Unnnnnnnnncleeeeeeeeean! Unnnnnnncleeeeeeean!
Bloke with a lurrrrrrgi! Unnnncleeeeeean!
Yes, you heard me - while of course it's the case that d has had a lurgi in perfect, get-on-with-it quietness and suffered appallingly while demanding dick-all in special privileges, I'm been going Total Sick Bloke for...well, actually since all the coughing and spangle-seeing of that long uphill walk I detailed last time. Sick as a dog. Useless. Sleeping hours of the day away, mostly because consciousness was such a pain in the chest. Spending additional hours in the bath because of the heat and the healing vapoury gloriousness of Olbas bubbles.
Have done precisely bog-all by way of exercise since that walk - first because of deadlines and then because of all this joyful lurgification.
Which means I have no logical way to explain to you how, getting on the Nazi Scales this morning (technically pre-bathroom, for those interested in the ins and outs of the thing, but it didn't seem especially worth waiting for), and saw:
17st 2.
Down...three and a quarter pounds.
All I can tell you is either this flu has a tapewormy element that has yet to be diagnosed, in which case I'm frankly happy to feed the fucker for a while before the nastiness of coaxing it out one way or another, or all the hacking coughs have acted like spasmodic stomach crunches, and I've been getting more of an enforced workout over the last seven weeks than I could possibly imagine, cos damn! Two pounds short of the next milestone, and into the Sixteens. That will be something to do a happy dance about - and happy dances will be altogether more possible than they have been, too. So yay. The lurgi of apparent weightloss has been an utter bastard, but the results are altogether rather more pleasing than the experience. Onward - to the border of Sixteeniness!
Tuesday, 19 March 2019
Tuesday, 12 March 2019
The Fluctuation Factor
My Nazi Scales are taking the piss today.
Post-bathroom weigh-in this morning - 17st 6.25 - same as last week. I'll be honest, I was happy enough to take that on a week which has included d's sdalty peanut fudge, cos dayum!
Padded about a bit in a semi-regular morning daze, listening, of all things, to an audiobook reading of The Consolation of Philosophy, by Boethius (don't let that fool you, I'm not high-brow, I've moved on to a Doctor Who novelization now). Went back. Scratched myself where I itched. Stepped back on the Nazi Scales.
17st 4.0. Tried that a few times, got consistent results.
'Fuck off,' I muttered. 'There's no way I lost precisely dick-all in seven days, and then 2.25 pounds in half an hour's dicking about. You're just fucking with me now.'
I pulled the scales to a slightly different position on the tiled floor. Stepped on again.
'Fine, see if you like this then,' said the Nazi Scales. 'Can do you a 17st 5.25. That suitably reasonable for you, is it?'
'Thank you,' I muttered - re-doing the weigh-in seveal more times, to make sure I got consistent results.
So. Somewhere between where I was last week and two and a quarter pounds lighter is probably where I aactually am.
For no terribly good reason, I'm going to take the middle reading, and claim 17 stone 5.25 as today's 'actual' reading. Because hell, it has to be something, and it might as well be that - each of the three readings was taken at least three times, for the 'No, really, stop fucking with me' value, so it's as valid as anything else, doesn't push me into entirely unbelievable places, and still allows me to go completely into Smug Mode today at having fudge and carrying on.
So...yeah. Nazi Scales say 17st 5.25 today. IF I were to, y'know, get my shit together and have some properly good weeks of not eating fudge and walking my ass off, I could theoretically push on down into the 16s three weeks from now - which would be something to shove in the face of my diabetic nurse next time I see her. The letter's already arrived, but I'm pretending it hasn't, because my recent blood results have been less than stellar, tending to go from 9ish to 11ish and back again. #MustDoBetter, clearly, at least on that score.
Oh, and talking of walking - went and did it last night. First time in about two weeks, I think. Now, here's the thing. Our flat is in the centre of a very small seaside town. About five, maybe six streets, that's the heart of the town. My usual walking route is ennnntirely flat, along the main street, alont a side street, through a couple of tunnels (see previous entries where I fell and knackered my ankle), and then along a lovely coastal path with the sea on my right, usually from Saundersfoot, via a fancy restaurant called Coast, to the rather gloriously-named Wiseman's Bridge. This is my 'basic' walk - usually when I get cocky about it and want to do more, I divert just before Wiseman's and head into a forest, past an old iron works and on into the wide green yonder.
Last night, I decided to do something different.
I went up the fairly steep-ish hill that leads the way out of the town centre to the other side of us. Saw an interesting uphill street attached to it. Walked up there. And up there. And up and up and up there. Coughed, spluttered, saw spangles, thought briefly 'This is it, this is how I die,' pressed on ever upward.
Eventually, oh, SO eventually, found a downhill road. Came down and down and down and realised I'd taken about an hour to go the 'eight minutes on the flat' journey to Coast.
That's a rubbish way to get to Coast, unless you happen to want to burn calories, flay leg-muscles and stop being able to breathe. So - result. I saw another uphill road. And followed it, up, and up, and up...annnnnnnd down again to Wiseman's. Basically, I leapfrogged my way to Wiseman's Bridge, with more pain, more gasping and more destruction of my will to live. But it actually felt rather good to do it, simply because I haven't done any proper walking for a while.
Came back the flat way though, obviously. I mean, I'm clearly a moron, but even I have limits.
Got in just as the 65mph gusts of the joyfest that is Storm Gareth were beginning to hit us.
So...haven't walked at all today. Haven't, in fact, been outside the door today, apart from a quick pop to the corner shop. Probably won't, now, until Saturday cos aaaaaargh - deadlines.
But before deadlines - The Great British Sewing Bee.
Shurrup, don't judge me, it's compelling...What the hell kind of stitch is that?
Post-bathroom weigh-in this morning - 17st 6.25 - same as last week. I'll be honest, I was happy enough to take that on a week which has included d's sdalty peanut fudge, cos dayum!
Padded about a bit in a semi-regular morning daze, listening, of all things, to an audiobook reading of The Consolation of Philosophy, by Boethius (don't let that fool you, I'm not high-brow, I've moved on to a Doctor Who novelization now). Went back. Scratched myself where I itched. Stepped back on the Nazi Scales.
17st 4.0. Tried that a few times, got consistent results.
'Fuck off,' I muttered. 'There's no way I lost precisely dick-all in seven days, and then 2.25 pounds in half an hour's dicking about. You're just fucking with me now.'
I pulled the scales to a slightly different position on the tiled floor. Stepped on again.
'Fine, see if you like this then,' said the Nazi Scales. 'Can do you a 17st 5.25. That suitably reasonable for you, is it?'
'Thank you,' I muttered - re-doing the weigh-in seveal more times, to make sure I got consistent results.
So. Somewhere between where I was last week and two and a quarter pounds lighter is probably where I aactually am.
For no terribly good reason, I'm going to take the middle reading, and claim 17 stone 5.25 as today's 'actual' reading. Because hell, it has to be something, and it might as well be that - each of the three readings was taken at least three times, for the 'No, really, stop fucking with me' value, so it's as valid as anything else, doesn't push me into entirely unbelievable places, and still allows me to go completely into Smug Mode today at having fudge and carrying on.
So...yeah. Nazi Scales say 17st 5.25 today. IF I were to, y'know, get my shit together and have some properly good weeks of not eating fudge and walking my ass off, I could theoretically push on down into the 16s three weeks from now - which would be something to shove in the face of my diabetic nurse next time I see her. The letter's already arrived, but I'm pretending it hasn't, because my recent blood results have been less than stellar, tending to go from 9ish to 11ish and back again. #MustDoBetter, clearly, at least on that score.
Oh, and talking of walking - went and did it last night. First time in about two weeks, I think. Now, here's the thing. Our flat is in the centre of a very small seaside town. About five, maybe six streets, that's the heart of the town. My usual walking route is ennnntirely flat, along the main street, alont a side street, through a couple of tunnels (see previous entries where I fell and knackered my ankle), and then along a lovely coastal path with the sea on my right, usually from Saundersfoot, via a fancy restaurant called Coast, to the rather gloriously-named Wiseman's Bridge. This is my 'basic' walk - usually when I get cocky about it and want to do more, I divert just before Wiseman's and head into a forest, past an old iron works and on into the wide green yonder.
Last night, I decided to do something different.
I went up the fairly steep-ish hill that leads the way out of the town centre to the other side of us. Saw an interesting uphill street attached to it. Walked up there. And up there. And up and up and up there. Coughed, spluttered, saw spangles, thought briefly 'This is it, this is how I die,' pressed on ever upward.
Eventually, oh, SO eventually, found a downhill road. Came down and down and down and realised I'd taken about an hour to go the 'eight minutes on the flat' journey to Coast.
That's a rubbish way to get to Coast, unless you happen to want to burn calories, flay leg-muscles and stop being able to breathe. So - result. I saw another uphill road. And followed it, up, and up, and up...annnnnnnd down again to Wiseman's. Basically, I leapfrogged my way to Wiseman's Bridge, with more pain, more gasping and more destruction of my will to live. But it actually felt rather good to do it, simply because I haven't done any proper walking for a while.
Came back the flat way though, obviously. I mean, I'm clearly a moron, but even I have limits.
Got in just as the 65mph gusts of the joyfest that is Storm Gareth were beginning to hit us.
So...haven't walked at all today. Haven't, in fact, been outside the door today, apart from a quick pop to the corner shop. Probably won't, now, until Saturday cos aaaaaargh - deadlines.
But before deadlines - The Great British Sewing Bee.
Shurrup, don't judge me, it's compelling...What the hell kind of stitch is that?
Tuesday, 5 March 2019
Smashing Through
Baaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahaha!
Oh, that's absurd. Glorious, but absurd.
Haven't had a chance to walk this week - deadlines, deadlines, deadlines, rawhiiiiiiide!
In addition to which, dinner last night was spaghetti bolognaise in glorious profusion. I'd forgotten it was Monday night, but it was actually so scrumptious I didn't care that much.
This morning's weigh-in? 17st 6.25 - down my hoped-for two pounds. Through the trampoline barrier of the half-stone point - 17st 7. Who knew the beard weighed that much?!
Here's the weird thing. In the abstract, this is a result that makes me all gimlet-eyed 80s-movie determined. Cue the Rocky montage, and all that. In the short term, it let me march to my favourite local cafe for the best bacon and egg sandwich I've had in fifteen years (It's a beard thing). This probably says more about the ineffective nature of abstract motivations, but I went, I ate, I felt my sense of personal wellbeing swell. Now on we go. The truth is that breakfast bacon butty or no breakfast bacon butty, I feel encouraged by this morning's result to do better and intend, at this point, to push on down.
Naturally of course, this being the way of things, next week I'll be massively heavier, full of excuses and roaring around the place, kicking imaginary cats and declaring that nothing's worth doing cos we're all dooooomed.
So, y'know, there's that to look forward to. Meanwhile, woohoo! *Struggles into cheerleading outfit, shakes pom-poms in a loathesome display of self-congratulation.*
Oh, that's absurd. Glorious, but absurd.
Haven't had a chance to walk this week - deadlines, deadlines, deadlines, rawhiiiiiiide!
In addition to which, dinner last night was spaghetti bolognaise in glorious profusion. I'd forgotten it was Monday night, but it was actually so scrumptious I didn't care that much.
This morning's weigh-in? 17st 6.25 - down my hoped-for two pounds. Through the trampoline barrier of the half-stone point - 17st 7. Who knew the beard weighed that much?!
Here's the weird thing. In the abstract, this is a result that makes me all gimlet-eyed 80s-movie determined. Cue the Rocky montage, and all that. In the short term, it let me march to my favourite local cafe for the best bacon and egg sandwich I've had in fifteen years (It's a beard thing). This probably says more about the ineffective nature of abstract motivations, but I went, I ate, I felt my sense of personal wellbeing swell. Now on we go. The truth is that breakfast bacon butty or no breakfast bacon butty, I feel encouraged by this morning's result to do better and intend, at this point, to push on down.
Naturally of course, this being the way of things, next week I'll be massively heavier, full of excuses and roaring around the place, kicking imaginary cats and declaring that nothing's worth doing cos we're all dooooomed.
So, y'know, there's that to look forward to. Meanwhile, woohoo! *Struggles into cheerleading outfit, shakes pom-poms in a loathesome display of self-congratulation.*
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