sunday

I had an incredibly energetic dream last night that Glasgow was beset with twisters; scores of them, appearing from the sky and barreling towards us. We had to drag Raj out of the shop, Stuart drove past in his car and wouldn’t stop and there we were – Biblo-less, trying to anticipate the direction the next death spiral would take.

I knew I’d pay for watching Desperate Housewives’ Season 4.

And then, exhausted (obviously – I was running all over the place) I slept through the alarm. Thank God for Katherine, the newest addition to all that is Biblo perfection; calm, collected (if not a little hungover) she held the fort until my fat arse made it down the road.

What worries me is when Hattie gets back – just before she left she attempted to Revolutionize the staff but as Jonny wasn’t listening (big surprise) it was an uprising of one. I suppressed this show of  discontent – but only because I had the chequebook and payday was pending. I’m concerned that the subjugation of my minions will not be so easy next time. Oh, yes – for now Katherine is efficient and professional and respectful of my authority, but what happens when the Hatster returns? Will there be girlish giggling by Sci-Fi/Fantasy? Or sharpened stakes in a pit under the front doormat, just waiting for me to unsuspectingly wipe my feet?

I shall have to start to strapping Dan Browns to my shoes and treading carefully; the anticipation of a destructive force of nature now seems comparatively easy…

FYI

I have a lucky pen. It is purple and appeared, one day, as if by magic. (Actually, I probably filched it from a delivery driver who made the mistake of asking me to sign for a drop: “No pen? Here we go, love…” 5 minutes and a half mile later later “…Hey – where’s my pen?)

Anyway, I have a lucky purple pen, and I thought you’d like to know.

thursday

Colin told me last night that he wouldn’t read the book until it was published. Whilst I was touched by his faith I have to admit that I was a little hurt: didn’t he care? Did he have so little interest in what interested me that he couldn’t even bring himself to at least feign enthusiasm?

And then I found out that he does read the blog. Not, as you would think, because I’m hilariously funny or due to his thorough enjoyment of my wit and humour, but because he checks to see that I’m not, and I quote, slagging him off.

So in order that his vigilance is not in vain, let me touch, for a moment, upon his status as a light-sleeper which is, as far as I am concerned, up for debate.

Things he has no problem whatsoever sleeping through:

• the alarm clock
• the phone
• the UNNECESSARILY LOUD text notification on his mobile
• our neighbour, the Vomiting Cavalier, when he’s had a particularly revelrous evening

Things which are so intrusive that he simply cannot enjoy an uninterrupted slumber after a hard day of physical labour:

• me turning the pages of a book
• me breathing (I refuse to believe that I snore; whiffle delicately? Perhaps…)
• me moving to a more comfortable position whilst trying to regain a portion of the duvet

Oh, and he once accused me of opening a can of coke, extra loud, right by his ear (I was in the kitchen, by the way – he has hearing like a bat when it suits) which I so didn’t. Although now that he’s put the idea in my head, I might…

friday

I have a slight obsession with my weight.

As you may have noticed, I periodically try to lose the muffin-top that mysteriously appeared when I hit 32. Actually, hit is misleading – it implies a minor fender-bender at a small roundabout where the speed limit is slower than my 95 year-old grandmother’s walking pace. If I said multi-car pile up involving 3 articulated lorries and a coach-load of pre-teen charity-workers just back from saving the world, you may get some idea of the horror I faced when I realised that the greying skin, pouchy eyes and expanding midsection were not a sign of a week-long blow out, but were actually here to stay.

Unless I did something about it.

Which I did for, oh, about 2 hours (collectively) during the summer of last year.

This year I decided to approach the matter sensibly, so I sought medical advice. I went to a Very Nice Doctor who took my pulse, checked my blood pressure and weighed me.

Apparently I need to lose 4 pounds (which I appreciate barely blips the blimp-o-meter, but still – I am medically overweight) so I asked the Very Nice Doctor, how much is 4 pounds, exactly?

DOC: What do you mean, how much is it? It’s 4 pounds – I told you.

ME: Yes, but how much is that in, say, groceries? Sugar, for example. How many bags of sugar?

DOC: 4 pounds.

ME: Yes, I get that, but how many bags of Tate & Lyle is that, exactly? I think they’re sold in those paper thingys that weigh a surprising amount, considering the size. How many of them? 

DOC: I don’t understand.

ME: Well, is it a bag off each buttock and two from my stomach, or is it the equivalent of one butt-cheek and my left arm? What sort of volume are we talking, here? And could I do it without exercising? I hate to exercise. As you can tell. 

DOC: Err, my wife buys the groceries. My sugar comes from a bowl…

No help whatsoever. The NHS is doomed. So anyway, I’m on a Catholic diet at the moment – I eat what I like but I feel guilty as hell about it. And I breathe in. Alot.  (Normally I’d strap the fat down with multiple layers but with the unseasonable heat it’s making me sweat rather unpleasantly, so I might as well be staggering through Kelvin Park in lycra…)

The upshot is – I’m looking for help: I really, truly want to lose weight; I really, really want to be one of those people who jogs with – well, if not enjoyment then at least fortitude and determination and less fat around the midriff.

So all I need is a regime that takes into account:

1. I generally work 7 days
2. I can’t afford a gym membership
3. I prefer not to sweat (unless it’s by a pool, in the sun, with a G&T…)
4. I already own a pair of trainers
5. I have no intention of quitting the smokes
6. I will complain bitterly unless it’s point 3

Answers on a postcard…