The Everest of folly

I dread to think what I might weigh after that gigantic barbecue last night; on the basis that those present included a non-drinker, a very light drinker and a drinker who stuck to white wine throughout, and the fact that three bottles of red wine were consumed, I guess that I must have got through 8.0 units of alcohol; there are 1,275 days left and I clearly ought to be in Bedlam.

I was in a thoroughly bad mood all day today, probably as a result of the lack of sleep that tends to result from monstrous over-eating; no wonder Henry VIII was such a total bastard. The LTCB did her utmost to humour me, even taking me to a pub run by a celebrated curmudgeon for a highly traditional lunch. The walls of the bar were covered in antique enamel advertising signs for cigarettes and pipe tobacco, and I idly wondered how long it would be before some jobsworth with a clipboard was despatched by the local council to point out that the advertising of tobacco products is now illegal. I thought we were in for a truly nostalgic moment when a bloke sitting on a bar stool carefully rolled his own cigarette, placed it in his mouth and began patting his pockets in search of a box of matches, but sadly he then walked outside to light it.

Yet even two pints of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, a packet of pork scratchings and a plate of liver and bacon failed to lift my mood, and I spiralled ever further downwards as we traipsed around the shops. By the time the LTCB had spent some time in a specialist triathlon shop (I had no idea that such things existed), trying out new running shoes on a treadmill, I was whingeing for home like a four-year-old. When two attempts to catch up on some much needed sleep at the LTCB’s house were defeated by various noises off, I made probably the worst decision of my life to date (and there has been some stiff competition, I can tell you) and decided to pack up all my stuff and drive the four hours back to Northumberland to get some kip there. The dog and the LTCB watched me loading the car with a shared look of disbelief, the dog’s being considerably exaggerated when I picked him up and lobbed him onto his bed on the back seat.

As I wrote in my diary the following morning: “Oh God, what a complete [expletive deleted] I can be at times.” Oh yes, I keep a diary. If you think this blog is dull, you should try taking a look at that.