The Quest For Sprouts

'So...whaddaya want to do today?'

'Well, I'm volunteering at the community centre at 2.30. Other than that...' There was a tiny sigh from d. 'We should go shopping.'

'Must we?'

'I can't keep giving you stewed tomatoes every night.'

'You really can. I love 'em.' (I'd eaten two bowlfuls last night, because, y'know, gluttony).

'I know you do. But you'll have rampant acid if I keep feeding you those.'

'Ach...'

All of this was in bed this morning, before either of us had dared peek a toe out from under the duvet.

The wind and driving rain battered against the windows.

'How about sprouts?' I bartered. 'There's always sprouts.'

'There isn't,' murmured d. 'I looked in Tesco yesterday, not a sprout to be had. That's why we'll have to go shopping.'

'Ah, but I tried the Spar,' I said, referring to a chain corner store which also now functions as the local post office. 'They have frozen button sprouts there.'

The wind howled, as if on cue.

'So...we don't have to get dressed and go out there? Not yet, anyway?'

'Nope,' I said. 'I'll go walking later. And as Spar is my witness, we'll never go sproutless again.'

'Awesome,' said d, snuggling under the duvet for another couple of minutes.

So - hoorah for flavour diversity while Disappearing - went walking (it had mellowed significantly by then, though for some reason not unconnected with walking across beaches and streams, I still put me wellies on. The beach clearly counts as a short cut, cos I only managed 7719 steps todday), got sprouts, brought sprouts home, laid them gently in the freezer. We were all out of velvet cushions, sadly, but it was that sort of a moment.

I admit it's not much of a heroic quest, but be honest, if I told you about the dragon waiting to buy postal orders and feast upon the virgins of the village, or the dwarvish slate miners protesting against the new speed restrictions on the road at Wiseman's Bridge, or the Hellmouth under the Lounge coffee bar...well, you'd only think I was making it up, wouldn't you?

The Rediscovery Of Legs

So - as promised, there's been action.

Not bullet from a gun, 'holy crap I'm going to die now' action, but action nevertheless.

In a nutshell, I have rediscovered my legs, and determined to put them to some use. Yesterday, I walked 8875 of my ideal 10,000 steps, while eschewing all the fun things in food life.

Well, I say that and it's monstrously unfair - actually, d (taking her inspiration from Tom Kerridge), did something remarkable with chicken and rice and tinned tomatoes, that saw me have a tasty baked chicken burger for lunch, and chicken, rice and stewed tomatoes for dinner. I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. Give me a bowl of stewed tomatoes and I'm a happy little camper. Similarly a bowl of boiled Brussel sprouts. If there's a tiny tump of boiled rice with it too, so much the better - these are the meals of my childhood, when my grandmother was poor enough to give us just carb and Something To Make It Exciting.

So - happy Tony yesterday, despite, when I came back from my walk, having to sit for about fifteen minutes in the town centre and cough up technically more lung that I'm probably supposed to own.

Today, due to an uphill detour to visit the local doctors and pick up registration forms, I tapped out at over 9000 steps, and have so far had a couple of cold Starbucks drinks - about 160 calories a shot, since you ask. Yes, technically they're caffeinated, and so I'll have to knock them on the head sooner or later, but for now, there's enough of a sensation of richness about them to get me started in the morning without especially craving what has the potential to be my downfall meal of the day, which is breakfast.

There are more stewed tomatoes in my immediate short-term future, along with potatoes tonight. The compulsion to eat a late, heavy supper, and to demand something sweet, is still there after a meal like that, but the compulsion can pretty much do one. I know, technically it's been two days, big whoop, but currently, I'm focussed forward, not letting the fatty lifestyle tempt me.

The rediscovery of legs has also undergone its first mild challenge - by the time I'd gone a few hundred yards today, the drizzle started, and my immediate reaction was positively catlike. 'Blech. Wet,' I muttered to myself, taking a look back at the flat, with its warmth, and dryness and work to be done.

'Fuck it. It's drizzle. Onward!' I said, and marched on, to the accompaniment of an audio drama.

In other news, my laptop appears to be dead and currently is refusing to rouse itself to any stimulus.
So...that's annoying.
But from a purely Disappearing standpoint - a pretty good day.

Wrong-Footing The Toe of Destiny

Well, that was a surprise.

As usual, O followers of the Dissappearing Witterer, the whole shebang begins with a taking-stock. That means a weigh-in, so we have a mark at which to aim.

When I began again before Christmas, I was over 20 stone, and close to 20 stone 7.25 - the weight I was when I began the original Disappearing, some seven years ago.
As foreshadowed yesterday, have recently been eating like I don't know where my next meal is coming from, and doing precisely buggerall by way of exercise.

Which rather takes the piss, as today's relaunch weigh-in weight is: 19st 8.25

This makes no sense whatever, but is enough to give me a spring in my step as I set out yet, yet, yet a-freakin'gain.

There's a danger, when you start out with good news (and yes, absurd as it may sound, starting out at just over 236 pounds is good news), that you immediate relax your resolve, thinking 'Ach, things are nowhere near as bad as I thought they were, where's me pizza?'

This wrong-footing of the Toe of Destiny which was previously booting you up the ass is the way to get precisely nothing done, and continue happy and comfortable and full of carbohydrate - at least in the short term.

At which point, you should feel entirely at liberty to punch yourself in the head and use whatever is available to you to motivate yourself.

'Oi, y'know that noise you make when you get out of a chair?'

'Yeah...'

'ACK, wrong answer, put the pizza down, get your shoes on and get walking.'

Yes, absolutely, I'm suggesting you bamboozle yourself. If it helps, yourself is trying to bamboozle you all the time - 'One more slice, where's the harm?' 'No-one ever dropped dead of eating this particular cupcake.' 'It looks a bit overcast out there...'

Fat is commmmfortable. Part of your brain - or at least part of mine - wants to stay that way, because it's like slobbing around in your PJs all day, it feels freakin' gooooood. But sometimes, you've got to go out. Taking an occasional day in your PJS - fab. Spending your whole LIFE in your PJs? Really not so good.

So lie, cheat, bamboozle the bejesus out of your brain if you have to. But when you get good news, treat it like a door-to-door double glazing salesman. Be wary. Nod, understand, but don't necessarily let it coax you into anything that doesn't fit in with your pre-existing plans.

Let not the Toe of Destiny go awry, for it is thine ass for which it is intended.

Now - time to register with a doctor...

The Month-Long Christmas and the Toe of Destiny

Well, that didn't go according to plan, now did it, boys and girls?

Went to Merthyr to spend Christmas with my mother, and had hardly got through the door before I started cramming the Quality Street down my neck.

Have been eating like a self-destructive maniac, doing precisely buggerall in terms of exercise, being somewhat creatively interpretative with my medication and essentially evolving into Jabba the Hutt with a keyboard.

I have watched accomplioshed chef Tom Kerridge, himself a big lad, encouraging people to lose weight after his own battle with suicidal habits, during which he lost a whacking 12 stone - which would have been fine, had I not watched him with a ten-inch cheesy pizza halfway to my gob.

I've known this was coming for a while, and if you'd asked me three hours ago, I'd have told you that I've never needed to do this more, and never felt like doing it less.

Since then, I've rather had the toe of destiny shoved up my ass in a forceful and purposeful manner, so right now, I'm writing this while energised and powerful and ready to take on the world or burn it down.

This is of course not an energy that lasts for the accomplishment of marathons. I know this. This is neither my, nor I daresay your first ride on this Disappearing pony. But the toe of destiny is a good motivator to get one started on projects that mellow and develop a more productive rather than destructive rhythm over time. So this is where you find me. Tomorrow, Disappearing-shopping - fruit, veg, protein etc. There will be grabbing of sticks and hiking, at least to Wiseman's Bridge and back, while under the influence of music or drama pouring through my iPod and turning my thighs, I have no doubt, to mush. There will be, or at least should be, registration with a Saundersfoot-based GP, so that I can return to taking my meds without fear of running out before that process is completed. There will be, above all, ACTION.

In the name of the Toe of Destiny, there will be action!

Tomorrow.

Honest.

Movin' And Shakin'

Barely made it outside the door of the flat today, except to go and collect my boiled rice and fried onions - I swear, for all thirteen years of being married to a foodie has done for me, a couple of days on my own and I'm reverting to pigging monasticism. Don't have that much hair to shave off, and the saffron might clash with my complexion, but hey, robes are good and flowing for those of us of the more enormous persuasion, and the only difference between ranting and chanting is the intensity, so who knows? Might be an option. Bowl of crispy rice in the morning and bowl of boiled rice at night, sorted.

It's all about the carb, of course. In the words of Garfield the cartoon cat, I never met a carbohydrate I didn't like.

Anyhow - barely made it outside the door today because there was Stuff To Do. Shifting of chunks of furniture, opening and emptying and crunching of boxes and suchlike. Made, in real terms, barely a dent, still can't get to our bed, the kitchen's filling up nicely with stuff to be found a place by d, and there's more to come tomorrow. Which is why this is a short and, if not sweet, than at least carb-heavy entry. There's more to do almost immediately I'm done.

One thing I got done today though was the shifting of one half of the fridge magnet collection.

Don't laugh, it's a reasonably big job. And it actually makes something of a difference to where some pieces of furniture can go, so I'm counting it as a reason to feel like progress has been made, along with the boxes removed from the pile and crushed and shoved out for recycling, which from what we can see, nobody else bothers with in the block. So...yeah - lowish exercise day, but I'll tell you a thing. I'm getting twinges. Not old-man back twinges of hamstrings or any of that, but if I move something, it actually feels like the muscles between my ribs on one side or the other - but never both - go into  frigging spasm. Which was interesting at about two o'clock this morning, when, having decided I had the gumption for a late surge, more or less spurred on by Bruce Dickinson and Bryan Ferry (separately, obviously, not together. Cos that would be weird. Interesting, but weird), I shifted a couple of bookcases round and found myself breathing weird till my ribcage straightened up and flew right.

So, not so much a Disappearing day - buggerall aerobic exercise, perhaps the tiniest bit of moving-man-style weight training. But also not by any means a carnival of excess. Sometimes, you've got to take the little victories and let them be enough to get you to the next day, and the next. Today, I emptied boxes, shifted furniture and yes goddammit, I rearranged half the magnet collection.

Tomorrow...more comes through the door...

Disappearing Tip #1 - Some days are diamonds. Some days, getting out of bed is a victory. Accept and embrace them both.

Disappearing Tip #2 - You can never have enough fridge magnets. At least while you still have a fridge.

Buried

Woke up this morning, as the blues singers sing, entirely free of the godawful bug of yesterday. More or less expected very little on the exercise front though, because today was 'Transport A Second Vanload Of Life To The Seaside' Day - incuding my book, CD and DVD collections, in more boxes than can comfortably be conceived.

The point is that the morning was mostly taken up in a panic of shifting stuff around so the new stuff coming in would sort of, vaguely, if you squint a bit, fit. And much of the afternoon was spent feeling not even slightly guilty watching the movers schlepp half a life up a flight of stairs.

By the time the mover, who also delivered The First Vanload to us, was done, he shook me by the hand and said 'I hope we never meet again.' It was a sentiment with which I could heartily concur - and indeed, we probably won't - Vanload Three arrives Friday, in someone else's van.

By the time they left, I also couldn't find my exercise bike. I mean, I knew roughly where it was, but there were boxes obscuring it no matter whichever angle you looked from. It was like the bike was practising the art of Box-Chaos Camo.

I'm perfectly aware, of course, that there would have been calories for the burning in the uncovering of the bike, but to badly misquote Jerome K Jerome, you'd be surprised how tiring it can be watching others work.

I buggered off for a walk instead, to the accompaniment of UNIT Encounters from Big Finish in my lugholes. I know, I know - there's a certain type of person who's now screaming at me that surely part of the point of going for a walk along a coastal path where the sea crashes up almost to meet you like a young labrador is to experience the sounds of the sea. And...well...yes, I suppose that's true, if you actually hear the sounds of the sea, and not the sounds of your own brain having 16,000 concurrent conversations and ideas the second you stop distracting it with Any Damn Thing Else. For now, me and UNIT, thank you very much.

Walked to Wiseman's Bridge and back, and it wasn't till I was coming back through the last tunnel into Saundersfoot town that I realised there was probably a reason I felt like I'd been hit with bricks. I'd had a bowl of cereal for breakfast, and then hadn't gotten lunch, more or less because I couldn't get to anything to make for lunch, and the movers were trooping in and out and up and down during the traditional lunching hours.

Due to a sliiiight oversight in which the movers had piles boxes up against the fridge in which we keep the milk, and the fair certainty that I didn't have it in me to hack my way through the undergrowth of boxes to liberate the cowjuice, I popped into Tesco. Came out with staples that could see me sorted for a day or two of box-wrangling - more oatmeal, milk, a tin of tomato soup, a loaf of bread, that kind of thing. Then I went to a local Chinese takeaway, and brought home some plain boiled rice and some fried onions.

Now - yes, technically, fried is off the list of acceptable stuff for me. But this is where my 'perspex boxes' get weird. They stretch, they change, irrespective of verifiable reality. For instance, I won't eat yoghurt at the moment, because in the wiring of my brain, that's a dessert, even if it's not eaten after a meal, and the way my brain works, once I've had one dessert, I could have another - and, while I know this is absurd and a slave to logic, I wouldn't discriminate between healthy yoghurt and a triple choc nut fudge sundae. Similarly, they may claim to be fried onions, but to me, they're 'just frigging onions for god's sake, how bad could they be?' - so my brain doesn't register them as being fried in the forbidden sense. Onion rings, yes. Fried onions, no.

Did I mention the perspex boxes are weird?

Ate my Chinese mini-feast at the newly-arrived table, and have more or less faffed about for the evening, just about getting this out to the world ahead of midnight. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow...Tomorrow, there will be progress - if only because the next lot of movers arrive Friday...

Disappearing Tip #1 - Make space for the individuality of the way your brain works. Going against the grain of that will always feel wrong. 

Disappearing Tip #2 - Always rescue the milk before the moving men arrive.

Going Buggy

Today has been taken up by a strange combination of circumstances.

Last night - as if sensing the exorcism of bad habits - my body was distinctly unimpressed by me. Nausea, queasiness at the thought of food, all that joy. We went to bed and slept more or less badly, as d was jumping in a cab for 7ish this morning, to head back to Merthyr and organise the second vanload of our possessions to come to our new place, which happens tomorrow. That meant we were up at Neanderthal o'clock, with me grunting potentially unfortunate sentences like 'You want me come?' and d rushing around to give bits of dishware an unnecessary wash before buggering off on what is a surprisingly long journey by public transport.

I had been intending, with the optimism of the newly-begun, to gert up at the same time as her and take my morning walk to Wiseman's Bridge and back. That simply didn't happen, because of course, as I may have mentioned yesterday, it's November, which means it's pretty damn dark at 7-some-odd in the morning, and there are a couple of ankle-wobbling obstacles en route from here to there, none of which would be improved in the slightest by doing it at that damn fool time of day. I retired back to bed with the audiobook of Genesis of the Daleks - because what could be more relaxing than screaming Nazis in tin cans, right?

Woke up twice more but the time that stuck, it was 9.44. And I felt ghastly. Still nauseated, still queasy, with rubber legs, a pounding head and absolutely no energy for anything. One thing I did though was to get my first official weigh-in done.

Our start weight is 20 stone 2lbs - 282 pounds, or 128 kg.
So I'm roughly, give or take a pound here or there, twice the man I ought to be.  Hence the need to Disappear.

Now, without getting unduly indelicate, not half an hour after the weigh-in, my digestive system went into full revolt, and I've not moved from the flat more than a couple of times throughout the rest of the day - each time I tried, I got nauseated, rubber-legged and woozy. The idea of doing my daily walk went by the board early on, as the day turned from bright and blue to bitter and fraught with rain and hail. I went out at lunchtime to a local cafe, to try a bowl of soup. Three spoonfuls, that was as far as I got. The idea of doing some biking more or less made me go to sleep, because it exhausted me even to think about. I went out later in the evening to try and find something to tempt myself with, but the idea of eating any damn thing just made me want to hurl. Eventually, aware that something needed to get into my system, I mixed up two sachets of instant oatmeal, milked it, nuked it and managed to keep it down.

Perversely, round about now, at 11 at night, I feel more or less human for the first time today. The oatmeal is sitting relatively happy in my system, but I'm completely knackered and washed-out from what I'm assuming was one of those annoying 24-hour bugs. So, more or less a write-off day after such optimistic beginnings yesterday. But on the upside, very little has been put into my system to counterbalance the utter lethargy of the day. So, let's think of it as a passing-grade day, and move right along.

Tomorrow, I can't afford to be lying about all day - the vanload of stuff arrives around 9ish, after which moving round our flat will be nigh on impossible, so there'll be work to do of the 'lumping and shifting' variety, as well as - at least potentially - walking and biking to do.

Disappearing Tip #1 - There will be days when you can do nothing. Do not bug out about them, just resolve to get back on track as soon as possible.

DIsappearing Tip #2 - Never underestimate the power of oatmeal.