A veritable orgy

13st 10lb, amazingly; zero alcohol yesterday; 1,349; on the slipperiest slope since someone tipped a barrel of Nulon PTFE engine lubricant onto a melting Alpine glacier.

I live now on a permanent knife-edge, worrying that the LTCB (Less Tall Cheshire Brunette, for the benefit of new readers, in the unlikely event that there are any) will find out what I am Really Like, with predictable consequences. On the other hand, she had read most if not all of this saga before meeting me for the first time, and for some reason seems to find my occasional resemblance to Victor Meldrew endearingly amusing. Yes, I know. I can’t understand it either.

I did the whole “I don’t believe it!” number at 8 o’clock this morning, when I turned on Radio 4 for the news summary, and found it was to be read by Kathy Clugston. Those at the BBC who want to challenge their dreary middle class listeners must be hugging themselves with delight at having recruited someone with a voice I find so irritating that I switch the set off as soon as I hear it utter its first syllable.

Life here is so bloody dull at weekends that it is almost impossible to describe. Ironing, gardening, reading. That covers it. No-one calls, either in person or on the electric telephone. There was a time when people used to stick their head over the garden wall and offer a cheery greeting, but they tended not to make that mistake twice. The sole chink of light in the blackness and emptiness of my existence was provided by the LTCB, bless her, who rang at precisely 7.10 this evening, the second that I walked through the door after taking the dog for his walk. The dog was a bit miffed, as it distracted me from my scheduled task of preparing his dinner. And it also had disastrous consequences for my diet, since during the long and otherwise delightful conversation I tipped over the edge from being very hungry to absolutely ravenous, and consequently ate a number of things that I should not have done while waiting for my planned supper to cook. I also opened a bottle of red wine, and proceeded to drink the lot. A veritable orgy of comfort eating and drinking it was, and the only sort of orgy ever likely to take place in these parts. Or, at any rate, the only sort not involving sheep.