I awoke, barely, this morning, slipped out of bed like a blancmange from a high-chair and flowed into some filthy jogging bottoms and a jumper that smells of dog biscuits. I staggered, mostly by reasonable guesses to the door of the bedroom and stomped down the stairs like an extra from “Dawn of the Dead”, minus the flares. As I opened the stair-gate, the dog looked up from his slumber with an expression that said: “look even I know this hour is stupid”. He came round to the idea, and off we went for “walkies”. By the time we got back, half an hour later, some colour had returned to my pallid yellow-grey cheeks and some might even mistake me for a mammal, given a favourable light and a northerly wind. I fed the dog, and tramped back up to my boudoir to dress. On went the shirt, at least a size too big, it hides the ample girth of my belly. Then came the trousers, but, what the devil? Where are those bungies when you need them. I’ve often heard it referred to as a “muffin-top”, for me it’s more like a “yorkshire-pudding-in-an-undersized-dish”. When did this happen?
In many scenarios, my resolve is stalwart and never fails. When it comes to savoury food though, I am as weak as a daddy long-legs in the face of a Dyson vacuum cleaner. I’ve recently started work again, having been unemployed for six months, and I’m undoing a considerable amount of good practice. You see, in any given working day, I get up two hours earlier than I have for years; I have to drive (or use the train), and thus am sat on my expansive rear-end for at least an hour; I sit on that same, ever-expanding flesh cushion all day, tapping keys in some order or another; then I spend at least another hour in a sedentary fashion as I return home. Compare this to my unemployment, where I would get up eventually, take the dog out for a long walk and a game of not-quite-fetch (I’ll tell you about it one day), potter about, take the dog out again, potter about, more dog, then go about my evening (dog-walking), you can see there has been a considerable change in pace. From walking at least five miles a day with the dog, to more like two is quite different. Before that, I used to walk to and from work as well. Now I’m fifty miles away, that isn’t possible.
This isn’t the killer though, the killer is my brain. I’ve always been an annoying, untireable fidget. Any of you who know me in real life will attest to this. As I’ve got older though, the urge to tap out ditties on my desk has been replaced with the need to eat. All I do all day now is eat. I’ve tried fruit, and other healthy type stuff and that’s cool, I like fruit, but what my body craves is good old carbohydrate. At some point my brain got broken, and now it confuses not-being-full with a hunger-with-no-earthly-comparison. Thus, unless I am full to bloated all the time, I still want to eat. As a modern man, I’m always looking to blame something else for my own failings rather than just knuckle down and stop being a fat kid in a sweet shop. I imagine I’m not alone and sadly kids, diets can’t help this kind of mindless craving, so what do I do? Well, I just have to do better don’t I?