So, Saturday night and I find myself in the house yet again, posting an entry to my blog. And almost tragically, this represents almost dizzying heights in non-work based achievement. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of daylight or the ongoing attempt to cut sugar from my diet, but I just have no energy at the moment. That’s a little disingenuous; it’s not purely energy as I have generally enough kilojoules in my system to play five a side football twice a week, but when I get through the door of this house I seem to sink into a fug of ‘can’t-someone-else-do-it-preferably-tomorrow?’ I’ve had a list of things I’ve been meaning to get done for two weeks now, but all I hear is the whoosh of my self-appointed deadlines as they pass by my head (with apologies to Douglas Adams).
Speaking of Douglas Adams, I’ve yet to finish the Salmon of Doubt, which has timeously and inconveniently disappeared. As has ‘The Steep Approach to Garbadale’. They may well just be in the living room, but a fair amount of my stuff goes missing on a regular basis, due to members of my family ‘borrowing’ things without telling me. I have also developed an irritating habit of moving my own possessions and then completely forgetting about them though.
I’m continuing on my tentative diet/healthy eating and exercise plan. I still feel like a bit of a twit using those words, as it does convey the impression that I need to lose weight and I’m massively unfit. And while I do need to lose weight, and I am massively unfit, I don’t really want to admit it to anyone, least of all me. At the start of February, I’m feeling a little better; I’ve cut down on my spare tire a fair bit, and I was doing a bit more running on Thursday at football. It’s hard to really tell if you’re getting anywhere though because fat turning to muscle can cause you to gain weight, so unless you take photographs like ‘that scary man on the internet’* you’ve got no frame of reference. I’ve got the best of two months to go though, so I’ll hopefully gain a bit of tone before long.
The problem then with healthy eating is that you (well, maybe not you, but certainly I) have to cut out a huge amount of crap from my diet. Now, I like eating crap (mainly because I don’t like fine cuisine for whatever reason), which is one of the main contributories to me having to get a filling next week, so suddenly having to do without it is both a bit depressing and a bit stupid. I don’t think you’re supposed to make sweeping changes quite the way I have, but that’s the only way I’ll do it. I did go out for the traditional long Friday lunch with some of the guys from the office on Friday, but that was more because I needed a drink than anything else. We went to a recently opened, painfully trendy Scottish pub near work (yes, a Scottish pub. I know by default all the pubs round here are Scottish, so that’s a bit of a tautology, but there you go), where I once more because a compressed streak of raw sexual frustration due to the short skirted waitresses and the 45 minute wait for our food. I was kind of toying with the idea of declaring myself to be an asexual celibate, which to be honest is just jumping before I’m pushed, but I wouldn’t be fooling anyone.
So what am I going to do for the rest of the weekend? Well, for a start I’m going to continue to listen to the Beatles’ Anthology 3, flick (ho-ho!) between ‘Imagine Me And You’ and ‘The Last of the Mohicans’. The latter is one of the few period pieces I can actually watch and enjoy due to its ridiculously contrived moodiness and its damned fine soundtrack and cinematography. The former is one of those films you stumble across on BBC late at night, an Aunty financed sub-Curtis lipstick lesbianism fluff job. One thing about British film is that due to our climate, they every film shot here has to have its location filming done during June until September to avoid the majority of the rain. This is why you get such a wide panoply of UK films, covering a huge range of subjects and themes, all shot in this wonderfully evocative and poignant range of sunbeams, from glorious noon through to the vibrant angularness of magic hour. It’s has the effect of making even the most trite, badly scripted mess strangely alluring to me. I’m watching ‘Imagine Me And You’ at the moment, and the array of brass and copper really is making me long for late September again, which is fast becoming my favourite month. And it’s also vaguely making me wish I was a lesbian, but that’s another story.
I’d like to describe light in terms of harmony and melody and counterpoint, but I’m not sure I’ve got the talent to get away with it. You can describe music in terms of light and shade after all. Ah, here goes. I like my light like I like my music; rich and varied and heterogeneous and like listening to Abbey Road, or whenever Paul and George took John onto new levels where you just wonder how they got away with such wanton brilliance. But that they did, and I’m all the more grateful for it.
I fear I’m reverting to my adolescent habit of avoiding anything of any nutritional value, be it physical or mental, and instead withdrawing to a slightly worrying world of OCD-lite scribbling. At this very moment I’m fighting the strong urge to compile a list of every Beatles song I have a copy of, and which I don’t. That wouldn’t actually take so long as I have the information at my fingertips, but I can’t let myself start shutting all the doors and windows again.
I have to write more. While all of my other dream professions have become lost to me over the years, I’ve clung doggedly to the possibility that I might be able to earn my keep being a word wrangler, but I’m rapidly becoming more pessimistic, nay realistic, about that. Like in every other sphere of life, I have a modest smattering of technical skill with my chosen language, but the perspiration is nothing without the inspiration, and there’s just not enough going on between the lines. There’s no form or subtext.
In contrast, reading ‘Revolution in the Head’ by the late great Ian MacDonald, and even Russell Brand’s column in the Guardian today, I was faced with two people who have an instinctive, incisive grasp of English; which word, used exactly where, is just exactly right to get what you’re trying to say across the greatest number of your readers. Of course, I could be mildly off track and they struggled as much as I do, and eventually had to reluctantly turn their copy over to the sub-editor upon threat of violence, but I’m not sure that’s the case.
So, I am now faced with struggling to document my struggle against the struggle that is my life. I’m fairly sure it’s not going to be Flowers for Algernon, but hopefully it won’t turn out to be Mein Kampf either.