9th February - The Mushroom Failure and The Dessert Success

As predicted, the weigh-in was a setback. To be absolutely honest, it was more of a setback than I'd expected - I weighed in at 18st 13 lb. Three whole pounds of backslide. Though that said, that was before I went to Starbucks for the day, and round about mid-morning, the coffee did what coffee is famous for, and much of me exploded - and naturally, all I could think was "Damn, if only I'd waited to weigh till after that..."

But that's not what happened, so the official figure stands. To say there's room for improvement would be assinine and anodyne at the exact same moment, but that's what weeks are for - to make the improvements we want to see in our lives, whether they be personal, political, creative or Disappearing. You have another week, get to it and carpe the fuck out of that diem.

This evening was reasonably good - yes, technically we went ot an Italian for dinner again (I have no idea what it is about Tuesdays in Cardiff with d, but Italian seems to be our go-to at the moment), but I eschewed the joy of pasta for a chicken saltimbocca (chicken breast, run over by something heavy, wrapped in thin ham, and paired with a white wine sauce and (as it happened), some less than spectacular saute potatoes. Had a starter too, because they were insanely cheap - breaded garlic mushrooms. They were ordered and eaten before the whole "nothing fried" thing even crossed my mind. Don't know what to tell you - I appear to have a weakness for fungi.

That said, we did stroll our eyeballs around the dessert menu. And I was going to be good.
"Oh look - they have a sundae," said d.
"Ohhhh fuck," I murmured.
For those who don't know me well enough to know this, I have notsomuch a weakness for sundaes as a major freaking personality disorder where they're concerned. Sundaes are the can-can dancers of the dessert world, all frills and hidden delights, kicking up their creamy skirts and daring you to dive on in.

This one in particular promised richness, darkness, bittersweetness in its chocolate salted caramel heart.
I sighed.
"Nnnnope," I almost mourned.
"Good answer," said d, and off we went to the movies to watch Shakespeare on stage. The Winter's Tale. I'd forgotten everything about it, despite having read it many years ago. Then we watched it. Now I understand why I'd forgotten everything about it. It went on for about three lifetimes, and by the time Judi Dench and Kenneth Branagh were taking their curtain calls, we had roughly fifteen minutes to get to the last train home. There's power walking, and then there's "I'm gonna be stranded, freezing my ass off on the streets of Cardiff" walking. We did that second kind of walking, and made it to the train with five minutes to spare, but very little left in the way of lung capacity or will to live.
So this is me, embarking on another week of Disappearing after a disappointing but understandable result. The Disappointing Man, perhaps? Ach, maybe, but philosophy is a great consolation on days like this. Sometimes, you just have to say "Shit happens - after you've weighed in," and get the hell back on with what works.