I’m quite impressed that I’ve survived the last week to be able to tell you about the last week. If you can understand that sentence then congratulations. Essentially, I’ve spent the last week giving my poor old heart a workout like it hasn’t had in years, since the time I had upside-down mad rabbit-like sex on top of a moving train. That might be a lie, but it’s still a fair reflection of what the old ticker’s been through.
First and foremost, Sunday was a horribly unpleasant experience. If you don’t know why (which would mean you neither follow me on Twitter nor are my friend on Facebook), it’s about football, so feel free to zone out until after the picture if that doesn’t interest you.
I went through more emotions than I knew I had. I was excited through the day, slipping into nervousness as kickoff approached. Then our defence went to shit, Blackpool went ahead, come half time I was completely speechless. I sat more or less in shock for 15 minutes, then went back to nerves as the second half started. Nerves turned to fear, fear turned to hope as O’Hara scored, hope began to become resignation as results went even more against us, and then, Stephen Hunt, that wonderful Irish saviour, scored a goal that sent me into euphoria. I was shaking and worryingly close to tears. It was complete hell, and I clocked my pulse at 141 just after our second goal. But I’d go through it all again if it meant we were safe.
Sadly it did have a fairly strong emotional toll on me, which is hardly surprising in retrospect. Ended up at the pub on Sunday night for some contrived reason, and spent most of it sat on a table in the beer garden not saying a word. I think it’s as close as I’m ever going to come to a comedown. Although considering at the time I was having a crisis it’s probably a good thing it was only temporary, and I’m now back to my normal chipper* self
*cantankerous, pedantic and acerbic
Operation Don’t Be A Fat Bastard is also well underway. Yes, I’ve slipped with the odd Chesters lately, but I’ve also done a lot of walking. Particularly on Tuesday. I came back home, and decided I fancied a walk. Having just walked into town and back, but that’s besides the point. Rather than wander aimlessly around Moor Park for an hour, I decided I’d go somewhere. Namely, Leyland, since Katy was off, and I knew if I set off going to somewhere I wouldn’t be able to get bored. Armed with the knowledge that it was 6 miles from my house to hers, which Google Maps said should take me exactly 2 hours, I set off, and arrived successfully in Leyland… 85 minutes later. I’m pretty happy with that considering I was aiming for 90. Admittedly it was a bit drizzly and miserable on the way, but I didn’t catch a cold so it’s all good!
Also on the walking front, I had a nap last night. Bear with me, this is going somewhere. Woke up at 9, and decided I needed, yes, needed a brew. Sadly, I was short in money, and very short in time to get some. Unwilling to pay Spar or Co-op prices, I decided the best plan would be to walk to Sainsbury’s at 10pm! Admittedly that’s only a mile away but it did mean walking along Moor Park. Luckily for me, no dogging or sodomy took place, and I returned with not only teabags (30p for 80!!), milk (the famed 1% fat stuff that somehow still tastes like milk) and sugar (nothing notable about it), but buns, ham, a whole entire mango and a rocky road dessert (well, I had earned it with a 2 mile round trip). Total cost, 6 quid ish. I’ll settle for that.
As a final thought, I still have no real tangible idea where this diet’s supposed to get me. I’ve got no scales to keep track of my weight, so I’m still hoping a big siren will sound when (if) I slip under 10 stone. I’m just sort of hoping that one day soon I’ll look down and not think ‘ugh, you’re hideous’. Like that’ll ever happen.
I want an adventure. Any takers?