A fat idiot writes

14st 0lb (oh dear); 4.8 units of alcohol yesterday; 1,312; Porchester.

Bang goes the theory I was confidently asserting over my Birthday Lunch of baked mussels, fillet steak and two pints of Guinness yesterday; namely that I could eat a decent pub lunch, with beer, and still lose weight. Perhaps it was the concluding slice of chocolate cake that did it, with its topping that looked suspiciously like a chopped-up Mars Bar. Or perhaps the accompanying whipped cream, which bore an uncanny resemblance to a relief map of the Himalayas, with the major rivers piped on in chocolate. Or maybe, like Monty Python’s Mr Creosote, I was done for by the mint with my coffee. And it wasn’t even wafer-thin. Knackers. Whichever way you look at it, I am back to the weight I reached at Easter. By now I was supposed to have completed my weight reduction programme to 12st 7lb, instead of which I have gained 6lb since early May. Well, it’s got to stop. No more. Serious dieting begins today. Or maybe tomorrow. At the latest.

As part of an attempt to bolster my exercise regime, I took my electric bike out this morning for the first time since I installed its new £400 battery, feeling somewhat apprehensive that I might end up pushing the bloody thing all the way home. But in fact it made it effortlessly to the village shop and back, a total of ten miles. On the return journey, in particular, I was struck by how much lighter and more powerful it seemed to have become with its new power pack. It made it up the particularly steep bank after the picturesque ford in top gear, whereas it previously always needed to be shifted down into first. I mean, no-one in their right mind would pay £400 for that pleasure, but it was still quite satisfying. A helpful note in mangled Chinglish accompanying the new battery warned me that if I tried to carry on using it to obtain power after the first time it cut out on a journey, I would ruin it. That would explain how I came to wreck the last one, then. A shame that they did not think to provide a similarly comically translated warning when they supplied the bike in the first place.

There was a bit of a commotion outside this afternoon, which proved to have been caused by a man driving a white Volvo up the side of my house. When I went out to investigate he was already reversing away, but he wound his window down to explain that his dog had escaped from Julia’s and had taken refuge in my drive. She (the dog, I presumed, not Julia) had rolled in something indescribably awful en route and he was off to “give her a bath in sulphuric acid”. He had a very fruity accent and a David Bellamy beard. I have lived here for 20 years and have absolutely no idea who the hell he is, or for that matter who Julia is. Though presumably she must live reasonably close by to be within escaping distance for a rather short-legged dog.

I drove to Newcastle for a haircut after this, and began to feel ill again, with a tickly sensation in my nose, throat and chest as though I was about to start a streaming cold. I got through two packets of soothing fruit pastilles in the course of the drive back, then decided on a “kill or cure” solution with a hot curry from the freezer. I happened to catch sight of the calorie count as I was chucking the packaging in the bin. What with that and two nan breads and a couple of bottles of beer, I don’t think the new phase of my diet is going to have got off to an exactly flying start.