Feedback Friday :: Chocolate Onions

bulk :: 16st 4
cigarettes smoked :: 0
alcohol units taken :: 18
apples eaten :: 6
bananas eaten :: 5
chocolate bars infected with onion :: 0.5
chocolate bars thrown in the bin :: 0.5
workouts worked out :: 3
swims swum :: 0
fuck-buddies diddled :: 1
fuck-buddies dated :: 1
relationships (increasingly) confused :: 1
books embarked upon :: 1 (Families and How To Survive Them by John Cleese and Robin Skynner)
screens peeked behind :: 2
biographies ordered :: 1 (that of Dr Spock – not Mr Spock, but Dr Spock)
blogs aborted :: 1 (that weather thing was far too much of a commitment)
blogs maintained :: 2 (phew)

I really couldn't think of a title for this thing. Sorry.

Most of my spare time this week – of which there has not been a great deal - has been taken up in preparation for next week. Next week – here on this very blog - is Shame Week. Inspired by a question I asked Morag when I was getting to know her, Shame Week will comprise five bald-headed, bare-faced confessions of a very personal nature, in response to five simple, shameful questions. And I shall be asking those questions of you too. Otherwise what’s the point?

(Actually, there maybe only four. I'm having trouble with the fifth.)

Back to the present however, I had my third appointment with Dr Payne this morning. I told him I’d been going to the gym regularly.

‘Good,’ he said.

I told him I’d been doing my back stretches.

‘Good,’ he said.

And I told him I’d read She’s Come Undone.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Glad to hear it.’

And that was that. He clearly wasn’t remotely interested in any further details, like - for example - whether or not I’d enjoyed the book. The fact that I’d read it was apparently enough. Strange man.

I also told him that my back was feeling much better and that the pain was much less frequent. So he got me on the bench and started digging his hands in. He told me I was less tight. I was pleased, and a little proud. He gave me a brief massage – nothing too violent – and stuck some needles in me. Then at the end of the session he said there was no need to make another appointment. Everything seemed to be in order now. ‘What if my back goes belly up again?’ He nodded slowly, with laboured tolerance. Obviously, he explained, if things go wrong I am to return, but there’s no reason they should if I keep up the exercise.

‘I don’t want to see you again,’ he said. I tried not to take it personally, although I kind of did want to see him again, though obviously, at the same time, I didn’t. I guess what I really wanted was to be his friend. As I shook his hand goodbye, I tried to convey some of this, but he barely looked up from his monitor.

It’s funny. I only met him three times and apart from recommending a book to me, he wasn’t awfully friendly, but you know, I shall miss Dr Payne. I liked the cut of his jib. So much so that I’m currently thinking I might develop a spot of Munchausen Syndrome, just so I can get to feel those strong hands of his working their way into my glutes one final time...

Speaking of strong hands, Morag had a surprise for me this week, which was a pair of tickets to see Matthew Bourne’s Dorian Gray. Not Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray you will notice, and not Jason Bourne's (which I think could work), but Matthew Bourne’s. For those of you who don’t know (like – until a few days ago – me) Matthew Bourne is a choreographer. So this adaptation of Wilde’s classic tale of vanity and hedonism was conveyed through - wait for it... dance. Hmm.

Oh, God, I tried to like it, I really did. And I was very grateful to Morag for inviting me along. And I had fun. And I’m glad I saw it. But ultimately, I just didn’t get it. I found it really difficult to follow, and I’m very familiar with the original story, so it shouldn’t have been. I think the main problem was, I respond to words and for me, stories spring from words, not from bodies, and it really doesn't matter how admirably those bodies jerk, ripple and undulate.

And it has to be said, there were some incredible bodies on display. And some phenomenal feats of strength and control. It was sometimes breathtaking to watch. Ultimately though, for me, the story just didn’t come across.

I think the only way I could really appreciate a Matthew Bourne production would be if he were to adapt my life for the stage. In fact, I think I might put that to him. It could be just what he needs.

As for Gray, I’m sure the fault is mine. Probably down to an emaciated aesthetic. Meanwhile, Morag loved it, and thankfully wasn’t remotely upset by my lack of appreciation. Rather she was amused by it, and mocked me mercilessly.

Aaaah, Morag.

Seems we are fuck buddies who date. How odd.

So what else has happened this week? Ah, yes, Keith is back in town, as fresh as a daisy after a triumphant week in the Lakes. The weather may have been a washout but everything else was – as I say – a triumph. So much so that Keith is happy, healthy and even talking of love. I’m happy for him. I know Tilly and I didn’t exactly hit it off when we first met but you know, that doesn’t mean we can’t get it on in the future. Get on I mean. Excuse me. And I’m pleased to report that Tilly is evidently keen to make the effort too. So much so that I am invited to dinner at her house on Sunday evening. I believe Keith will also be in attendance. And Morag too if she desires. And I promise not to go on and on about the beautiful plastic lilies which Keith stole from a film set and gave to Tilly, which Tilly then spent two weeks watering before Keith pointed out to her that they were in fact fake. Although it is hilarious.

I’m looking forward to it.

In the meantime, tonight I’m getting drunk with Keith.

I’m looking forward to that too.

And you? What are you up to this weekend? Do tell.

Medical Matters #1 :: The Furious Compassion of Diligent Dr Payne

Last week I went back to Dr Payne, my vicious, needle-wielding osteopath. Physically, Dr Payne is rather intimidating. He’s a little shorter than me, and he certainly weighs less, but somehow he seems bigger. He has presence. I guess it’s because he knows who he is. Which is to say, he has no doubts as to his role in the world. Actually, maybe he does have doubts. I don’t know. He has confidence though. He knows what he’s doing. Plus he has huge muscular hands and he looks like a 50-year-old Mark Ronson.

Before he got on with the important business of kneading my spine, he wanted to know how I’d been getting on with the stretches he’d recommended. I had to confess that I hadn’t really made them a regular part of my life. I’d done them twice in fact. At which point, suddenly and surprisingly, Dr Payne got really rather angry with me.

He wanted to know why I hadn’t been doing them. I had to think about it. Why hadn’t I been doing them? I was pretty sure that they would cause me less pain and generally improve the quality of my life, so why wasn’t I doing them?

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ve been going through a bit of a down period actually.’

‘What do you mean, a down period?’

‘Well, I’ve been a bit down.’

‘Why?’ he wanted to know. He was very brusque, and slightly unconvinced, like already he didn’t believe me.

‘I dunno really….’

‘Why don’t you know? What’s wrong with you?’

Incredibly brusque.

‘Nothing. It’s just that I’ve been trying hard to get my life to go in a certain direction and nothing seems to be working out.’

‘Well, it doesn’t sound like you’ve been trying very hard to me. I gave you a few simple exercises to do, which would take no more than ten minutes a day, and you haven’t even managed that. Have you been swimming? You said you were going to go swimming.’

I shook my head.

He shook his head.

‘So what’s the problem?’

I didn’t know what to tell him. The truth would probably have been, ‘I’m feeling a little sorry for myself and a little self-indulgent, and very lazy, and I need a good kick up the arse.’ But I didn’t say that. Instead I said, stupidly, ‘Well, I lost a lot of stuff in a laptop accident and… you know, I just got down.’

He looked at me like I’d just started speaking Afrikaans. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ he said. ‘What’s that got to do with your back?’

‘Well, no, nothing really. I just… it’ll mean a lot of extra work….’

‘Oh, boo hoo,’ he said.

I laughed.

‘You don’t know you’re born, do you?’ he asked me.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Am I born?’ I shrugged.

He shook his head again and glared at me. I blushed.

‘Take off your shirt then. Loosen your trousers and lie face down.’

Then – there’s really no other way of putting it – he beat me up. It was under the guise of massage and osteopathic manipulation, but in reality, he beat the crap out of me. When I actually cried out at a couple of points, with tears springing to my eyes, he told me to stop whining. ‘Your muscles are soggy!’ he yelled. Then he stuck some acupuncture needles in my back and sat down opposite me.

‘How’s the weight loss going?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

I sighed. ‘Not well,’ I answered.

‘Any idea why that might be?’ he asked, injecting a little softness into his voice in order that I might relax a little and make myself more vulnerable to attack.

‘Well, yeah. I’ve not been exercising and I’ve been eating a lot of junk again.’

‘Any idea why that might be?’ he asked again.

‘I just….’ I harrumphed. ‘I’ve given up again, a bit. I suppose. I’m pissed off, frankly, and I’ve stopped caring.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, that’s a shame. Do you read?’

‘Not as much as I used to,’ I answered.

‘Not as much as you used to,’ he said. Then he stood up and walked around behind me muttering. I was annoying him, I could tell. I was annoying myself.

It is amazing how quickly one loses one’s motivation. It’s amazing how easily it just evaporates, along with all that good feeling you had from actually getting off your arse and doing something – that good feeling which you swore had changed your life and made you realise what you were capable of. That evaporates too. In a matter of days. In fact, it’s like a Tamagotchi. If you don’t keep feeding it, it just dies.

Payne twiddled the needles. ‘Have you read a book called She’s Come Undone?’ he asked.

I told him I hadn’t heard of it.

‘Read it,’ he said. ‘Now put your clothes on.’

We made another appointment, for another two weeks’ time. Before I left, he said, ‘Do me a favour, will you?’

‘Do my stretches?’ I guessed.

He gave me a little scowl. ‘Just make an effort,’ he said.

It reminded me of that scene in Naked, when the embittered security guard takes Johnny to a café and tells him, ‘Don’t waste your life’.

‘OK,’ I said.

And so I did. Because it meant a lot to me that this complete stranger had taken the time and the effort to actually get annoyed with me. I was rather touched. So I went into town and I tracked down a copy of She’s Come Undone. And then I came home and I stretched. Then I ate a vat of rice pudding with some choc chip cookies in it, turned on the telly and told Gordon Ramsay, ‘I’ll make an effort in September’.

And I will.

I am.

I’ll show him.