In Charles Humming's excellent, intelligent and highly recommended new spy novel The Trinity Six, I encounter an unfamiliar quotation from Dostoyevsky, whom, we must all recognise, new a thing or two and more than most about the dark and complex workings of the human heart.
Try this on for size, and see if it doesn't speak to everyone who's got in a mess with food, drink, weight, and is now struggling with weightloss which they want to make stick:
'If you want to be respected by others, the great thing is to respect yourself. Only by self-respect will you compel others to respect you.'
I know that old Pops Staples said something similar (and none the worse for that), but I was really struck by the power of that verb; 'compel'.
We who have been held in thrall by the destructive power of our compulsions, must learn to harness that power positively to build our self-esteem and compel others to recognise what us unique and wonderful about each and every one of us, instead of carelessly, pointlessly frittering away our energy in a life-long orgy of self-destruction and delusion.
Viewed from this angle, it us clear that this thing isn't just about cutting out French fries or saying no to cake. That's looking at and treating the symptoms, whereas the causes lie elsewhere, and therein lurks the challenge.
Quite simply; if we don't engage with the underlying issues, then ultimately we will fail, and not just in respect of weightloss, but as human beings, since until that coffin lid is nailed down tight, we will never succeed in sloughing off the pupa skin of a self-obsessed and damaged childhood and emerge as mature functioning adults.
I'm willing to give it a go. How about you?
Wednesday 16 February 2011
Tuesday 15 February 2011
It's So Easy To Slip................
The text for today's brief sermon is take from the gospel according to St Lowell of George, and the mighty Little Feat, Sailin' Shoes album, 1972. (That being said, Good Ol' Neil - with the nearly equally mighty Crazy Horse - provides an alternative text, and asks a very profound question, for those of us who don't mind a spot of language.)
But to stay with the blessed Lowell, 'It's so easy to slip. It's so easy to fall.' How true these words are. How very true.
For truly, brothers and sisters, it is written that the devil is a wicked cunning devil and he sees deep into the frail hearts and yearnings of men with his big, red, cruel and cynical devilly eye, and he strews our paths with tares and briars, and, in my case, an innocent and unassuming bag of salt peanuts.
It happened like this. Back last Saturday, I dragged my son up to visit his grandmother in the benighted Fen Country where she has insisted on living these past thirty-odd years, probably believing it has some redeeming features (in which delusion she is mistaken, by the way). The pilgrim fathers set sail just a few miles up the road, and I bet they were heartily glad to see the back of it. I have never believed they were running away from religious persecution; they were just sick and tired of living (if such it be called) in a dump like Lincolnshire. (Now you know what Thanksgiving's really all about.)
Anyways, when we were up there, we did a supermarket run for my mother, and I picked up a few items to bring back home, including (and this is where the problem started) a couple of 200gm bags of salt peanuts, much appreciated by my slender wife, who has no need of weight loss, and can face a carbohydrate down at 20 paces.
So, this small bag of groceries was sitting on the back seat of the car, along with a bottle of Evian.
I dropped my son off at a railway station just outside London so he could get home back in the city, while I skipped around the M25 prior to heading south down to the coast.
Shortly after Tristan got out, I fancied an innocent swig of life-enhancing luxury French water, and groped behind me for the bottle. Except what do we think my hand landed on instead?
And what do you think I did about it? Of course I did. Not good. Not good at all.
I shalln't say I gave in without a struggle. But I'll not pretend it was like the second Frazier -Ali rematch, either. Look, I thought about it for maybe ten seconds, felt torn, but resolved the dilemma by saying unto myself 'just the one small handful, then.'
How much self-deceit, duplicity, stupidity and hubris can one man pack into six little words? I've dealt before with the words 'just the one' (ie, 'there's no such thing as....'). Walked straight into the lamp-post, didn't I?
200 grams later, I was struggling to answer that rotten question as I eventually took a refreshing sip of cool Alpine water, washed the nutty, salty crumbs from between my teeth.
There was no justification for eating that bag of nuts. None. It was low, dishonest, self-defeating greed. Nothing more. In fact, it sucked.
In the time of this weight loss project, nearly 7 months in and 125lbs down already, this is the dumbest, baddest, downright twatist thing I've done. In the space of about forty miles, I'd consumed 1200 unnecessary calories and 50gms of unwanted carbs, plus I'd deprived the missus of part of her (very) little treat.
And, if I thought that gorging myself would make me feel good, that didn't work, either. I felt bloody lousy about it (still do).
Despite how self-demeaned I felt, somehow, I managed not to knock myself out of ketosis. Somehow, I managed not to see an immediate, irrevocable (and entirely irrational) massive gain when I stepped on the scales the next day. Above all, somehow, I managed not to eat the other bag and say to hell with it, in for a penny...
But, by goodness, I tell you this: I learned a horribly sobering lesson. I learned once again that, just as with any other addiction, it really, really is one day at a time for us food junkies. No matter how well we're sitting on top of the game, rolling along and pleased with the results, a single moment's lack of vigilance and discipline will send us sliding back toward that abyss whence cometh our fat, shame, and discomfort. Remember the Paresh principle: self-discipline, control and motivation. That's what's worked for him, and kept him slim, fit and healthy, all these years, since he decided he was fed up being a lard-arse. And it has to work for me. And it will work for you: promise.
From this minor but nevertheless shattering catastrophe I've learned that I can, and will, fall: I've done it once, and will doubtless do it again. I do not, however, give myself permission to do so.
Of course, short of wearing a full-blown pukka Opus Dei cilice, I don't know how to stop myself, but I've had my awareness heightened, and I'm not sure I appreciate being fallible. No Sir-ee, Bob. OK, it was a small sin in the scheme of things, and I'm a proper drama queen for even mentioning it, let alone dedicating an entire posting to prodding this minor incident with a stick, but the fact is that it gave me a jolt (as did that last link, by the way. Wasn't that a helluva thing? Did you see the 'special items'? Now, tell me that's not sick. Amen.). It forced me to look at myself, and I was far from pleased by what I saw. Seems that I'm only bloody human after all, and that Ol' Neil knew what he was singing about (here in an alternative version). None of which makes me feel any better, when (as Oscar Brown Jnr so memorably put it back in 1961) I still got so terribly long to go....
But to stay with the blessed Lowell, 'It's so easy to slip. It's so easy to fall.' How true these words are. How very true.
For truly, brothers and sisters, it is written that the devil is a wicked cunning devil and he sees deep into the frail hearts and yearnings of men with his big, red, cruel and cynical devilly eye, and he strews our paths with tares and briars, and, in my case, an innocent and unassuming bag of salt peanuts.
It happened like this. Back last Saturday, I dragged my son up to visit his grandmother in the benighted Fen Country where she has insisted on living these past thirty-odd years, probably believing it has some redeeming features (in which delusion she is mistaken, by the way). The pilgrim fathers set sail just a few miles up the road, and I bet they were heartily glad to see the back of it. I have never believed they were running away from religious persecution; they were just sick and tired of living (if such it be called) in a dump like Lincolnshire. (Now you know what Thanksgiving's really all about.)
Anyways, when we were up there, we did a supermarket run for my mother, and I picked up a few items to bring back home, including (and this is where the problem started) a couple of 200gm bags of salt peanuts, much appreciated by my slender wife, who has no need of weight loss, and can face a carbohydrate down at 20 paces.
So, this small bag of groceries was sitting on the back seat of the car, along with a bottle of Evian.
I dropped my son off at a railway station just outside London so he could get home back in the city, while I skipped around the M25 prior to heading south down to the coast.
Shortly after Tristan got out, I fancied an innocent swig of life-enhancing luxury French water, and groped behind me for the bottle. Except what do we think my hand landed on instead?
And what do you think I did about it? Of course I did. Not good. Not good at all.
I shalln't say I gave in without a struggle. But I'll not pretend it was like the second Frazier -Ali rematch, either. Look, I thought about it for maybe ten seconds, felt torn, but resolved the dilemma by saying unto myself 'just the one small handful, then.'
How much self-deceit, duplicity, stupidity and hubris can one man pack into six little words? I've dealt before with the words 'just the one' (ie, 'there's no such thing as....'). Walked straight into the lamp-post, didn't I?
200 grams later, I was struggling to answer that rotten question as I eventually took a refreshing sip of cool Alpine water, washed the nutty, salty crumbs from between my teeth.
There was no justification for eating that bag of nuts. None. It was low, dishonest, self-defeating greed. Nothing more. In fact, it sucked.
In the time of this weight loss project, nearly 7 months in and 125lbs down already, this is the dumbest, baddest, downright twatist thing I've done. In the space of about forty miles, I'd consumed 1200 unnecessary calories and 50gms of unwanted carbs, plus I'd deprived the missus of part of her (very) little treat.
And, if I thought that gorging myself would make me feel good, that didn't work, either. I felt bloody lousy about it (still do).
Despite how self-demeaned I felt, somehow, I managed not to knock myself out of ketosis. Somehow, I managed not to see an immediate, irrevocable (and entirely irrational) massive gain when I stepped on the scales the next day. Above all, somehow, I managed not to eat the other bag and say to hell with it, in for a penny...
But, by goodness, I tell you this: I learned a horribly sobering lesson. I learned once again that, just as with any other addiction, it really, really is one day at a time for us food junkies. No matter how well we're sitting on top of the game, rolling along and pleased with the results, a single moment's lack of vigilance and discipline will send us sliding back toward that abyss whence cometh our fat, shame, and discomfort. Remember the Paresh principle: self-discipline, control and motivation. That's what's worked for him, and kept him slim, fit and healthy, all these years, since he decided he was fed up being a lard-arse. And it has to work for me. And it will work for you: promise.
From this minor but nevertheless shattering catastrophe I've learned that I can, and will, fall: I've done it once, and will doubtless do it again. I do not, however, give myself permission to do so.
Of course, short of wearing a full-blown pukka Opus Dei cilice, I don't know how to stop myself, but I've had my awareness heightened, and I'm not sure I appreciate being fallible. No Sir-ee, Bob. OK, it was a small sin in the scheme of things, and I'm a proper drama queen for even mentioning it, let alone dedicating an entire posting to prodding this minor incident with a stick, but the fact is that it gave me a jolt (as did that last link, by the way. Wasn't that a helluva thing? Did you see the 'special items'? Now, tell me that's not sick. Amen.). It forced me to look at myself, and I was far from pleased by what I saw. Seems that I'm only bloody human after all, and that Ol' Neil knew what he was singing about (here in an alternative version). None of which makes me feel any better, when (as Oscar Brown Jnr so memorably put it back in 1961) I still got so terribly long to go....
Wednesday 9 February 2011
The Incredible Shrinking Man Speaks!
Apologies for my silence over the last couple of weeks. I know, you've enjoyed the break, and the peace. Well, fair comment.
I've been hither and yon during that time, and, apart from being fraught with the woes of the day, I've been plagued by connectivity and configuration problems which have managed to strike simultaneously at both of our netpads and also my very smart smartphone. My wife is convinced this stems from me telling Virgin Internet that we no longer required their services in our London home. Somewhere in Notting Hill or Neckar Island, Sir Richard will have pressed the FF button and uncharacteristically maliciously dumped this lot on me. I had a mate, now pretty much capo di tutti capi in the electronic games industry, who was (I think) Branson's number six employee, back when they were still operating out of a lock-up garage off the Portobello Road. I remember Pete telling me way back then 'one day the world will learn you don't fuck with Virgin.' How true.
Anyway, this hitherto pretty shiny day (just dulled over) finds me in trendy Islington, dog snoring gently at my feet, hoping this signal holds up long enough for me to get my word out into the ether, or whatever we're today calling this noumenal realm where we engage in discourse. Plato and Kant are definitely the boys today.
[And definitely is definitely the word. I recently read through a mass posting which had been promulgated by about 800 people, very few of whom had anything to say, but each of whom nonetheless insisted on saying it. They were mostly UK-domiciled, with a sprinkling from what I still quaintly refer to as The Colonies. Nearly all of their submissions included the word definitely. In nearly all of their submissions, the word definitely was spelled incorrectly: the third syllable is not supposed to rhyme with gr8, m8, or even T8 Gallery, nor is it spelled like them. Digression over. Hang the teachers and the parents.]
I have been pondering Plato's notion of perfect forms. Somewhere, if I can get away from these confusing shadows at the back of the cave, there exists a perfectly formed Freddy. However, dropping off the Greek Philosophy 101, I don't have to go searching in the realms of the universals to encounter him. He's bowling towards me, if not as fast as his little legs can carry him, then at least at a sensible lick.
The ideal form of Freddy is not Fat. I am beginning to encounter real live evidence that I am increasingly becoming unfat, and this is the most cheering news. I know I've gone on for ages about the sanctity of the scales, and the need to listen to - and understand - what they tell you, because they never, ever lie. But that's numbers and sums, and most of us are as good at sums as we are at spelling definately, mos' def.
[Incidentally, that reminds me that I need to rave about Graham Farmelo's superb biography of Paul Dirac, 'The Strangest Man', which I've only lately read. Who's Paul Dirac? Read the book!]
No, I'm getting empirical on my case, here. Look at me, folks, and behold FORMERLY Fat Freddy wearing shoes, socks, jeans, a superb denim shirt. See me opening the door to my son last night and hear him say (a month since I saw him) 'Bloody hell, dad, it really does show now.' Oh yes! I was wearing a blue polo shirt, bought on Barbados probably ten years ago - and it was actually a bit big on me!
The jeans and the shirt have to be of similar vintage, and for years I was convinced, if I thought of these things at all, that I would never wear them again.
Well, I'm jolly well wearing them now - but ONLY en passant. It can't happen too quickly that I shed this skin and move down a size more, and on and on toward target. I should have enough clothes stashed away from here on down to where I'm going at 173lbs, and when I get there, my look will be superb. My delectable threads are all waiting for me in the closets (apart from certain Armani and Versace tee-shirts surreptitiously 'borrowed' sometime ago by my wife, along with a couple of my outrageous collection of Tse cashmere sweaters. Put them back, Dear, and there will be no more said!), and I really can not wait to get into them and start strutting my stuff, for strutting I will do since my long-damaged knee is deffinitely and miraculously on the mend.
Not that this jamboree is imminent. Alas, no. I've been away from the scales these last few days, so my numbers aren't going to be up to date. However, there's got still to be about 100lbs more of me than I want. Maybe a little more. But, by Jove, people are noticing the drop to date. The work done thus far (for serious weight loss IS work, no mistake) is really showing, and the supportive feedback is flowing, and this is my trumpet I'm blowing. Because it feels good, after all those negative self-esteem years when feeling good wasn't an option, except I shoved inappropriate grub in my face and poured intemperate quantities of booze down my neck (feeding not just me but my demons and my Jones). Bad shit.
One lovely old boy down at Worthing stopped me when I was out with my dog the other night, and said 'I know it's Lexie, but I'm not sure it's Freddy under that hat.' I was wearing a big hat at the time. He then got himself tied up and embarrassed when trying to compliment me on my weight loss (I was loving hearing it actually!), just in case I was actually riddled with cancer, wasting away, and was wearing the big hat because all my hair had fallen out! It gave me pleasure to put Jim's mind at rest, and I fair danced off into the night whistling a jaunty tune while Lex scanned the beach and the prom for sign of any foxes asking to be killed.
[Hunting foxes with dogs was outlawed in the UK under the Blair government. Which is fine, except nobody has explained it to the dogs. My old girl is an absolute angel. Really is, gentle, kind, pacific, and wise. Until she gets wind or sight of a fox. At that point, 30 million years of enmity erupts from somewhere way back in her doggy brain. Cats, squirrels, seagulls? Nada. Fox? Armageddon. Nature, eh?]
The nub of this ramble is this: by and large, I've been doing the right stuff so far as dumping my 224lbs of unnecessary fat is concerned. I've been seeing good and regular results, being now a bit more than 120lbs less than the nearly 400 where I started. It's just that, when I started (more accurately, when I was trying to find excuses not to start), I was convinced I was too far gone, I would just put myself on a punishing regime and get little result. Most certainly I'd never be seen by anybody else as anything other than Fat Freddy.
Frankly, if I packed it in right now and went over to maintenance at around 280lbs, I would still consider this a wonderful and astonishing result. As my wife said, and I think I shared this with you a couple of weeks ago, 'You used to be obscene. Now you're just fat.' Only I'm not going to pack it in right now. I'm riding this train all the way, and loving it.
I KNOW I'm still fat. Sometimes, I look in the huge wardrobe mirrors in the guest bedroom I use as a dressing room, and I despair at what I see - a big fat bastard, sitting on the edge of the bed surveying rolls of obnoxious lard. But then I get togged up, in better, smarter clothes than I've worn in a decayed decade, and I stand up tall, look again and things aren't too shabby after all (me? A swan? Nah, go on!).
I really don't believe people stop in their tracks any longer to look at me in astonished disgust. Instead it's just a big bloke, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to stare at. 42" waist. (One helluva sight better than 60", n'est-ce pas?) Certainly this geezer doesn't look unhealthy, he's walking around OK, not crippled, could do with shifting a bit of weight (which of us couldn't?), but absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. In point of fact, I've cracked it!
Look, we've got nearly fifty stairs running up this four floor Regency house, with another nine steps up from the pavement to the front door. There were 60 good reasons for not coming here. I hated it. Had to haul myself physically up and down stairs using the bannisters and balustrades. Actually, I could hardly lift my foot the height of a riser - pathetic. Now, I want to go up or down stairs, I just do it. Just like that and fiddle-de-dee.
All these benefits when I've still got 100 lbs to go! As the remarkable Professor Brian Cox once helped observe, Things Can Only Get Better. I am looking forward to knocking these pesky pounds off one by one and then we'll see what's what!
[As I wrote that last paragraph, my wife came into the room carrying an old and long-forgotten pair of my dark blue chinos, a pair of really sharp black jeans I remember buying in the TRNC on Christmas Day 1999, and a couple of silly Turkish tee-shirts that I'd missed on my sweeps through the closets of this rather large house. The jeans will be great in a couple of months time. The chinos are bang on right now. The tee shirts were silly, are silly, and ever will be: but I'll probably wear them nonetheless. Couldn't have written any of this last year. By Jiminy, I like this stuff!]
I've been hither and yon during that time, and, apart from being fraught with the woes of the day, I've been plagued by connectivity and configuration problems which have managed to strike simultaneously at both of our netpads and also my very smart smartphone. My wife is convinced this stems from me telling Virgin Internet that we no longer required their services in our London home. Somewhere in Notting Hill or Neckar Island, Sir Richard will have pressed the FF button and uncharacteristically maliciously dumped this lot on me. I had a mate, now pretty much capo di tutti capi in the electronic games industry, who was (I think) Branson's number six employee, back when they were still operating out of a lock-up garage off the Portobello Road. I remember Pete telling me way back then 'one day the world will learn you don't fuck with Virgin.' How true.
Anyway, this hitherto pretty shiny day (just dulled over) finds me in trendy Islington, dog snoring gently at my feet, hoping this signal holds up long enough for me to get my word out into the ether, or whatever we're today calling this noumenal realm where we engage in discourse. Plato and Kant are definitely the boys today.
[And definitely is definitely the word. I recently read through a mass posting which had been promulgated by about 800 people, very few of whom had anything to say, but each of whom nonetheless insisted on saying it. They were mostly UK-domiciled, with a sprinkling from what I still quaintly refer to as The Colonies. Nearly all of their submissions included the word definitely. In nearly all of their submissions, the word definitely was spelled incorrectly: the third syllable is not supposed to rhyme with gr8, m8, or even T8 Gallery, nor is it spelled like them. Digression over. Hang the teachers and the parents.]
I have been pondering Plato's notion of perfect forms. Somewhere, if I can get away from these confusing shadows at the back of the cave, there exists a perfectly formed Freddy. However, dropping off the Greek Philosophy 101, I don't have to go searching in the realms of the universals to encounter him. He's bowling towards me, if not as fast as his little legs can carry him, then at least at a sensible lick.
The ideal form of Freddy is not Fat. I am beginning to encounter real live evidence that I am increasingly becoming unfat, and this is the most cheering news. I know I've gone on for ages about the sanctity of the scales, and the need to listen to - and understand - what they tell you, because they never, ever lie. But that's numbers and sums, and most of us are as good at sums as we are at spelling definately, mos' def.
[Incidentally, that reminds me that I need to rave about Graham Farmelo's superb biography of Paul Dirac, 'The Strangest Man', which I've only lately read. Who's Paul Dirac? Read the book!]
No, I'm getting empirical on my case, here. Look at me, folks, and behold FORMERLY Fat Freddy wearing shoes, socks, jeans, a superb denim shirt. See me opening the door to my son last night and hear him say (a month since I saw him) 'Bloody hell, dad, it really does show now.' Oh yes! I was wearing a blue polo shirt, bought on Barbados probably ten years ago - and it was actually a bit big on me!
The jeans and the shirt have to be of similar vintage, and for years I was convinced, if I thought of these things at all, that I would never wear them again.
Well, I'm jolly well wearing them now - but ONLY en passant. It can't happen too quickly that I shed this skin and move down a size more, and on and on toward target. I should have enough clothes stashed away from here on down to where I'm going at 173lbs, and when I get there, my look will be superb. My delectable threads are all waiting for me in the closets (apart from certain Armani and Versace tee-shirts surreptitiously 'borrowed' sometime ago by my wife, along with a couple of my outrageous collection of Tse cashmere sweaters. Put them back, Dear, and there will be no more said!), and I really can not wait to get into them and start strutting my stuff, for strutting I will do since my long-damaged knee is deffinitely and miraculously on the mend.
Not that this jamboree is imminent. Alas, no. I've been away from the scales these last few days, so my numbers aren't going to be up to date. However, there's got still to be about 100lbs more of me than I want. Maybe a little more. But, by Jove, people are noticing the drop to date. The work done thus far (for serious weight loss IS work, no mistake) is really showing, and the supportive feedback is flowing, and this is my trumpet I'm blowing. Because it feels good, after all those negative self-esteem years when feeling good wasn't an option, except I shoved inappropriate grub in my face and poured intemperate quantities of booze down my neck (feeding not just me but my demons and my Jones). Bad shit.
One lovely old boy down at Worthing stopped me when I was out with my dog the other night, and said 'I know it's Lexie, but I'm not sure it's Freddy under that hat.' I was wearing a big hat at the time. He then got himself tied up and embarrassed when trying to compliment me on my weight loss (I was loving hearing it actually!), just in case I was actually riddled with cancer, wasting away, and was wearing the big hat because all my hair had fallen out! It gave me pleasure to put Jim's mind at rest, and I fair danced off into the night whistling a jaunty tune while Lex scanned the beach and the prom for sign of any foxes asking to be killed.
[Hunting foxes with dogs was outlawed in the UK under the Blair government. Which is fine, except nobody has explained it to the dogs. My old girl is an absolute angel. Really is, gentle, kind, pacific, and wise. Until she gets wind or sight of a fox. At that point, 30 million years of enmity erupts from somewhere way back in her doggy brain. Cats, squirrels, seagulls? Nada. Fox? Armageddon. Nature, eh?]
The nub of this ramble is this: by and large, I've been doing the right stuff so far as dumping my 224lbs of unnecessary fat is concerned. I've been seeing good and regular results, being now a bit more than 120lbs less than the nearly 400 where I started. It's just that, when I started (more accurately, when I was trying to find excuses not to start), I was convinced I was too far gone, I would just put myself on a punishing regime and get little result. Most certainly I'd never be seen by anybody else as anything other than Fat Freddy.
Frankly, if I packed it in right now and went over to maintenance at around 280lbs, I would still consider this a wonderful and astonishing result. As my wife said, and I think I shared this with you a couple of weeks ago, 'You used to be obscene. Now you're just fat.' Only I'm not going to pack it in right now. I'm riding this train all the way, and loving it.
I KNOW I'm still fat. Sometimes, I look in the huge wardrobe mirrors in the guest bedroom I use as a dressing room, and I despair at what I see - a big fat bastard, sitting on the edge of the bed surveying rolls of obnoxious lard. But then I get togged up, in better, smarter clothes than I've worn in a decayed decade, and I stand up tall, look again and things aren't too shabby after all (me? A swan? Nah, go on!).
I really don't believe people stop in their tracks any longer to look at me in astonished disgust. Instead it's just a big bloke, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to stare at. 42" waist. (One helluva sight better than 60", n'est-ce pas?) Certainly this geezer doesn't look unhealthy, he's walking around OK, not crippled, could do with shifting a bit of weight (which of us couldn't?), but absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. In point of fact, I've cracked it!
Look, we've got nearly fifty stairs running up this four floor Regency house, with another nine steps up from the pavement to the front door. There were 60 good reasons for not coming here. I hated it. Had to haul myself physically up and down stairs using the bannisters and balustrades. Actually, I could hardly lift my foot the height of a riser - pathetic. Now, I want to go up or down stairs, I just do it. Just like that and fiddle-de-dee.
All these benefits when I've still got 100 lbs to go! As the remarkable Professor Brian Cox once helped observe, Things Can Only Get Better. I am looking forward to knocking these pesky pounds off one by one and then we'll see what's what!
[As I wrote that last paragraph, my wife came into the room carrying an old and long-forgotten pair of my dark blue chinos, a pair of really sharp black jeans I remember buying in the TRNC on Christmas Day 1999, and a couple of silly Turkish tee-shirts that I'd missed on my sweeps through the closets of this rather large house. The jeans will be great in a couple of months time. The chinos are bang on right now. The tee shirts were silly, are silly, and ever will be: but I'll probably wear them nonetheless. Couldn't have written any of this last year. By Jiminy, I like this stuff!]
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