It is a truth universally acknowledged that the moment you relax into the certain knowledge that everything will be alright is the the moment you get splatted by something sideways of out left field. So it is with a due sense of dread that I report that things seem to be going vaguely in my direction - scarily, without any notable work on my part to ensure that this is the case.
I seem to be losing again, despite not having done any proper exercise in days, due to the wretched foot-blister and my capacity to turn any damn thing into an excuse to do precisely nothing.
Independently, two friends have told me either that I'm looking good, or that they can tell I'm losing, which is proof, if proof were needed, that I have cool friends. And this week I had a diabetic checkup, of which I won't know the full result till my blood comes back from its centrifuge, but at which the nurse was complimentary about the weight I'd lost since the last time I had a checkup. What I didn't tell her was the last time, I weighed without shoes, and this time with, meaning the real results are probably even more encouraging.
All of this, as I say, when I haven't done any real exercise in days, when I've been known to have an occasional full-tilt kickass frapuccino in among my general diet of pleasure-light concoctions, and when, for instance, just yesterday, I had a pizza lunch (damn you and your oven, Plas Coffi!), and a largely toast-based evening meal. Something may well be afoot here.
Nevertheless, let's grab fortune by the scruff of the neck, as it were, and stop typing in favour of getting on the bike for a while, for the first time this week. Can't do any active harm to this bizarro luck...right?
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