bulk :: 15st 13
alcohol units imbibed :: 20ish
cigarettes smoked :: 0
runs run :: 2 (both stupid)
swims swum :: 0 (There’s just not enough hours in a day. How do people do this stuff?)
shocking revelations :: 1
great shafts of sun-flavoured hope :: 1
Every now and then, I find myself drifting off and fantasising about all of the ghastly, miserable things which could descend upon me at any moment. Not that I’m willing them to happen or anything, but all this ceaseless happiness is beginning to get me down. You know? Where's the conflict? What the hell am I supposed to be blogging about now? I really think I need something dark and unpleasant to come along and wipe this saccharine smirk off my increasingly self-satisfied face.
No, I'm just kidding. If it came to a toss-up between happiness and an exciting blog, there'd be no question. Sally would be history. I joke, I joke.
Anyway, there’s always conflict.
But before we get to the conflict, let me say this: years ago, on the telly, Philip Roth said that he always makes a point of saying to the people in his life: ‘If you don’t want it going in a book, don’t tell me.’ And he said it with a kind of arrogant, don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you swagger. At the time, I thought he was distinctly lacking in moral fibre. But now I’m forced to agree with him.
If I meet you and you know I keep a blog, there’s a good chance you’ll feature. (Unless you’re just really, unspeakably dull.) And if you don’t know I keep a blog, you’re easy pickings.
So I was reminded of this late last night, when Sally and I fell into a quite intense telephone conversation about some of her many deep-rooted psychological issues. (They’re like meercats, Sally’s issues. Just when you think the coast is clear, one will pop its head above the parapet and twitch at you.) After one particularly amusing exchange, I rather drifted off for a moment. Quick as a flash, Sally said, ‘You’re thinking about blogging what I just said, aren’t you?’ And I couldn’t lie.
‘Is that alright?’ I asked. ‘It’s actually probably a bit weird, isn’t it? Is it?’
‘It’s very weird,’ she said. Then: ‘If I asked you to stop, would you not do it anymore? Writing about me, I mean.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to use my blog for Evil. If it makes good people feel bad, then it must die. Do you want me to stop?’
‘No.’ Fame whore. ‘Just try and steer clear of the megapersonal stuff.’
‘You mean like how you like me to push your face into the pillow and thrash your bumcheeks raw with the IKEA spatula?’
‘Yeah. All that stuff is off limits, please.’
‘I know, baby-girl. I know.’
I discovered yesterday that Sally – my girlfriend – is a feeder. This is how it came out:
Sally: What did you have to eat tonight?
Me: Not a sausage.
Sally: Not even a little chipolata?
Me: No, and I don’t miss it. I think I feel another fast coming on.
Sally: Don’t you dare. There shall be no fasting on my watch, Biggles. Gandhi wasn't sexy.
Me: But it cleanses my soul. It’s good for me.
Sally: Eat, man! What's wrong with you? Not eating is sick. It’s a disorder. And besides any of that, you’re a growing lad.
Me: But I’m fed up with growing.
Sally: You need to eat. You need fuel.
Me: I want to shrink myself.
Sally: Well, I don’t approve. You’re going to waste away if you’re not careful. Promise me you’ll eat something, Stan. Promise.
Me: Absolutely not! If anything, I’m promising you I won’t eat. I have no intention of eating. And I’m beginning to worry about you. I’m beginning to think you might be a feeder.
Sally: I like a big man. There's nothing wrong with that.
Me: You like a fat man. That’s different. That’s weird.
Sally: I'm going to buy you some baggy clothes, so you can grow into them.
So anyway, usually, feeders are men who want to control their wives or girlfriends by making sure they’re at home eating and piling on the pounds, rather than out and about looking slim and sexy and attracting other men. So it’s kind of an abusive thing borne of hideous insecurity. But I don’t think Sally’s is like that at all. I think she just gets off on being pinned down and taken roughly from behind by massive sweaty fat blokes.
Another one of her other madnesses is her really quite passionate belief in homeopathy. Or ho-ho-homeopathy, as I refer to it when I’m being witty. Now I like to keep a half-open mind as far as homeopathy is concerned (incidentally, no mind should ever be any more than half-open, otherwise stuff gets out), but my instinct is to damn it as errant tosh for the desperate and gullible.
However, Sally maintains that it works. She swears by it. Her mother even recently qualified as a proper homeopath, if that isn’t an oxymoron. Also, when she was younger, Sally suffered from migraines for years, had all kinds of prescribed medicines and conventional wisdoms and nothing. Then she went a homeopath and they cleared up almost immediately. This makes me doubt my knee-jerk cynicism a little, I must say.
What has me yammering about this however, is the fact that I started to rash up last night after spending a couple of hours in the lovely hot sun. Just a mild itch at first, but blotching and bubbling are in the post if I persist. And when I told Sally about it, she said, ‘Mum could knock you up a remedy.’
So I’m going to give it a shot. Apparently I have to sit down with her and tell her everything about my life, including but by no means limited to my medical history. It actually sounded like a therapy session the way Sally described it. It sounds great. And I really want to be able to go out in the sun without blistering like a vampire. So I’m going to give witchcraft a go.
Wish me luck.
Have a smashing weekend.