading classic literature out loud. Finished Frankenstein last night, and spent the hour getting 23% of the way through Fahrenheit 451. At this rate, should finish that within a week. Who knew - literature and exercise could go hand in hand.
Tomorrow, think I'm going to try and get up early again and strap on my walking boots - need to hit the Taff Trail again. Also of course, weigh-in tomorrow, which, as I mentioned yesterday, will be what it will be.
"Read the blog last night," she said.
"Hmm," she said.
"How's your co-ordination?" she asked.
"What co-ordination?" I said. "Ask d about how frustrated she gets because I don't use my knife to cut meat, but just my fork to pull it apart...or how I can play piano with either hand, but never both."
"Aha," she said. "I don't think you're dyslexic."
I wondered whether she'd been mainlining Sherlock or somesuch, and whether she was about to tell me I'd just come back from a local holiday and had flat feet into the bargain.
"You wouldn't be able to use language the way you do if you were," she explained.
"Ah, but..." I said, and rattled off my professorial pal's expanded definition of what dyslexia is. That was pointless. She'd already read the definition in the blog last night.
"You're missing my point," she said, and sent me a bunch of links, many of which opened my eyes significantly. "I don't think you're dyslexic," she repeated. "I think you're dyspraxic."
"Dys-what-now?" I asked.
"Dyspraxic," she said patiently. She's used to being patient with me - I turned up a massive three hours late to a job interview she was pretty much running once, and still got the job. In my defence, on that occasion, it was nothing to do with my navigational incompetence, and everything to do with a train that broke the hell down between Bristol and London. She's since told me I got the job largely because I turned up three hours late and carried on as if nothing had happened. Little did she know at the time I was used to doing precisely that because I was frequently late for things, having gotten lost on the way.
Anyway.
"What's dyspraxic when it's at home?" I asked. She pointed me towards the links.she's sent. Dyspraxia, it turns out, is a kind of developmental co-ordination disorder. She gave me a list of symptoms to check through. The website said "even the most severe cases won't have all of these." And to be fair, I don't have all of them.
Only about 94% of them.
Let's see. There's:
- Poor balance - difficulty riding a bike etc. Never managed to learn that, and (even prior to my ear issue), could fall over simply standing still.
- Poor posture and fatigue. Well...yeah - being massively overweight may have a bearing on that too.
- Some people with dyspraxia may have flat feet - bloody Norah, she's good!
- Poor integration of the two sides of the body. Difficulty with some sports involving jumping and cycling - check.
- Poor hand-eye co-ordination. Difficulty with team sports especially those which involve catching a ball and batting. Difficulties with driving a car. Always been crap at this stuff, and many a pal of mine can testify to my devastating record behind the wheel.
- Lack of rhythm when dancing, doing aerobics. Many people call this being a British bloke, but I do have a tendency to elevate the random toe-tap into a form of whatever the opposite of art would be. Vandalism, maybe?
- Clumsy gait and movement. Difficulty changing direction, stopping and starting actions. Yep!
- Tendency to fall, trip, bump into things and people - Ohhhhh Hellyeah! I LITERALLY walk into doors.
Fine motor co-ordination skills (small movements):
- Lack of manual dexterity. Poor at two-handed tasks, causing problems with using cutlery, cleaning, cooking, ironing, craft work, playing musical instruments - did I mention the knife thing?
Perception (interpretation of the different
senses):
- Lack of awareness of body position in space and spatial relationships. Can result in bumping into and tripping over things and people, dropping and spilling things - d has despaired many a time on buses, streets etc that I have no clue about people trying to get around or through me. To be fair, I've always maintained this was their fault - if they can't see me, they need their damned eyes testing. d also despairs on most mornings if we're getting ready to go out together, because I'm "always in exactly the spot I need to be in..."
- Little sense of time, speed, distance or weight. Leading to difficulties driving, cooking. Remember that thing about me constantly being late to things? d could never work out how, for instance, she could leave her job in King's Cross, come to meet me at a restaurant in Kensington, where I worked, and still be there anything up to an hour before me, because I'd misjudged how long it would take to get to her. I've always described this as living in "my own travel universe".
- Inadequate sense of direction. Difficulty distinguishing right from left means map reading skills are poor - which of course is where we came in.
Learning, thought and memory:
Unfocused and erratic. Can be messy and
cluttered - when I worked with Sue, my actual direct boss occasionally had to force me to take the day off from real work, simply to restore some sort of order to my desk. So, come to that, has my current day-job boss.On the other hand, if I click into the right mode, you will never meet a more anal, obsessive nightmare than me. Apparently, obssessiveness can be a symptom of this thing too.
Personally, I was convinced by all this. Hadn't read beyond this list till tonight, when beginning to write this blog entry. It was there that I saw two more absolute, cast-iron clinchers.
Handwriting - Poor handwriting is one of the most common symptoms of dyspraxia. Children who have poor handwriting don’t need their parent or teacher to tell them about it. Every time they write, they can see that they are not as good as their friends. If I tell you that when I was a kid, you had to "graduate" to handwriting from printing, and that I was the only kid in my class ever to we downgraded back to printing, you'll begin to get an idea what my handwriting is like. These days I only write letters to one poor friend - Sian, who's had 25 years of trying to decipher my cribbed, pointy scrawl.
And finally:
Perception - People who have dyspraxia tend to have poor understanding of the messages that their senses convey and difficulty in relating those messages to actions.Ohhhhkay that was creepy. d frequently calls me "the dog who won't come in from the rain", because until she actually asks me how I'm feeling - hot, cold, tired etc...I actually have nooooo freakin' idea. Just this evening, she threw a blanket over my legs.
I looked up.
"You're cold, fool," she told me. I furrowed my brow, Neanderthal-style. Loooooong seconds of cogitation went on behind my creased-up cranium.
"Oh yeah," I agreed. "Thanks honey..."
"You need a keeper, you know that, right?"
So - Colour me dyspraxic as all get out. Many, many, many mysteries all sorts of solved. Thanks Sue.
None of which of course has the faintest thing to do with today's Disappearing. Walked with Ma this morning - eight power-laps around a local park. And tonight, just to claw a little idea of exercise back into my system, biked for an hour. Had coffee at lunchtime with my pal Rebecca, and I mentioned to her the practice I've got into lately of biking while reading classic literature out loud. Finished Frankenstein last night, and spent the hour getting 23% of the way through Fahrenheit 451. At this rate, should finish that within a week. Who knew - literature and exercise could go hand in hand.
Tomorrow, think I'm going to try and get up early again and strap on my walking boots - need to hit the Taff Trail again. Also of course, weigh-in tomorrow, which, as I mentioned yesterday, will be what it will be.
The Dyslexic Vindication
Today, on instructions from d, I did not get back on the bike.
To be fair, with business being as manic as it is right now, I would have to have dragged myself away from my desk in any case, but the point is, I didn't. I simply sat, and worked, and occasionally ate something lovely - scrambled egg on toast for breakfast, chicken pie and potatoes for dinner. All of which will have settled in nicely around various vital organs, in the complete absence of anything approximating exercise on my behalf today.
Bottom line - it's been a very weird week. Tuesday's weigh-in is what it is, frankly.
Tomorrow though, am getting up early and doing some rotations around a lovely local park to at least re-introduce my body to the idea that yes, it really has to move occasionally - this after all is what it's for.
Oh, one thing of note today. As many longer-term readers will know, I have no sense of direction, or navigational skills of any kind. I once went for a job interview, map in hand, turned the wrong way out of a tube station and ended up walking half an hour in the wrong direction. Which would have been just ordinary incompetence had the interview not been with the Royal Institute of Navigation. d eventually cracked the mystery of my incompetence by standing me up and asking me what direction I was facing.
"North" I told her with utter conviction.
She physically turned me through 90 degrees and asked me which direction I was facing now.
"Well, North," I said, something niggling at the back of my brain.
She turned me once more, till I was 180 degrees opposite from my starting position.
"And now?" she asked.
"Look, I can see what you're getting at, but something in my brain unequivocally says I'm facing North," I told her. It was something of a eureka moment in our house.
Well, my mother, bless her, has always said this was basically just a refusal on my part to pay adequate attention to location, directions etc, somehow ignoring the fact that every time she drives me down a stretch of road she swears I've been down plenty of times, and she tells me, again, the spatial relationships between things she thinks I should remember, all she gets is a blank, "who are you again?" stare. Same with location names. Same, come to that, with other dementedly simple things - my pal Rebecca will gladly tell you that after knowing her for 25 years, I still don't know what number house she lives in, and that I frequently walk past her door, thinking she lives somewhere entirely else.
Well tonight, I was talking to a professor from the University of Nottingham, and I happened to mention this ongoing dispute.
"Oh, that's dyslexia," he said, matter-of-factly. "Dyslexia is not only about literacy, although weaknesses in literacy are often the most visible sign. Dyslexia affects the way information is processed, stored and retrieved, with problems of memory, speed of processing, time perception, organisation and sequencing. Some may also have difficulty navigating a route, left and right and compass directions,” he added, quoting, apparently, directly from the British Dyslexia Association.
Given that my career and livelihood depend on my skills with literacy, I'm going to swiftly breeze on by the "most visible" sign of dyslexia here, and say this would explain a hell of a lot. He did also mention a newly discovered thing called "Developmental Topographical Disorder", which means you can't orient yourself in any environment. On the face of it, that sounds more specifically like my situation, but as I can, more or less, find my way from my desk to my bed and vice versa, I'm not laying claim to that one. But a teensy bit of navigational dyslexia - yeah, might well have to hold up a hand and join that club, cos I swear I'm not putting this on.
All of which is fine...but when I first wrote the title of this blog, I typed it as "The Sylexic Vindication."
Oh cripes...
To be fair, with business being as manic as it is right now, I would have to have dragged myself away from my desk in any case, but the point is, I didn't. I simply sat, and worked, and occasionally ate something lovely - scrambled egg on toast for breakfast, chicken pie and potatoes for dinner. All of which will have settled in nicely around various vital organs, in the complete absence of anything approximating exercise on my behalf today.
Bottom line - it's been a very weird week. Tuesday's weigh-in is what it is, frankly.
Tomorrow though, am getting up early and doing some rotations around a lovely local park to at least re-introduce my body to the idea that yes, it really has to move occasionally - this after all is what it's for.
Oh, one thing of note today. As many longer-term readers will know, I have no sense of direction, or navigational skills of any kind. I once went for a job interview, map in hand, turned the wrong way out of a tube station and ended up walking half an hour in the wrong direction. Which would have been just ordinary incompetence had the interview not been with the Royal Institute of Navigation. d eventually cracked the mystery of my incompetence by standing me up and asking me what direction I was facing.
"North" I told her with utter conviction.
She physically turned me through 90 degrees and asked me which direction I was facing now.
"Well, North," I said, something niggling at the back of my brain.
She turned me once more, till I was 180 degrees opposite from my starting position.
"And now?" she asked.
"Look, I can see what you're getting at, but something in my brain unequivocally says I'm facing North," I told her. It was something of a eureka moment in our house.
Well, my mother, bless her, has always said this was basically just a refusal on my part to pay adequate attention to location, directions etc, somehow ignoring the fact that every time she drives me down a stretch of road she swears I've been down plenty of times, and she tells me, again, the spatial relationships between things she thinks I should remember, all she gets is a blank, "who are you again?" stare. Same with location names. Same, come to that, with other dementedly simple things - my pal Rebecca will gladly tell you that after knowing her for 25 years, I still don't know what number house she lives in, and that I frequently walk past her door, thinking she lives somewhere entirely else.
Well tonight, I was talking to a professor from the University of Nottingham, and I happened to mention this ongoing dispute.
"Oh, that's dyslexia," he said, matter-of-factly. "Dyslexia is not only about literacy, although weaknesses in literacy are often the most visible sign. Dyslexia affects the way information is processed, stored and retrieved, with problems of memory, speed of processing, time perception, organisation and sequencing. Some may also have difficulty navigating a route, left and right and compass directions,” he added, quoting, apparently, directly from the British Dyslexia Association.
Given that my career and livelihood depend on my skills with literacy, I'm going to swiftly breeze on by the "most visible" sign of dyslexia here, and say this would explain a hell of a lot. He did also mention a newly discovered thing called "Developmental Topographical Disorder", which means you can't orient yourself in any environment. On the face of it, that sounds more specifically like my situation, but as I can, more or less, find my way from my desk to my bed and vice versa, I'm not laying claim to that one. But a teensy bit of navigational dyslexia - yeah, might well have to hold up a hand and join that club, cos I swear I'm not putting this on.
All of which is fine...but when I first wrote the title of this blog, I typed it as "The Sylexic Vindication."
Oh cripes...
Sunday, 16 March 2014
15th March - The Talons of Confucius
It's entirely possible that a wise man once said "Always cut your nails before scratching your own groin. Or anyone else's." Possibly it was that master of universal wisdom, Confucius himself.
Sadly, the wisdom of Confucius is one of those books I've always meant to get round to reading, but never quite have.
Came home from Abergavenny today, and we came gently back to ourselves and our normality, which, for me, meant largely panicking about an editing deadline that was thrown out of whack by Real Life. I had meant to get back on the bike when we got home, but somehow, spending time together seemed infinitely more important.
Then, as the night drew to a close, with promises on my lips to do better tomorrow, I scratched an itch.
Now...this is undoubtedly going to gross out some of you who don't know what I'm talking about. But one of the unparallelled delights of being a fat bugger is a thing we colloquially describe as "flap-sweat". Yes, it's exactly what it sounds like. When you have rolls of fat, they create flaps, and flaps, quite frankly, get sweaty.
I don't know why I'm explaining this really - most of my readers are women, I think, and women know all about flap-sweat - it's what happens when you a) have breasts, and b) are no longer either blessed by perkiness or burdened by silicone. Only it happens wherever bits of body hang over other bits of body. Flap-sweat - not just for breasts any more!
Anyhow, didn't think of an itchy groin as a flap-sweat moment, to be frank, but so it appeared to be. The itch was one of those satisfying affairs that only repaid a good scratching with a kind of tickle that needed further scratching to take care of. I scratched...and scratched...annnnnnnd scratched. And then I went to wash my hand (I'm not a total filthmonger, you know!). Turned out I had a handful of blood.
That was one reeeeeeally satisfying scratch. Turned out I had scratched myself open to the elements. Call me Tony Scissorhands, or perhaps more appropriately, Tony Krueger.
Washing, and Germolene followed. Then d pronounced her verdict.
"That's going to keep you off the bike tomorrow," she said. I rationalised, but she was firm.
Perhaps, on reflection, it was a wise woman who said that thing about cutting your nails...
Sadly, the wisdom of Confucius is one of those books I've always meant to get round to reading, but never quite have.
Came home from Abergavenny today, and we came gently back to ourselves and our normality, which, for me, meant largely panicking about an editing deadline that was thrown out of whack by Real Life. I had meant to get back on the bike when we got home, but somehow, spending time together seemed infinitely more important.
Then, as the night drew to a close, with promises on my lips to do better tomorrow, I scratched an itch.
Now...this is undoubtedly going to gross out some of you who don't know what I'm talking about. But one of the unparallelled delights of being a fat bugger is a thing we colloquially describe as "flap-sweat". Yes, it's exactly what it sounds like. When you have rolls of fat, they create flaps, and flaps, quite frankly, get sweaty.
I don't know why I'm explaining this really - most of my readers are women, I think, and women know all about flap-sweat - it's what happens when you a) have breasts, and b) are no longer either blessed by perkiness or burdened by silicone. Only it happens wherever bits of body hang over other bits of body. Flap-sweat - not just for breasts any more!
Anyhow, didn't think of an itchy groin as a flap-sweat moment, to be frank, but so it appeared to be. The itch was one of those satisfying affairs that only repaid a good scratching with a kind of tickle that needed further scratching to take care of. I scratched...and scratched...annnnnnnd scratched. And then I went to wash my hand (I'm not a total filthmonger, you know!). Turned out I had a handful of blood.
That was one reeeeeeally satisfying scratch. Turned out I had scratched myself open to the elements. Call me Tony Scissorhands, or perhaps more appropriately, Tony Krueger.
Washing, and Germolene followed. Then d pronounced her verdict.
"That's going to keep you off the bike tomorrow," she said. I rationalised, but she was firm.
Perhaps, on reflection, it was a wise woman who said that thing about cutting your nails...
Friday, 14 March 2014
The Brotherly Tribute
OK, so most of you who follow this blog via Facebook will already know the thing I couldn't bring myself to blog about earlier this week, and the reason for our sudden deviation into the countryside.
Larry, d's brother, passed away this week. His funeral took place today in the States, and it would have been financially and logistically very tight to get us over there for it. So we came away into the countryside, because Larry was a total outdoor kind of guy.
Which, on reflection, made the last fifteen years of his life perhaps an even more poignant span.
In 1999 Larry was in a horrible car accident. Three types of brain injury, comparative paralysis and little control over movement, speech, feeding or his own personal dignity were among its legacies.
When talking about Larry, or Larry's situation, it's incredibly hard not to lapse into cliche. Many people say they'd "rather be dead than..." and then describe the kind of life he had for the last fifteen years. I don't really think it's necessarily possible to say something like that until you've spent those fifteen years in his place - and which of us have?
What is true, I think, is that whether he chose to be, or whether he simply had no option not to be, Larry was a brave, stubborn man when it came to his condition and his life. Doctors said he'd probably have a few years after the accident. He lived fifteen. He lived, long after I know I probably would have begged, screaming, to be released from life. That's what I mean about not knowing whether he chose to be brave, or whether he simply had no alternative. For all we know, he may have been screaming inside for years.
On balance, though, I think he had an alternative, and was just that strong.
On balance, I think he was just that impressive.
When we came away to the country, d handed me my fantastically childish "Sixth Doctor Costume" T-shirt.
"While we're away," she said, "we're going to be ourselves, in tribute to Larry, who couldn't be himself for all those years." Larry, left to his own devices, was a huntin', shootin', fishin' kind of guy, with a penchant for Harleys and muscle cars. We think the interests survived the accident, whereas of course his ability to fulfill any of them was killed.
Now I surprise a lot of people by being at one and the same time a wuss-ass screaming Liberal, with Socialistic leanings and an atheistic principle, and at the same time, quite keen on shooting things for food (in principle) and fast and kickass vehicles of practically every kind. So while I only ever had the honour of meeting Larry after his accident, I like to convince myself at least that had we met before it, we would still have had things to talk about and enthuse over - besides the obvious of course: how to drive his sister up the wall. (He never had the ability to tell me, and she's just let it slip in the last 48 hours (after almost ten years of marriage) that he used to poke her relentlessly in the sides. A new weapon in my arsenal that will, at some time or other, earn me a good solid clonking, I'm sure. Thanks, Lar!)
But d's words made a spectacular amount of sense to me. Live as much as possible as yourself, because not everyone has that option. So today, we were planning to grab our walking boots and yomp into the countryside, in tribute to the man.
In the event though, we did Our Thing. We went into Abergavenny, wandered streets, piddled about in shops, grabbed a Costa...then grabbed some white roses and headed to a Catholic Church. d lit candles, left the flowers, and talked to the priest to ask him to keep Larry in mind when the evening's service began.
We came home to the hotel, and shared a meal Larry would have loved - Lasagne for me, steak for d, a glass of cider for us both. We did it in tribute to the man, to honour what he liked, but also we lived as we wanted, because he couldn't for all those years.
Now as I say, I'm an atheist, which makes these times particularly hard. And again at these times, people fall readily into cliche - "he's not suffering any more" being a favourite. I've never met a human being to whom that applies more than it does to Larry - and here's the kicker: it doesn't matter whether you believe he's gone home to some celestial palace, or he's now free to wander trails and ride highways on a spiritual kickass Harley, or if you believe he's now just dead. Without impugning anyone for decisions made, his life for the last fifteen years was not the kind of life you'd want for your brother, or son, or friend. And now all the hardship of that life is done. And yes, we'll miss him - we'll all miss him. But is his freedom from the life he had a relief? A source of happiness? I can look you in the eye and tell you yes.
So tonight - whether you believe in gods, or spirits, or just The Human Spirit, or nothing at all, I want you to do me one big favour. Raise a glass, or a mug, and fill it with whatever you like most - alcoholic or not, hot or cold. and drink me a toast to my brother-in-law, to his strength, to the power and the compassion he used in living each day in a state that many of us would not be strong enough to endure. And drink deep, enjoy, and tomorrow, whenever any minor thing gets up your nose or in your way, think me a thought or two of Larry, and remember all the privileges you have. And if you're looking for a moral in all this, I guess it would be that all the little stuff is just that - little stuff. It's massively eclipsed by what you have and what you can do. And I knew a guy who had all that stolen from him by blind, unfeeling fate, and still went on, and still woke up each day, and still found things in most of those days to give the thumbs-up that was one of his only remaining ways to show his mind.
To Larry, and the gift he had of making us all marvel at what one brave man could do. Drink up, thumbs-up, and live because you can.
Larry, d's brother, passed away this week. His funeral took place today in the States, and it would have been financially and logistically very tight to get us over there for it. So we came away into the countryside, because Larry was a total outdoor kind of guy.
Which, on reflection, made the last fifteen years of his life perhaps an even more poignant span.
In 1999 Larry was in a horrible car accident. Three types of brain injury, comparative paralysis and little control over movement, speech, feeding or his own personal dignity were among its legacies.
When talking about Larry, or Larry's situation, it's incredibly hard not to lapse into cliche. Many people say they'd "rather be dead than..." and then describe the kind of life he had for the last fifteen years. I don't really think it's necessarily possible to say something like that until you've spent those fifteen years in his place - and which of us have?
What is true, I think, is that whether he chose to be, or whether he simply had no option not to be, Larry was a brave, stubborn man when it came to his condition and his life. Doctors said he'd probably have a few years after the accident. He lived fifteen. He lived, long after I know I probably would have begged, screaming, to be released from life. That's what I mean about not knowing whether he chose to be brave, or whether he simply had no alternative. For all we know, he may have been screaming inside for years.
On balance, though, I think he had an alternative, and was just that strong.
On balance, I think he was just that impressive.
When we came away to the country, d handed me my fantastically childish "Sixth Doctor Costume" T-shirt.
"While we're away," she said, "we're going to be ourselves, in tribute to Larry, who couldn't be himself for all those years." Larry, left to his own devices, was a huntin', shootin', fishin' kind of guy, with a penchant for Harleys and muscle cars. We think the interests survived the accident, whereas of course his ability to fulfill any of them was killed.
Now I surprise a lot of people by being at one and the same time a wuss-ass screaming Liberal, with Socialistic leanings and an atheistic principle, and at the same time, quite keen on shooting things for food (in principle) and fast and kickass vehicles of practically every kind. So while I only ever had the honour of meeting Larry after his accident, I like to convince myself at least that had we met before it, we would still have had things to talk about and enthuse over - besides the obvious of course: how to drive his sister up the wall. (He never had the ability to tell me, and she's just let it slip in the last 48 hours (after almost ten years of marriage) that he used to poke her relentlessly in the sides. A new weapon in my arsenal that will, at some time or other, earn me a good solid clonking, I'm sure. Thanks, Lar!)
But d's words made a spectacular amount of sense to me. Live as much as possible as yourself, because not everyone has that option. So today, we were planning to grab our walking boots and yomp into the countryside, in tribute to the man.
In the event though, we did Our Thing. We went into Abergavenny, wandered streets, piddled about in shops, grabbed a Costa...then grabbed some white roses and headed to a Catholic Church. d lit candles, left the flowers, and talked to the priest to ask him to keep Larry in mind when the evening's service began.
We came home to the hotel, and shared a meal Larry would have loved - Lasagne for me, steak for d, a glass of cider for us both. We did it in tribute to the man, to honour what he liked, but also we lived as we wanted, because he couldn't for all those years.
Now as I say, I'm an atheist, which makes these times particularly hard. And again at these times, people fall readily into cliche - "he's not suffering any more" being a favourite. I've never met a human being to whom that applies more than it does to Larry - and here's the kicker: it doesn't matter whether you believe he's gone home to some celestial palace, or he's now free to wander trails and ride highways on a spiritual kickass Harley, or if you believe he's now just dead. Without impugning anyone for decisions made, his life for the last fifteen years was not the kind of life you'd want for your brother, or son, or friend. And now all the hardship of that life is done. And yes, we'll miss him - we'll all miss him. But is his freedom from the life he had a relief? A source of happiness? I can look you in the eye and tell you yes.
So tonight - whether you believe in gods, or spirits, or just The Human Spirit, or nothing at all, I want you to do me one big favour. Raise a glass, or a mug, and fill it with whatever you like most - alcoholic or not, hot or cold. and drink me a toast to my brother-in-law, to his strength, to the power and the compassion he used in living each day in a state that many of us would not be strong enough to endure. And drink deep, enjoy, and tomorrow, whenever any minor thing gets up your nose or in your way, think me a thought or two of Larry, and remember all the privileges you have. And if you're looking for a moral in all this, I guess it would be that all the little stuff is just that - little stuff. It's massively eclipsed by what you have and what you can do. And I knew a guy who had all that stolen from him by blind, unfeeling fate, and still went on, and still woke up each day, and still found things in most of those days to give the thumbs-up that was one of his only remaining ways to show his mind.
To Larry, and the gift he had of making us all marvel at what one brave man could do. Drink up, thumbs-up, and live because you can.
13th March - The Sundae Solicitation
So - came away to a hotel nestled at the foot of a couple of big hills which call themselves mountains.
So far, very little yomping has been done. Thing is, the restaurant at the hotel did boat a Sundae among its desserts. Now, those of you who know me will know I'm a sucker for a sundae. They're like the dessert equivalent of call girls, all dressed up in their finery and hose. So I asked mine host (who informed us that the "spa" that was attached to his hotel...hadn't been open in two years, since "the woman left").
Disappearing's one thing. A sundae...that's something else. So I was actually contemplating bending my rule and trying one. But on the menu, it was just listed as "Sundae".
"Can you tell me more about your sundae?" I asked, almost like a sweating teenager in a porn shop.
He didn't seem to understand the question.
"More, how?" he asked.
"I mean like what's..." I moved closer to him, to create the impression that he was among friends, and that I was a man of the world....he could trust me with the sordid details. "...what's in it?" I asked, just about refraining from a "nudge, nudge, wink, wink sayyyyy no moooore, squire."
"Oh. S'just three scoops of ice cream and some whipped cream," he said, entirely failing that expensive course of marketing and upselling he'd been on just last Spring.
"Oh..." I said, feeling (and here I appreciate the unfortunate mangling of metaphors) my culinary hard-on rather droop. I didn't succumb to the temptations of the sundae...but only really because it didn't appear to have any temptations. It was like being propositioned by a pimp who said "Well, she's not much to look at, I know, but you can have a go if you like..."
So as yet I remain unsullied in the world of desserts.
Dammit...
Turns out we're going into Abergavenny tomorrow. Maybe someone can sully me up right nice there...
So far, very little yomping has been done. Thing is, the restaurant at the hotel did boat a Sundae among its desserts. Now, those of you who know me will know I'm a sucker for a sundae. They're like the dessert equivalent of call girls, all dressed up in their finery and hose. So I asked mine host (who informed us that the "spa" that was attached to his hotel...hadn't been open in two years, since "the woman left").
Disappearing's one thing. A sundae...that's something else. So I was actually contemplating bending my rule and trying one. But on the menu, it was just listed as "Sundae".
"Can you tell me more about your sundae?" I asked, almost like a sweating teenager in a porn shop.
He didn't seem to understand the question.
"More, how?" he asked.
"I mean like what's..." I moved closer to him, to create the impression that he was among friends, and that I was a man of the world....he could trust me with the sordid details. "...what's in it?" I asked, just about refraining from a "nudge, nudge, wink, wink sayyyyy no moooore, squire."
"Oh. S'just three scoops of ice cream and some whipped cream," he said, entirely failing that expensive course of marketing and upselling he'd been on just last Spring.
"Oh..." I said, feeling (and here I appreciate the unfortunate mangling of metaphors) my culinary hard-on rather droop. I didn't succumb to the temptations of the sundae...but only really because it didn't appear to have any temptations. It was like being propositioned by a pimp who said "Well, she's not much to look at, I know, but you can have a go if you like..."
So as yet I remain unsullied in the world of desserts.
Dammit...
Turns out we're going into Abergavenny tomorrow. Maybe someone can sully me up right nice there...
Wednesday, 12 March 2014
The Double Dip
As I write this, I’m on the final stages of the journey back
to Merthyr. Didn’t sleep last night till 4am, and was up at 6.30 this morning
for a day of conferencing. Yippee Skippy. I was out at a hotel, and the
damnable temptation of the Hotel Buffet made its presence felt. Had cereal, and
then for some reason, scrambled egg, beans, sausage and toast. Then popped to
Starbucks for a de-caff third breakfast. Lunch was a self-judged and small
scoopful of lasagne, and dinner was a chicken and mushroom pasty of unerring
miserableness and scalding heat that simply dared you to get through it.
Home tonight just before midnight. Then away from home again
tomorrow afternoon – d and I are taking a few days away together. Another
hotel, but this time with a huge swathe of countryside in which to go
mercilessly yomping, to burn calories and make us deserve our dinner. Of course, as we don’t come back till
Saturday, it proves the benefit of re-establishing the weigh-in on a Tuesday.
Feel big and bloated at the moment, but let’s see what happens when I get back
on the bike tomorrow, or after a couple of days let loose in the countryside.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have important snoring to do.
Tuesday, 11 March 2014
The Barely-Noticeable Seven
Well, I did say I'd do a second weigh-in today, simply to shift the official weigh-in day to a point in the week that those demented few of you who follow these shenanigans are more familiar with. So here you go. Weigh-in today was 18stone 9.75. For the slow-of-math, that's seven pounds since I began to re-Disappear ten days ago. Mostly water, as discussed a couple of posts ago, though my pal Wendy, who first told me about how you lost mostly water for the first couple of weeks, when I mentioned it to her today, said "Nah, I reckon you're losing some fat too honey."
So that was nice. Also, her wife, Maria, has also lost seven pounds, so woohoo, we are the seven pound gang.
I'll be perfectly honest with you. Firstly, if you can lose seven pounds in ten days, it's just indicative that you have a shedload to lose. It's Nature's way of saying "Oh yes...please, do go on..." And secondly, buggered if I notice the seven pounds in either the look or feel of life, because - and this is another of those cruel sonofabitch Disappearing ironies - seven pounds when you're 18 or 19 stone is proportionately a lot less noticeable than seven pounds if you're something like 13 stone.
Still...onward. First half-stone done. Still would love to see a 17 on the Nazi Scales by the end of March, but that seems mathematically unlikely. Off to London today, so have had a day filled with de-caff lattes. Had three Weetabix (no piggin' banana!) for breakfast, a sausage sarnie in Starbucks Cardiff for lunch, and a dinner of half a bowl of tomato soup and a plate of pasta for dinner (not ideal, pasta at night, but there it is). But - no exercise today. Basically growing carbuncles on my ass all day. More of the same tomorrow, as I'm in a conference all day and on a train till nearly midnight. Perversely, I rather miss the exercise. Sick, but possibly the emergence of that most precious things - the active desire to be good.
So that was nice. Also, her wife, Maria, has also lost seven pounds, so woohoo, we are the seven pound gang.
I'll be perfectly honest with you. Firstly, if you can lose seven pounds in ten days, it's just indicative that you have a shedload to lose. It's Nature's way of saying "Oh yes...please, do go on..." And secondly, buggered if I notice the seven pounds in either the look or feel of life, because - and this is another of those cruel sonofabitch Disappearing ironies - seven pounds when you're 18 or 19 stone is proportionately a lot less noticeable than seven pounds if you're something like 13 stone.
Still...onward. First half-stone done. Still would love to see a 17 on the Nazi Scales by the end of March, but that seems mathematically unlikely. Off to London today, so have had a day filled with de-caff lattes. Had three Weetabix (no piggin' banana!) for breakfast, a sausage sarnie in Starbucks Cardiff for lunch, and a dinner of half a bowl of tomato soup and a plate of pasta for dinner (not ideal, pasta at night, but there it is). But - no exercise today. Basically growing carbuncles on my ass all day. More of the same tomorrow, as I'm in a conference all day and on a train till nearly midnight. Perversely, I rather miss the exercise. Sick, but possibly the emergence of that most precious things - the active desire to be good.
Monday, 10 March 2014
The Cake Shop Trial
Stuff happened today that I'm not yet ready to blog about. Very odd day in terms of emotional roller-coaster rides. Will tell you when I'm ready, honest.
For now, suffice to say the day began early, and immediately, all the plans I'd made for the day went out of the window. The day involved a cafe for breakfast, where - given that breakfast was at about 11ish - I eschewed the healthy option and chose a sausage and egg sandwich on bloomer bread.
The day also involved Ma, d and I at one point sitting in a cake shop. I know, I know, don't make mountains out of molehills, but this turned out to be the biggest challenge since I started re-Disappearing, all of nine days ago. There were deep-filled apple tarts, and apple and blackberry tarts. There were eclairs and egg custards (don't mess with me on this, I've written a fantasy epic about eclairs and egg custards!). There were battenburgs and Victoria sponges and carrot cakes and tea loaves and cherry bakewell shortbreads and...and...
I don't know why this bothered me more today than any day previously - d's made amazing, kickass cakes since I restarted the Disappearing and...while it would be lying to say I wasn't madly tempted, I found it relatively easy to resist. I think the roller-coaster nature of the day was probably responsible - the response to intense stress and sorrow and relief and weird stuff: stuff your face with sugary, soothing goodness.
I chewed the spoon with which I stirred my de-caff latte, and briefly caved, asking d to lie to me and tell me her mincemeat shortbread square was utterly horrid. She did, bless her.
Later in the day, I was walking around Waitrose. Spotted a book by noted brain-meddler Paul McKenna - I Can Stop Emotional Eating. I'll tell you one thing - if I ever needed motivation not to cave, proving that I don't need Paul Bloody McKenna in my life is about as good as they come.
Only did half and hour's biking tonight as it was late, and am off to London for an overnight and a conference in the morning, so will be unable to bike for the next two nights. So - discipline will be the key to this overnight. Discipline...
I too can stop emotional eating, Paul McBloodyKenna. For I have passed the Cake Shop Trial.
For now, suffice to say the day began early, and immediately, all the plans I'd made for the day went out of the window. The day involved a cafe for breakfast, where - given that breakfast was at about 11ish - I eschewed the healthy option and chose a sausage and egg sandwich on bloomer bread.
The day also involved Ma, d and I at one point sitting in a cake shop. I know, I know, don't make mountains out of molehills, but this turned out to be the biggest challenge since I started re-Disappearing, all of nine days ago. There were deep-filled apple tarts, and apple and blackberry tarts. There were eclairs and egg custards (don't mess with me on this, I've written a fantasy epic about eclairs and egg custards!). There were battenburgs and Victoria sponges and carrot cakes and tea loaves and cherry bakewell shortbreads and...and...
I don't know why this bothered me more today than any day previously - d's made amazing, kickass cakes since I restarted the Disappearing and...while it would be lying to say I wasn't madly tempted, I found it relatively easy to resist. I think the roller-coaster nature of the day was probably responsible - the response to intense stress and sorrow and relief and weird stuff: stuff your face with sugary, soothing goodness.
I chewed the spoon with which I stirred my de-caff latte, and briefly caved, asking d to lie to me and tell me her mincemeat shortbread square was utterly horrid. She did, bless her.
Later in the day, I was walking around Waitrose. Spotted a book by noted brain-meddler Paul McKenna - I Can Stop Emotional Eating. I'll tell you one thing - if I ever needed motivation not to cave, proving that I don't need Paul Bloody McKenna in my life is about as good as they come.
Only did half and hour's biking tonight as it was late, and am off to London for an overnight and a conference in the morning, so will be unable to bike for the next two nights. So - discipline will be the key to this overnight. Discipline...
I too can stop emotional eating, Paul McBloodyKenna. For I have passed the Cake Shop Trial.
Sunday, 9 March 2014
The Affair of the Lone Banana
Anyone recognise the title? Titled for my brother Geraint, as a matter of fact, who I can practically guarantee will know it.
Oddly appropriate for the day though. |Got up at 7 this morning and worked on an enormous edit for about five hours. At which point, remembered I hadn't eaten anything. I knew we were going out to lunch with Ma at 2pm, and really didn't feel like eating much. I mooched around the kitchen for a minute and a half though, and spotted one lone banana which had been unable to cling to our banana tree (oh yeah, all mod cons in our kitchen!) without the support of its fellows.
I fell on it, and chewed it slowly, feeling an odd, marginally profound connection to our simian cousins.
"Ook," I said to myself when I'd finished. I faced away from the recycle bin, and flung the yellow and mottled fruitskin over my left shoulder. A soft impact noise told me it had landed where it should have.
"Ooooook," I said, feeling like the Hairless Ape Who Could. Then I went back to my edit till it was time to leave for lunch.
"This was in my paper," said Ma, proffering a smallish booklet. Ma calls it a paper, bless her, but it's actually the Daily Mail, a sort of instruction pamphlet for Who To Hate This Week, for the kind of British person who would be a Nazi, but is too fond of committees to ever really commit. She normally only gets it these days for the Money Advice column. Honest, Comrade!
Anyhow, I looked at the booklet she was holding out to me.
"HOW MUCH SUGAR IS IN YOUR FOOD?" it demanded.
"Thanks?" I asked. "Now I can know my calorific crimes as I commit them," I thought.
Now, the Mail loves a good list. Lists appeal to lots of different types of people - I'm a Doctor Who Geek, they appeal to me massively. But they also appeal to Daily Mail readers, especially when it looks as though people, things, nations or even entire continents can be blamed for stuff. Blamed for the fall of society or for political correctness gone mad, most especially, but blamed, at a push, for anything.
So this booklet, which basically was a manual of depression that showed how many teaspoons of sugar could be found in a whole lot of everyday foods, had a list, up front. "TOP 5 SURPRISE VILLAINS" it proclaimed - see what I mean? Any time it can blame anything or anyone for something, the Mail will do you a good solid list.
Top of the list of super-villain foods - A BANANA!
Now many of you (I say "many of you" nonchalantly, as if there are in fact "many of you") will know that my general choice for a Disappearing breakfast is three Weetabix AND A LONE BANANA. Turns out that two Weetabix have half a teaspoon of sugar in them. SO three, presumably have three-quarters of a teaspoon of sugar in them.
How many teaspoons of sugar do you think a single banana has (according, it is important to remember at all times, to The Daily Mail)?
7.
Yes, 7. Seven whole teaspoons of sugar, in a cunning yellow jumpsuit - Basically, every time you slice a banana over your cereal, you're EATING ANNEKE RICE!
I did the maths of course - I could eat a breakfast of 28 Weetabix for the sugar-price of a solitary lone banana. And don't think I haven't, in my time!
So - apparently, and unless you rational folk can tell me different to the Mail - that's bananas off my list of safe snacks then. I haven't actually had the courage yet to check what else is on the Mail's Most Wanted List. If The Evil Lone Banana turns out to have an accomplice called The Pink Lady Apple, I might just pack in fruit altogether and start eating worms instead.
Oddly appropriate for the day though. |Got up at 7 this morning and worked on an enormous edit for about five hours. At which point, remembered I hadn't eaten anything. I knew we were going out to lunch with Ma at 2pm, and really didn't feel like eating much. I mooched around the kitchen for a minute and a half though, and spotted one lone banana which had been unable to cling to our banana tree (oh yeah, all mod cons in our kitchen!) without the support of its fellows.
I fell on it, and chewed it slowly, feeling an odd, marginally profound connection to our simian cousins.
"Ook," I said to myself when I'd finished. I faced away from the recycle bin, and flung the yellow and mottled fruitskin over my left shoulder. A soft impact noise told me it had landed where it should have.
"Ooooook," I said, feeling like the Hairless Ape Who Could. Then I went back to my edit till it was time to leave for lunch.
"This was in my paper," said Ma, proffering a smallish booklet. Ma calls it a paper, bless her, but it's actually the Daily Mail, a sort of instruction pamphlet for Who To Hate This Week, for the kind of British person who would be a Nazi, but is too fond of committees to ever really commit. She normally only gets it these days for the Money Advice column. Honest, Comrade!
Anyhow, I looked at the booklet she was holding out to me.
"HOW MUCH SUGAR IS IN YOUR FOOD?" it demanded.
"Thanks?" I asked. "Now I can know my calorific crimes as I commit them," I thought.
Now, the Mail loves a good list. Lists appeal to lots of different types of people - I'm a Doctor Who Geek, they appeal to me massively. But they also appeal to Daily Mail readers, especially when it looks as though people, things, nations or even entire continents can be blamed for stuff. Blamed for the fall of society or for political correctness gone mad, most especially, but blamed, at a push, for anything.
So this booklet, which basically was a manual of depression that showed how many teaspoons of sugar could be found in a whole lot of everyday foods, had a list, up front. "TOP 5 SURPRISE VILLAINS" it proclaimed - see what I mean? Any time it can blame anything or anyone for something, the Mail will do you a good solid list.
Top of the list of super-villain foods - A BANANA!
Now many of you (I say "many of you" nonchalantly, as if there are in fact "many of you") will know that my general choice for a Disappearing breakfast is three Weetabix AND A LONE BANANA. Turns out that two Weetabix have half a teaspoon of sugar in them. SO three, presumably have three-quarters of a teaspoon of sugar in them.
How many teaspoons of sugar do you think a single banana has (according, it is important to remember at all times, to The Daily Mail)?
7.
Yes, 7. Seven whole teaspoons of sugar, in a cunning yellow jumpsuit - Basically, every time you slice a banana over your cereal, you're EATING ANNEKE RICE!
I did the maths of course - I could eat a breakfast of 28 Weetabix for the sugar-price of a solitary lone banana. And don't think I haven't, in my time!
So - apparently, and unless you rational folk can tell me different to the Mail - that's bananas off my list of safe snacks then. I haven't actually had the courage yet to check what else is on the Mail's Most Wanted List. If The Evil Lone Banana turns out to have an accomplice called The Pink Lady Apple, I might just pack in fruit altogether and start eating worms instead.
Saturday, 8 March 2014
By The Rivers of Flabbylon
So - yeeeeeears ago now, my pal Wendy told me a thing about losing weight which, at the time, rather irritated me.
"The first two weeks, you don't lose fat at all honey," she explained. "You lose stored-up water."
Part of me has been wanting to ask pretty much ever since what kind of drought-based emergency my system is striving to protect me from that it feels the need to store up to eight pounds of water in heavy-ass pockets around my flabby frame, but I've never bothered. It does, however, make a degree of sense of a phenomenon that's now well documented, every time I kickstart this thing properly.
Today's first-week weigh-in sees me at 18st 10.75 - that's a full six pounds down on a week ago today. Which, presumably I've sweated and peed away over the course of the last seven days.
Oddly, passing the "six pounds of water" stage has a really motivating effect on me, always - it's kind of like saying to my body "Yeah...now let's play," giving it notice that I'm serious about this weightloss malarkey.
Is there jubilation at being six pounds lighter? No, not really, because all it would take to balloon back up is to stop what I'm doing, and it's mostly water, and I'm still very heavy. A stone from now, there'll be the first real celebration, when I've been able to tell my system "No, really, I'm serious about this shit."
On the upside, having done the first week thinking in a Disappearing frame of mind, it feels like I've shaken off some of the bad habits again, and begun to imprint good, or at least better ones.
That said, went down to Cardiff and my Starbucks "office" today. Had a banana for breakfast - I know, get me. Then, when d joined me down there, we went for lunch at a favourite Japanese haunt. Which means lunch was heftier than I've become used to over this last week, and included a shared plate of gyoza and a shared plate of things in a tempura batter.
"But wait!" I hear you cry. "That's a batter! That's fried, that is!"
Yes. Yes it is. Thing is, it was my main meal of the day, early in the day, which is useful in terms of giving the system time to process incoming calories, as opposed to, say, eating bigger meals later in the day. And this evening will be very very light (possibly even just one more banana, cos it's nearly 8PM as I write this, and I'm still perfectly satisfied). And as soon as I finish updating you on the calorific minutiae of my day, I'm outta here and getting on the bike, to pedal my ass off (an odd thing I've discovered this week - I pedal quite fast and effective and sweaty while reading Frankenstein. But only if I do it out loud. Who knew?). So am I going to freak the hell out and beat myself with sticks and barbed wire? No. I ate lunch. It was fantastic. Moving right along.
Oh and for Greg and his idea of Starbucks coffee being liquid junk food, I had two large de-caff skinny lattes all day, and two de-caff skinny light coffee frappuccinos (did I mention I have all the pleasure sucked out of them?), and that was it.
To the bike! And here's to losing more than greasy water in a couple of weeks time, and seeing my first 17 on the Nazi Scales, ideally before the end of March. I mean, technically, that would mean losing 10.5 pounds in three weeks and two days, which is obviously an average that's more than the recommended two pounds a week when it comes to losing actual fat. But hey - according to Wendy, there's a whole other week of water to purge first. Another six pounds is vastly unlikely, but if I can be in the lower half of 18 stone (anything under 18st 7 lbs) by this time next week, that'd be cool.
Of course, if the Rivers of Flabbylon flowed another six pounds off my ass by this time next week, I'd be mightily thrilled. Might even have myself a mini-whoop. Everyone!
By the Rivers of Flabbylon,
Where we sat down.
Annnnnd we wept,
As we pedalled our assss offf.
"The first two weeks, you don't lose fat at all honey," she explained. "You lose stored-up water."
Part of me has been wanting to ask pretty much ever since what kind of drought-based emergency my system is striving to protect me from that it feels the need to store up to eight pounds of water in heavy-ass pockets around my flabby frame, but I've never bothered. It does, however, make a degree of sense of a phenomenon that's now well documented, every time I kickstart this thing properly.
Today's first-week weigh-in sees me at 18st 10.75 - that's a full six pounds down on a week ago today. Which, presumably I've sweated and peed away over the course of the last seven days.
Oddly, passing the "six pounds of water" stage has a really motivating effect on me, always - it's kind of like saying to my body "Yeah...now let's play," giving it notice that I'm serious about this weightloss malarkey.
Is there jubilation at being six pounds lighter? No, not really, because all it would take to balloon back up is to stop what I'm doing, and it's mostly water, and I'm still very heavy. A stone from now, there'll be the first real celebration, when I've been able to tell my system "No, really, I'm serious about this shit."
On the upside, having done the first week thinking in a Disappearing frame of mind, it feels like I've shaken off some of the bad habits again, and begun to imprint good, or at least better ones.
That said, went down to Cardiff and my Starbucks "office" today. Had a banana for breakfast - I know, get me. Then, when d joined me down there, we went for lunch at a favourite Japanese haunt. Which means lunch was heftier than I've become used to over this last week, and included a shared plate of gyoza and a shared plate of things in a tempura batter.
"But wait!" I hear you cry. "That's a batter! That's fried, that is!"
Yes. Yes it is. Thing is, it was my main meal of the day, early in the day, which is useful in terms of giving the system time to process incoming calories, as opposed to, say, eating bigger meals later in the day. And this evening will be very very light (possibly even just one more banana, cos it's nearly 8PM as I write this, and I'm still perfectly satisfied). And as soon as I finish updating you on the calorific minutiae of my day, I'm outta here and getting on the bike, to pedal my ass off (an odd thing I've discovered this week - I pedal quite fast and effective and sweaty while reading Frankenstein. But only if I do it out loud. Who knew?). So am I going to freak the hell out and beat myself with sticks and barbed wire? No. I ate lunch. It was fantastic. Moving right along.
Oh and for Greg and his idea of Starbucks coffee being liquid junk food, I had two large de-caff skinny lattes all day, and two de-caff skinny light coffee frappuccinos (did I mention I have all the pleasure sucked out of them?), and that was it.
To the bike! And here's to losing more than greasy water in a couple of weeks time, and seeing my first 17 on the Nazi Scales, ideally before the end of March. I mean, technically, that would mean losing 10.5 pounds in three weeks and two days, which is obviously an average that's more than the recommended two pounds a week when it comes to losing actual fat. But hey - according to Wendy, there's a whole other week of water to purge first. Another six pounds is vastly unlikely, but if I can be in the lower half of 18 stone (anything under 18st 7 lbs) by this time next week, that'd be cool.
Of course, if the Rivers of Flabbylon flowed another six pounds off my ass by this time next week, I'd be mightily thrilled. Might even have myself a mini-whoop. Everyone!
By the Rivers of Flabbylon,
Where we sat down.
Annnnnd we wept,
As we pedalled our assss offf.
Friday, 7 March 2014
The Weigh-In Disputation and The Dominos Fall?
"So what do you fancy for dinner tonight?" said d.
"Protein," I said (having come off the bike about an hour earlier. "Protein and veg," I explained, polishing up my halo. "Weigh-in tomorrow."
She looked at me like I was nuts.
"Why?" she said. My beloved has a knack of asking "Why?" and very potently not-saying "Why the hell would you do that, you crazy, deranged lunatic? Are you high on sugar-coated crack with chocolate sprinkles on?"
"Well....cos I started a week ago tomorrow, so it's a..." I shrugged. "...you know...weekly weigh-in."
She thought about this.
"Yes, but Tuesday's traditional," she said.
So now we have a duality thing going on - do you lot want a weekly weigh-in on a Saturday, or have you got...you know, other shit to do on the weekend? Seems massively unlikely that you have other shit to do on a Tuesday, and I always did enjoy the Tuesday thing...
Hell, could even go entirely insane and do a first week weigh-in tomorrow and a new, shiny Tuesday weigh-in on...you know...Tuesday, to maintain the grand Disappearing weigh-in tradition.
Thing is, it has a knock-on effect, because, having pottered about the kitchen for ten minutes, d popped her head around the door.
"Is there anything you can eat on the Dominos menu?" she asked, waving a pizza delivery menu at me.
There isn't, in any logical sense. I've ordered some chickeny bits and some potato wedges, in the hope they won't make me balloon like a...well, like a balloon I suppose. I did a highly unofficial weigh-in this morning, and was pleased with what I saw. But let's see what each of the official weigh-ins says, shall we?
You'll have to excuse me - there's chicken to throw down my gullet...
"Protein," I said (having come off the bike about an hour earlier. "Protein and veg," I explained, polishing up my halo. "Weigh-in tomorrow."
She looked at me like I was nuts.
"Why?" she said. My beloved has a knack of asking "Why?" and very potently not-saying "Why the hell would you do that, you crazy, deranged lunatic? Are you high on sugar-coated crack with chocolate sprinkles on?"
"Well....cos I started a week ago tomorrow, so it's a..." I shrugged. "...you know...weekly weigh-in."
She thought about this.
"Yes, but Tuesday's traditional," she said.
So now we have a duality thing going on - do you lot want a weekly weigh-in on a Saturday, or have you got...you know, other shit to do on the weekend? Seems massively unlikely that you have other shit to do on a Tuesday, and I always did enjoy the Tuesday thing...
Hell, could even go entirely insane and do a first week weigh-in tomorrow and a new, shiny Tuesday weigh-in on...you know...Tuesday, to maintain the grand Disappearing weigh-in tradition.
Thing is, it has a knock-on effect, because, having pottered about the kitchen for ten minutes, d popped her head around the door.
"Is there anything you can eat on the Dominos menu?" she asked, waving a pizza delivery menu at me.
There isn't, in any logical sense. I've ordered some chickeny bits and some potato wedges, in the hope they won't make me balloon like a...well, like a balloon I suppose. I did a highly unofficial weigh-in this morning, and was pleased with what I saw. But let's see what each of the official weigh-ins says, shall we?
You'll have to excuse me - there's chicken to throw down my gullet...
Thursday, 6 March 2014
The Lair of the Pleasure Vampires
I spent the majority of today at Starbucks in Cardiff, working on a bunch of sample chapters (if this means nothing to you, go here - go on, treat yourself, it's World Book Day!).
Yes, those of you who read my Beeblebrox List will know I swore off chain coffee shops back in October last year. Those die hard, devoted readers (and gods know who you are, cos I'm sure I don't) who followed my Beeblebrox blog will know I caved on this months ago, seduced at Paddington Station by the delights of some utterly vile and slightly demented special beverage they had on offer. I'm fairly sure it wasn't actually Peanut Butter Hot Chocolate, but it was something equally ill-advised and nasty.
Anyway, so my love affair with Starbucks continues. As I've mentioned before, I seem, for reasons I still don't entirely understand, to get a lot more work done on days in a Starbucks than I do on days here at home.
My day-job printer and general geeky fellow traveller and nutjob pal, Greg, saw my post yesterday about spending today in Starbucks and dragged this little nugget of information to my attention:
"Wasn't there some report that said that Starbucks coffee was basically like liquid junk food?" he asked. "Like a big coffee there has as much fat in it asa portion of fries or something?"
Gee. Ta.
The point of course, as I snootily reminded him, was that I have the staff at my favourite Starbucks well trained. I have coffee with skimmed mile, no caffeine and fake sugar, or as I've described it now for several years, a "bucket o'pointlessness".
"It's OK," I assured him. "I ask them to suck all the conceivable pleasure out of it for me. Y'know...like a bunch of big old Pleasure Vampires".
So that's where I've been all day - at the mercy of the Pleasure Vampires. Came home and, since d refused to hit me with sticks, I powered off about 400 calories on the bike, and this blog entry comes to you while d is out in the kitchen....baking cakes...for work, and I am in between academic journal proofs (basically 20-odd pages a time of algebra and geometry, with occasional sanity breaks for words. Usually translated from Chinese).
It occurs to me that, as in the best horror films, I may not have yet actually escaped the Lair of the Pleasure Vampires.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaarghhhh!!!!!
Yes, those of you who read my Beeblebrox List will know I swore off chain coffee shops back in October last year. Those die hard, devoted readers (and gods know who you are, cos I'm sure I don't) who followed my Beeblebrox blog will know I caved on this months ago, seduced at Paddington Station by the delights of some utterly vile and slightly demented special beverage they had on offer. I'm fairly sure it wasn't actually Peanut Butter Hot Chocolate, but it was something equally ill-advised and nasty.
Anyway, so my love affair with Starbucks continues. As I've mentioned before, I seem, for reasons I still don't entirely understand, to get a lot more work done on days in a Starbucks than I do on days here at home.
My day-job printer and general geeky fellow traveller and nutjob pal, Greg, saw my post yesterday about spending today in Starbucks and dragged this little nugget of information to my attention:
"Wasn't there some report that said that Starbucks coffee was basically like liquid junk food?" he asked. "Like a big coffee there has as much fat in it asa portion of fries or something?"
Gee. Ta.
The point of course, as I snootily reminded him, was that I have the staff at my favourite Starbucks well trained. I have coffee with skimmed mile, no caffeine and fake sugar, or as I've described it now for several years, a "bucket o'pointlessness".
"It's OK," I assured him. "I ask them to suck all the conceivable pleasure out of it for me. Y'know...like a bunch of big old Pleasure Vampires".
So that's where I've been all day - at the mercy of the Pleasure Vampires. Came home and, since d refused to hit me with sticks, I powered off about 400 calories on the bike, and this blog entry comes to you while d is out in the kitchen....baking cakes...for work, and I am in between academic journal proofs (basically 20-odd pages a time of algebra and geometry, with occasional sanity breaks for words. Usually translated from Chinese).
It occurs to me that, as in the best horror films, I may not have yet actually escaped the Lair of the Pleasure Vampires.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaarghhhh!!!!!
Wednesday, 5 March 2014
Doughnuts and Sundaes and Bloody Violence, Oh My...
Soooo - interesting day. Planned to bike. Didn't bike (did my extra half hour last night, by the way). Pretty much a chicken and bread kinda day - breakfast was chicken soup and bread rolls. Lunch was chicken sandwiches and a can of cold Heinz ravioli (a detail I'm only really choosing to reveal cos a couple of my friends were freaked out about my revelation of eating cold canned soup...)
Then tonight I went head-first into a doughnut.
And, at the risk of paraphrasing the sleazeball discovered in flagrante with his secretary...it's not what it looks like.
Had an MRI scan tonight. Searching for brain tumours.
Fuuuuuun!
Long story short, when I saw the consultant last year about my sudden right-ear deafness, he cheerfully threw in the line "Oh yes, should probably send you for an MRI, just to check it's not down to a brain tumour or something. Don't think it is, but best to be safe, eh?"
So this was me, finally getting to the point int he MRI-queue where I can be safe. Had my head and shoulders fed into a doughnut and practically went to sleep, as the sound effects from quite a bad trance disco pounded into my head for about five minutes. The weirdest part of the whole experience was when they came to get me out. If you've ever wondered what it's like to be a stiff in the morgue when someone comes to identify you - have an MRI. It was like being pulled out of my own little chiller cabinet and brought back to the world.
As Ma had driven us up there for my doughnut experience, we took her for dinner at the local Harvester. My mother has many modes. When she's in her "chipper bunny" mode, she's the kind of optimistic that makes you just want to slap her. So she positively enthused about her wodge of rubber chicken and dehydrating jacket potato at the local Harvester.
She went to steal all the lettuce from the salad bar, as ever, and I perused the "Sundae Menu". Yes, really - pretty much the one good thing about a Harvester is they have a complete menu of sundaes. I did my usual Disappearing thing, of wondering whether, one day, I could just go over and go through the card of Sundaes. I'd be look at about 6000 calories. Gotta tell you - apart from the threat of sudden blindness, it'd be worth doing one day.
We ate - and yes, I had rubber chicken and potato too, doing the chicken treble for the day - and I tried not to hate every other human being in the restaurant. Briefly, occasionally, between bites, I bludgeoned my way to the Pass, shoving people's faces into their rib platters and stealing the desserts from squalling brats...then I opened my eyes again, and kept chewing.
Gotta love this Disappearing lark, haven't you?
Came home, and I'm going to be honest, I don't have a biking session in me. Am going to make love (in the older sense of the phrase) to my couch in a handful of heartbeats. Tomorrow - Starbucks!
Then tonight I went head-first into a doughnut.
And, at the risk of paraphrasing the sleazeball discovered in flagrante with his secretary...it's not what it looks like.
Had an MRI scan tonight. Searching for brain tumours.
Fuuuuuun!
Long story short, when I saw the consultant last year about my sudden right-ear deafness, he cheerfully threw in the line "Oh yes, should probably send you for an MRI, just to check it's not down to a brain tumour or something. Don't think it is, but best to be safe, eh?"
So this was me, finally getting to the point int he MRI-queue where I can be safe. Had my head and shoulders fed into a doughnut and practically went to sleep, as the sound effects from quite a bad trance disco pounded into my head for about five minutes. The weirdest part of the whole experience was when they came to get me out. If you've ever wondered what it's like to be a stiff in the morgue when someone comes to identify you - have an MRI. It was like being pulled out of my own little chiller cabinet and brought back to the world.
As Ma had driven us up there for my doughnut experience, we took her for dinner at the local Harvester. My mother has many modes. When she's in her "chipper bunny" mode, she's the kind of optimistic that makes you just want to slap her. So she positively enthused about her wodge of rubber chicken and dehydrating jacket potato at the local Harvester.
She went to steal all the lettuce from the salad bar, as ever, and I perused the "Sundae Menu". Yes, really - pretty much the one good thing about a Harvester is they have a complete menu of sundaes. I did my usual Disappearing thing, of wondering whether, one day, I could just go over and go through the card of Sundaes. I'd be look at about 6000 calories. Gotta tell you - apart from the threat of sudden blindness, it'd be worth doing one day.
We ate - and yes, I had rubber chicken and potato too, doing the chicken treble for the day - and I tried not to hate every other human being in the restaurant. Briefly, occasionally, between bites, I bludgeoned my way to the Pass, shoving people's faces into their rib platters and stealing the desserts from squalling brats...then I opened my eyes again, and kept chewing.
Gotta love this Disappearing lark, haven't you?
Came home, and I'm going to be honest, I don't have a biking session in me. Am going to make love (in the older sense of the phrase) to my couch in a handful of heartbeats. Tomorrow - Starbucks!
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