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.
