14st 12lb: 4.0 units of alcohol; 1,469; Tyne.
The snowdrops are out in my front lawn. A veritable carpet of them. It’s probably the high point of my non-gardening year. I reckon that lack of enthusiasm and skill in this department must be a hereditary condition; my father used to look out of the window and beam whenever it snowed, because it was the only time of the year when our garden looked as good as all the neighbours’. Now that we hardly ever get proper snow, my one major opportunity to shine in the horticultural world has been cruelly denied to me.
Nothing much happened today, even by my low standards: doing the ironing while listening to the Archers omnibus; proving to my own satisfaction that I can still mix one of the finest Bloody Marys on the planet; going for a long walk with the dog.
I’m still reeling from the blow administered by my doctor when I last saw him, and he asked me how much exercise I took. I gave him a comprehensive list, adding that I’d often read that sex was excellent aerobic exercise. “Not when you do it on your own, it’s not,” he replied coldly.
I think I’d better make a real effort to find myself one last girlfriend. I might seem quite appealing if I didn’t reveal that I intended to squander all my savings and mortgage the house to the hilt before my premature death.
Maybe that second Bloody Mary was a bit of a mistake.
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